There are three main categories of backpackers in South America; intoxicated Australians, Israelis taking a year off after 18 months of national service and posh British kids on gap-year.
The Brits are typically about 19-years-old and all of them have the accents that come as standard with tuition at the right sort of schools. They have names like Ollie and Seb and have been sent out by their parents to gain valuable life-skills before heading back to the UK where all those life-skills will be dampened by three years of soft student living.
Two prime examples were preparing pasta in the hostel kitchen last night. Frustrated by how long the water was taking to boil, one of the lads checked the hob and noticed the flame was no longer burning beneath the pan.
“You’ve turned the gas off, you absolute arse.” He said.
His friend looked perplexed.
“What? Oh, sorry. I only know how to use an Aga.”
Who says the class system is dead?
Monday, 22 February 2010
Tuesday, 16 February 2010
PLEASE RETURN ALL INVITES
So we turned up at Stop Hostel in Puerto Iguazu on what we thought was the recommendation of some Swedish girls we met a few days before on Ilha Grande.
Alan sent one girl a quick email just to say thanks for the tip. A day later he gets a reply.
“We didn’t recommend Stop Hostel. You really should keep better track of your new found friends.”
Cancel your flights kids. The Stockholm wedding is off.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
Alan sent one girl a quick email just to say thanks for the tip. A day later he gets a reply.
“We didn’t recommend Stop Hostel. You really should keep better track of your new found friends.”
Cancel your flights kids. The Stockholm wedding is off.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
AGUA POR FAVOUR
In an attempt to save a bit of time and avoid too many exhausting, day-long bus rides, Alan and I are cheating a little and have booked a few internal flights around Argentina. The places we want to see are just too far spread to tackle by road in the time we have left.
An unusual feature of the Aerolineas Argentinas booking system is that internal flights can be reserved online, but tickets have to be paid for and collected in person from a certified Aerolineas Argentinas agent. In a way this is irritating but it has also turned booking air travel in Argentina into a kind of heritage experience. A piquant taste of pre-internet travel; exotic and exciting in it’s own limited sort of way. It's even more realistic in Puerto Iguazu where the Aerolineas office has 60s decor. It's a full emersion.
In the corner of the office, by the rack of travel magazines and promotional materials, there’s a charming old water-cooler. Attached to its side is a dispenser filled with Dixie-sized paper cups. It is hot at this time of year in the north of Argentina and the roads are dusty. On entering the office I spied the cooler and thought a refreshing cup of chilled water an attractive possibility. As the agent was immersed in conversation with two Irish girls I decided to avail myself of the facility.
Problem was, I couldn’t get a bloody cup out. There was the water. There was the cup. But the cups wouldn’t budge. I tried everything; twisting, wiggling, cajoling. Nothing. Worst of all, the more I tried the thirstier I got.
In an act of desperation I took out my pen, reached down into the top of the cup-holder and tried to poke a cup free from above. When that didn’t work I decided to abandon subtlety in favour of brute, he-man force.
Now I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to collect an airline ticket while holding the broken remains of the travel agent’s cup dispenser but I find the best policy is to put faith in his professionalism and act as if nothing untoward has happened at all.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
An unusual feature of the Aerolineas Argentinas booking system is that internal flights can be reserved online, but tickets have to be paid for and collected in person from a certified Aerolineas Argentinas agent. In a way this is irritating but it has also turned booking air travel in Argentina into a kind of heritage experience. A piquant taste of pre-internet travel; exotic and exciting in it’s own limited sort of way. It's even more realistic in Puerto Iguazu where the Aerolineas office has 60s decor. It's a full emersion.
In the corner of the office, by the rack of travel magazines and promotional materials, there’s a charming old water-cooler. Attached to its side is a dispenser filled with Dixie-sized paper cups. It is hot at this time of year in the north of Argentina and the roads are dusty. On entering the office I spied the cooler and thought a refreshing cup of chilled water an attractive possibility. As the agent was immersed in conversation with two Irish girls I decided to avail myself of the facility.
Problem was, I couldn’t get a bloody cup out. There was the water. There was the cup. But the cups wouldn’t budge. I tried everything; twisting, wiggling, cajoling. Nothing. Worst of all, the more I tried the thirstier I got.
In an act of desperation I took out my pen, reached down into the top of the cup-holder and tried to poke a cup free from above. When that didn’t work I decided to abandon subtlety in favour of brute, he-man force.
Now I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to collect an airline ticket while holding the broken remains of the travel agent’s cup dispenser but I find the best policy is to put faith in his professionalism and act as if nothing untoward has happened at all.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
THE LATER OF THE ALLOTED TIMES
Entering Argentina involved the usual bureaucratic rigmarole that seems to accompany border crossings. I never understand why customs and immigration procedures should be more convoluted simply because entry is being made by land rather than air or sea. It cab be slightly irritating, unless of course you are Austrian and used to ruthless efficiency, in which case it then becomes incredibly vexing.
Earlier that morning, the mini-bus we’d hired to take us south of the border unexpectedly motored past the turn-off to Argentina and made for a drugs compound just outside of town.
I am open to the possibility that the building in question was a hostel rather than a drug processing plant but its isolation spoke otherwise and its inhabitants spoke German. On reflection, solid conclusions are perhaps difficult to draw.
The upshot of the detour was that our small party of waterfall enthusiasts had been increased by one. Austria was on board and he would tolerate no delay. Waterfalls would be seen and they would be seen in an orderly, efficient and thorough way.
He fidgeted and worried at the border crossing, which took about 45 minutes, expressing concern that we might not get to see all that the park had to offer.
“Maybe we will have to run around the waterfalls,” he said as we waited for the Argentinean authorities to stamp our passports. I was midway through a reassuring reply when he pointed over my shoulder and shouted; “here he comes”, before leaping back onto the mini-bus and taking his seat.
Ten minutes later the van still hadn’t moved. Neither had Austria. He was still perched on his seat, cradling his daypack in his lap like a nana nursing a handbag full of bingo winnings.
When we finally did arrive, Austria leapt from the van, waiting just long enough to hear our driver say he’d meet us at the entrance at “5:30 or 6:00 o’clock”, before sprinting off into the park.
Nearly five hours later, having seen all the falls and exhausted all of the walking routes, Alan and I made it back to the rendezvous for a cold drink and a nice sit-down. We were a little early but after a long afternoon of sappingly direct sunshine we were looking forward to getting back to the hostel for a shower and a cold beer. Not so our Austrian friend who was nowhere to be seen.
It would be another 45 minutes before he emerged from the park. On the stroke of six o’clock we spotted him making his way up to the reception centre. That we were able to spot him so clearly among the hundreds of people exiting the park was mainly down to the fact he was sporting a rouge-tinted pair of eye-catchingly brief swimming trunks that were roughly the same colour as his sun-roasted head.
He looked as content as it’s possible for an Austrian to look and on reaching us he nodded once and said: “I took the later of the allotted times.”
Well hello to you too.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
Earlier that morning, the mini-bus we’d hired to take us south of the border unexpectedly motored past the turn-off to Argentina and made for a drugs compound just outside of town.
I am open to the possibility that the building in question was a hostel rather than a drug processing plant but its isolation spoke otherwise and its inhabitants spoke German. On reflection, solid conclusions are perhaps difficult to draw.
The upshot of the detour was that our small party of waterfall enthusiasts had been increased by one. Austria was on board and he would tolerate no delay. Waterfalls would be seen and they would be seen in an orderly, efficient and thorough way.
He fidgeted and worried at the border crossing, which took about 45 minutes, expressing concern that we might not get to see all that the park had to offer.
“Maybe we will have to run around the waterfalls,” he said as we waited for the Argentinean authorities to stamp our passports. I was midway through a reassuring reply when he pointed over my shoulder and shouted; “here he comes”, before leaping back onto the mini-bus and taking his seat.
Ten minutes later the van still hadn’t moved. Neither had Austria. He was still perched on his seat, cradling his daypack in his lap like a nana nursing a handbag full of bingo winnings.
When we finally did arrive, Austria leapt from the van, waiting just long enough to hear our driver say he’d meet us at the entrance at “5:30 or 6:00 o’clock”, before sprinting off into the park.
Nearly five hours later, having seen all the falls and exhausted all of the walking routes, Alan and I made it back to the rendezvous for a cold drink and a nice sit-down. We were a little early but after a long afternoon of sappingly direct sunshine we were looking forward to getting back to the hostel for a shower and a cold beer. Not so our Austrian friend who was nowhere to be seen.
It would be another 45 minutes before he emerged from the park. On the stroke of six o’clock we spotted him making his way up to the reception centre. That we were able to spot him so clearly among the hundreds of people exiting the park was mainly down to the fact he was sporting a rouge-tinted pair of eye-catchingly brief swimming trunks that were roughly the same colour as his sun-roasted head.
He looked as content as it’s possible for an Austrian to look and on reaching us he nodded once and said: “I took the later of the allotted times.”
Well hello to you too.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
BIG WATER
Iguazu translates as ‘Big Water’ in whatever the native tongue is in these here parts, Gurani I think, and while slightly deficient in creativity, points are awarded for accuracy. The waters here are big. Real big. We spent two days scrambling around the World Heritage Park that encompasses the Brazilian and Argentinean sides of Foz do Iguazu, watching water tumble over and onto rocks from various heights and at various speeds. It’s a lot more impressive than I’ve just made that sound but that’s the problem with breaking anything down to its constituent parts. It reduces the majesty a little, which is something I suppose you should try your best to avoid when attempting to describe the fascinating. It’s just that I don’t have the vocabulary to paint the word picture on this one, so I’ll let the pictures do the talking for me. And while I’m at it, I’ll apologise to the natives for mocking their description of the falls. Big Water works pretty well.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
Saturday, 13 February 2010
WOK SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM?
They sell beer on the beaches in Brazil. Cold beer. You can get it from the bar or just wait for one of the young lads with eskies to come over and sell you a frosty one. There is a choice of 500ml bottles for sharing or 350ml cans just for you. The bottles come with a stubby holder to keep your beer cold. The cans you have to drink fast or drink warm.
It’s a nice feeling at the end of a long day in the surf and sun to sit with your toes in the sand, sipping on a cold beer and watching the day fade into evening.
Of course, for all sorts of reasons, it wouldn’t work in Australia. Attitude mainly. Our puritanical streak and competing larrikin spirit would put an end to it before too long. The larrikins would get blind drunk and trash an ice-cream parlour, giving the puritans their chance to paint beach-side beer-sales as the first irreparable tear in the fabric of Australian family values. And that would be that.
It’s a real shame. I mean we have plastic money. It’s the perfect currency for buying beer in an aquatic environment.
While beer sales would certainly catch-on at Australia’s beaches, I’m not sure the same is true of cookwear. The Brazilians don’t seem to go in for it much either which was bad news for the salesman on Matadero Beach who was working his way up the waterline with an impressive selection of rather sturdy looking woks on display.
But silver linings can be found in every situation and despite his lack of success he too could take heart in his vocation. Popular it ain't but at least it’s family friendly.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
It’s a nice feeling at the end of a long day in the surf and sun to sit with your toes in the sand, sipping on a cold beer and watching the day fade into evening.
Of course, for all sorts of reasons, it wouldn’t work in Australia. Attitude mainly. Our puritanical streak and competing larrikin spirit would put an end to it before too long. The larrikins would get blind drunk and trash an ice-cream parlour, giving the puritans their chance to paint beach-side beer-sales as the first irreparable tear in the fabric of Australian family values. And that would be that.
It’s a real shame. I mean we have plastic money. It’s the perfect currency for buying beer in an aquatic environment.
While beer sales would certainly catch-on at Australia’s beaches, I’m not sure the same is true of cookwear. The Brazilians don’t seem to go in for it much either which was bad news for the salesman on Matadero Beach who was working his way up the waterline with an impressive selection of rather sturdy looking woks on display.
But silver linings can be found in every situation and despite his lack of success he too could take heart in his vocation. Popular it ain't but at least it’s family friendly.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
PILLOW FIGHT
The uncertainty over our arrival time meant we lobbed into Florianopolis without accommodation booked for the first night of our stay. Not a massive problem, just a matter of ringing around the hostels and seeing who had beds.
First call, Bell’s Company Hostel. The phone rings and rings and rings and then…
“Hola, amigo.” Says a cheerful sounding voice.
“Hola. Fala Inglais?” I reply in the hopeful tone all influent foreigners use.
“Yes, yes, of course my friend.”
“Hi mate, we’ve got a booking for tomorrow night but we’re in a day early. Have you got any beds for tonight?”
“Oh man, tonight is going to be, oh my God! I have five bar staff on tonight. Big party. Big, big party.”
“Cool. That sounds great. So there are beds then?”
“Yeah man, we have 15 new people coming in to stay today. It’s going to be massive. 500 people are coming over for the party.”
“Cool, but does that mean there are beds for us or not?”
“You come over and we will find something for you.”
“So there are beds?”
“I see you this afternoon for the big party.”
And with that the conversation ends and the line goes dead.
Slightly confused as to whether we were booking in for beds or just a big party I make my way back to Alan to deliver the inconclusive news.
We decide to risk the trip to Bell’s.
Our arrival is explosive. The cheerful voice at the end of the phone belongs to a cheerful man in a black Speedo who immediately welcomes us into his establishment with a twenty-minute tour that includes a person-by-person introduction not only to all his staff but every guest he can find too. Some of the guests have clearly been through this ritual a number of times before and, sick of it, start creeping under bed-sheets and edging towards doors as soon as they see us coming. Sadly for them, Gekko’s enthusiasm is matched by uncanny speed and none escape an introduction.
At the conclusion of this grand tour of the premises we still haven’t been allocated beds but Gekko assures us that this will be remedied in due course. In the mean time, if there is anything at all we would like (with the exception of a comfortable place to sleep it would seem) we need only ask.
“I can get you anything on the island except prostitutes and crack.” He says before turning on his heel and disappearing into his bedroom.
Alan and I walked back into town to find an establishment more willing to cater for our tastes.
That’s a lie. The place seemed nice enough and besides, Gekko already had our passports locked in his filing cabinet. The no whores and crack rule seemed reasonable and, in the case of Gekko, entirely unsurprising. If you’re as relentlessly upbeat as he is you clearly have no need for professional sex or illegal stimulants.
True to his word he did find us a bed, possibly from an orphanage, and as we sat drinking a beer on the patio we could see the bare foam mattresses being marched into our dorm.
In the end it wasn’t a shortage of beds but bedding which was the major issue and pillow roulette broke out on the first night. Unfortunately for me I left my pillow momentarily unguarded and wound up having to sleep on my hands. The next day, as I hunted around for a spare, I came to the conclusion that during the day people were stashing their pillows in their lockers. Proving once more that value is a human construct.
Speaking of which, Gekko kindly offers a security service for all his guest’s valuables. This sounds more reassuring than it is as the “safe” is just a battered old filing cabinet, with each person’s valuables demarcated by the use of labelled plastic bags.
Despite its simplicity, the system seemed to work well, at least until the third morning when Alan and I wanted to retrieve some cash. Worryingly our bag could not be found. More worryingly, Gekko appeared to be oh-so-slightly stoned.
The fact that this intoxicated man may have misplaced our cash, credit cards and, most importantly, our passports put Alan and me under a certain amount of strain and flop-sweat began to appear as he counted out the bags again and again, failing each time to locate our valuables.
Hooky looked like he was about to break out one or two aspects of his army reserve training when, after the third sweep of the cabinet, Gekko’s even more stoned friend peered out of his marijuana induced fug and suggested that the bag may have fallen down behind the draws.
Bingo. Disaster avoided. Code red status downgraded to alert but not alarmed.
The moral of this story is that in times of bedding shortages keep your passport on your person and your pillows under lock and key.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
First call, Bell’s Company Hostel. The phone rings and rings and rings and then…
“Hola, amigo.” Says a cheerful sounding voice.
“Hola. Fala Inglais?” I reply in the hopeful tone all influent foreigners use.
“Yes, yes, of course my friend.”
“Hi mate, we’ve got a booking for tomorrow night but we’re in a day early. Have you got any beds for tonight?”
“Oh man, tonight is going to be, oh my God! I have five bar staff on tonight. Big party. Big, big party.”
“Cool. That sounds great. So there are beds then?”
“Yeah man, we have 15 new people coming in to stay today. It’s going to be massive. 500 people are coming over for the party.”
“Cool, but does that mean there are beds for us or not?”
“You come over and we will find something for you.”
“So there are beds?”
“I see you this afternoon for the big party.”
And with that the conversation ends and the line goes dead.
Slightly confused as to whether we were booking in for beds or just a big party I make my way back to Alan to deliver the inconclusive news.
We decide to risk the trip to Bell’s.
Our arrival is explosive. The cheerful voice at the end of the phone belongs to a cheerful man in a black Speedo who immediately welcomes us into his establishment with a twenty-minute tour that includes a person-by-person introduction not only to all his staff but every guest he can find too. Some of the guests have clearly been through this ritual a number of times before and, sick of it, start creeping under bed-sheets and edging towards doors as soon as they see us coming. Sadly for them, Gekko’s enthusiasm is matched by uncanny speed and none escape an introduction.
At the conclusion of this grand tour of the premises we still haven’t been allocated beds but Gekko assures us that this will be remedied in due course. In the mean time, if there is anything at all we would like (with the exception of a comfortable place to sleep it would seem) we need only ask.
“I can get you anything on the island except prostitutes and crack.” He says before turning on his heel and disappearing into his bedroom.
Alan and I walked back into town to find an establishment more willing to cater for our tastes.
That’s a lie. The place seemed nice enough and besides, Gekko already had our passports locked in his filing cabinet. The no whores and crack rule seemed reasonable and, in the case of Gekko, entirely unsurprising. If you’re as relentlessly upbeat as he is you clearly have no need for professional sex or illegal stimulants.
True to his word he did find us a bed, possibly from an orphanage, and as we sat drinking a beer on the patio we could see the bare foam mattresses being marched into our dorm.
In the end it wasn’t a shortage of beds but bedding which was the major issue and pillow roulette broke out on the first night. Unfortunately for me I left my pillow momentarily unguarded and wound up having to sleep on my hands. The next day, as I hunted around for a spare, I came to the conclusion that during the day people were stashing their pillows in their lockers. Proving once more that value is a human construct.
Speaking of which, Gekko kindly offers a security service for all his guest’s valuables. This sounds more reassuring than it is as the “safe” is just a battered old filing cabinet, with each person’s valuables demarcated by the use of labelled plastic bags.
Despite its simplicity, the system seemed to work well, at least until the third morning when Alan and I wanted to retrieve some cash. Worryingly our bag could not be found. More worryingly, Gekko appeared to be oh-so-slightly stoned.
The fact that this intoxicated man may have misplaced our cash, credit cards and, most importantly, our passports put Alan and me under a certain amount of strain and flop-sweat began to appear as he counted out the bags again and again, failing each time to locate our valuables.
Hooky looked like he was about to break out one or two aspects of his army reserve training when, after the third sweep of the cabinet, Gekko’s even more stoned friend peered out of his marijuana induced fug and suggested that the bag may have fallen down behind the draws.
Bingo. Disaster avoided. Code red status downgraded to alert but not alarmed.
The moral of this story is that in times of bedding shortages keep your passport on your person and your pillows under lock and key.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
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