Fresh from the jungle (or rather filthy from the jungle) we rolled in to Sao Paulo wearing filthy rags and lugging a large sodden bag of wet clothes. Managing to find a place quickly, we were soon drunk and had the lay of the bars mapped out in our heads. We raced by taxi through the streets of that enormous city to areas that were purportedly dodgy, though it seemed that no amount of bad behaviour could draw any trouble no matter how hard we sought it (LaBoca that bottle man!!!).
We awoke to find poisonous rumors about us circulating around the hostel as the result of an unwise initiative undertaken maliciously by a soon to be humiliated individual. Unconcerned, and even somewhat flattered that we had made such an impression, we walked the streets of the city all day, ate food by the kilogram, visited an art museum, checked out the main drag, made our way to the old city, passed bars pumping music, hit the subway, and finally returned to finish up with another night out causing trouble (LaBoca that bottle man!!!).
It was time to blow town and like a pair of hungover idiots, we made our way to the wrong bus station where we were redirected miles away and finally had a couple of tickets to Rio de Janiero, the last stop on the trail for Sohail, my partner in mischief for the last three months.
Of course our lack of organization or planning meant that we arrived in a great and reputedly dangerous city, late at night with no reservations or plans on where we would go. Since both of us could sing part of that old song "the Girl from Ipanima," we decided that our best bet would be to head to the corresponding beach. Upon arrival we were to have a tough time finding accommodation and checked a few places that were unsigned and virtually impossible to find. Worse yet, in the cracked up hallway of some ground level dump we had located, we discovered that we were surrounded by buff, tanned, waxed, tattooed, long hair surfer dudes huddled over lap tops and looking way too cool to be either smart or friendly. This distinctly impressed upon us that we were well out of our element, and we moved to find an unmarked area with a street full of overpriced, super-shitty hostels, one of which took us in for the night.
And that was the story of where we were to stay for the ultimos dias of Sohail's time. Stuck in gringolandia again with nowhere to turn, we made ourselves scarce as much as possible. This meant some time down at the legendary beach where we soon learned we were in the gay section and decided to shame all the ripped speedo wearing brazilieros with our buff bods. We observed many ill advised tattoos, in fact it seemed everybody had tattoos in some bid for who's was the most horrific, and watched four guys play foot volleyball (a sport apparently designed to show off the brazillian ability to perform incredible physical feats while synthesizing their world-dominating abilities in both football and volleyball). Feeling fully impressed, but decidedly out buffed, out classed, overdressed, and undertattooed. Only a block back from the beach, dudes stroll the street in their suntans and speedos in the shadow of tall buildings and businesses. This place is a paradise for anyone who likes ripped bodied suntan dudes in speedos. That excludes Sohail and I (in both senses) and we were more inclined to bust out laughing as we passed beachside gyms with feeble little guys doing side crunches and pullups in the blazing sun.
We could not help but remark that there is not the corresponding level of female specimens prowling the area. At first this seemed attributable to the queer nature of the area we were walking in, but further and more expansive reconnaissance yielded little more to speak of. It seems that the boys are prettier than the girls, and judging by our observations, put much more time, thought and effort into their appearance, amazing when you consider that the majority wear only speedos. Enough: there is more to life than incredibly buff, suntanned, tattooed, chain wearing, gel haired, designer sunglass toting, totally ripped, totally hairless, speedo clad men.
As usual, it was time to find the other side of the place: to get into those legendary slums (known as favelas). And what better way to do so than following some alcoholic Portuguese speaking gringa who had been living in a hostel for three months and knew all the best ghetto jams. W rocked up late night at an incredible scene, a disco known as Castelo, in the Rio das Pedras favela. There was an incredible amount of noise thumping from the place and the amount of sweat was nearly unbearable. I had never seen the like.
The favelas know how to party - you can literally do whatever you want and the drinks are very cheap. This is especially so if you are one of the individuals who has decided to bring a cooler full of beer inside. No cooler? no problem - a bag full of beer is also acceptable. There were boys jamming inside the club, likely nine years old or so, drinking beer, smoking, wearing gold chains and generally behaving like degenerate and hedonistic adults when not sweet talking the nine year old chicks. That was apparently modeled on the behaviour of the older guys who were into the thick gold rope around the neck look (like: ya pal, nice chain...i bet you got LOADS of money) but decidedly opposed to shirt wearing as a general principle. This meant an intolerable amount of sweat soaked dirtbags who dried off on what various articles of clothing did exist as they pushed through the crowd ad disappeared into the noise of the night.
There was no relief from any filth you had the misfortune to encounter as the sinks had no running water and in any event, people had taken to pissing underneath them. In fact, people were pissing everywhere in the bathrooms with the exception of the toilets. This was particularly so among the 12 - 15 year old age group who likely found it amusing to hose the walls, floors, sinks (underneath was a favourite spot for some reason)in urine. This inevitably lead to urine soaked pantcuffs, shoes and, for those unlucky enough to have worn flipflops, feet.
As four o'clock approached, the time came to move to another party, this one a street bash in another favela known as Rocinha. We arrived to find a huge crowd getting shitfaced and creating a haze of weedsmoke (no small feat outdoors), in front of a massive wall of speakers. The music was pumping which is not in itself so strange, the feature that struck me was the fact that the area was entirely residential and there was a monstrous amount of noise lighting up the predawn hours of Monday morning with irrepressible and thumping beats. The amount of people in attendance was impressive. Lots of locals and some strange types too, like the prego-chick in the tight red party dress swilling beer and puffing cigs and weed like some ghettoland chimney. We watched the spectacle awestruck as we made new friends that had an uncomfortable level of interest in my watch.
And that is when it started to get interesting. As the revellers cleared out into taxi cabs, the drug dealers took it up a notch and started pushing their wares more aggressively. Kids began to appear equipped with automatic rifles that were bigger than they were. I had never seen anything like it. I talked to one in piss poor portuguese as he brandished the american made steel almost bashfully, like a kid too proud of a new toy. All that was left now were these kids with the guns, a handful of crack whores, and bars full of guys pumping slot machines full of cash as daylight broke over the slum. It was time to go.
And soon I was alone again. I bid adieu to Sohail after three months of vagabonding that had ultimately led us east to this legendary city. And I too was on the move, now north and on to a new chapter in this journey. As the green peaks of Rio fell away beneath me, I was truly floating on my own again. I thought back to the hundreds of beds that had felt the weight of my weary body, the thousands of vehicles that had crawled through the endless dust of continents and earth. And here I was miles above a future that I could feel, inherent in that country beneath me...
Sunday, February 27, 2011
The Yerba Matte Tribes
30/01/11
Back in Argentina, we headed to a little town called Gualeguaychu having read in the paper that there would be a big carnival where one goes to “escape the boundaries and conventions of modern society.” We found considerable disappointment when this translated into sitting in reserved seats among a bunch of kids spraying silly-string all over the half naked performers.
The mission was not a bust however because we met a bunch of nice young Argentines who taught us rude expressions (cara de verga) and drinking songs (yo tomo liquor, yo tomo cerveja, y me gusta las chi-cas...). That somehow translated into a couple of nights out in the clubs and a nice rainy afternoon sitting on the sidewalk eating tortas fritas.
Gualeguaychu is set up nicely on the sandy bank of a river where everybody goes to take sun. We spent a bit of time there and had the chance to get into the Yerba Matte culture. For those not in the know, this is not the name of some exotic South American tribe, but rather the name of the drink consumed at all times by all people, all over Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. It has to be the most equipment intensive beverage in the world, requiring a special cup, metal filter-straw, pack of yerba matte, and a thermos full of hot or cold water. A pack of Tang is an optional addition used to enhance refreshment delivery. To jazz things up a bit, rebellious youth sometimes elect place some stickers on their thermoses.
Throughout this part of the world we have been entirely amazed at the lengths people go to in order to consume their matte. It seems that you don't leave the house without thermos tucked under your arm, hand holding steaming cup of matte at chest level as you walk determinedly toward any destination. Further observation suggests that there is no inappropriate time to consume the concoction as it is drunk at all times of day or night.
It is pretty good. I guess.
Leaving the matte behind, we headed out for some off the track adventure in the Pantanal region of Brazil. I sat on top of a truck as we approached and once again began to feel the throb of the jungle. As night fell the pulse grew more intense with the rhythmic whine of thousands of frogs. Out in the water were the dozens of gleaming eyes something silent but much more deadly than the insect eaters. These were the cayman, a predator nearly as vicious as the millions of mosquitoes. They were looking for whatever they could find in the night, perhaps a tasty water pig - the world's largest rodent. That night I slept with the noise of the jungle all around me.
The following day we set out on foot hopping over rotten logs and listening for the buzz of unseen wasps. Not carefully enough, and I was soon stung through my pants. Undeterred we forged ahead past holes in the trees rich with honey and bees, before stopping to watch a baby anteater cling to it's mother's back as she climbed through the leaves above.
We went down to the river to catch some piranhas and this drew the interest of some Cayman that actually came up on shore after the fish on my line. I was amazed how voracious the little fish were as the scraps of steak disappeared one after another from my hook.
The jungle was alive with noise, the calls of hundreds of birds but most distinctly the screech of the McCaw and the howls of the monkeys. Eyes are watching from the treetops and as we approached the noise fell silent. The leaves rustled, the bows shook, flashes of colour darted through the air and the animals had vanished. And soon we had too, back over the dirt road to civilization beyond.
Back in Argentina, we headed to a little town called Gualeguaychu having read in the paper that there would be a big carnival where one goes to “escape the boundaries and conventions of modern society.” We found considerable disappointment when this translated into sitting in reserved seats among a bunch of kids spraying silly-string all over the half naked performers.
The mission was not a bust however because we met a bunch of nice young Argentines who taught us rude expressions (cara de verga) and drinking songs (yo tomo liquor, yo tomo cerveja, y me gusta las chi-cas...). That somehow translated into a couple of nights out in the clubs and a nice rainy afternoon sitting on the sidewalk eating tortas fritas.
Gualeguaychu is set up nicely on the sandy bank of a river where everybody goes to take sun. We spent a bit of time there and had the chance to get into the Yerba Matte culture. For those not in the know, this is not the name of some exotic South American tribe, but rather the name of the drink consumed at all times by all people, all over Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. It has to be the most equipment intensive beverage in the world, requiring a special cup, metal filter-straw, pack of yerba matte, and a thermos full of hot or cold water. A pack of Tang is an optional addition used to enhance refreshment delivery. To jazz things up a bit, rebellious youth sometimes elect place some stickers on their thermoses.
Throughout this part of the world we have been entirely amazed at the lengths people go to in order to consume their matte. It seems that you don't leave the house without thermos tucked under your arm, hand holding steaming cup of matte at chest level as you walk determinedly toward any destination. Further observation suggests that there is no inappropriate time to consume the concoction as it is drunk at all times of day or night.
It is pretty good. I guess.
Leaving the matte behind, we headed out for some off the track adventure in the Pantanal region of Brazil. I sat on top of a truck as we approached and once again began to feel the throb of the jungle. As night fell the pulse grew more intense with the rhythmic whine of thousands of frogs. Out in the water were the dozens of gleaming eyes something silent but much more deadly than the insect eaters. These were the cayman, a predator nearly as vicious as the millions of mosquitoes. They were looking for whatever they could find in the night, perhaps a tasty water pig - the world's largest rodent. That night I slept with the noise of the jungle all around me.
The following day we set out on foot hopping over rotten logs and listening for the buzz of unseen wasps. Not carefully enough, and I was soon stung through my pants. Undeterred we forged ahead past holes in the trees rich with honey and bees, before stopping to watch a baby anteater cling to it's mother's back as she climbed through the leaves above.
We went down to the river to catch some piranhas and this drew the interest of some Cayman that actually came up on shore after the fish on my line. I was amazed how voracious the little fish were as the scraps of steak disappeared one after another from my hook.
The jungle was alive with noise, the calls of hundreds of birds but most distinctly the screech of the McCaw and the howls of the monkeys. Eyes are watching from the treetops and as we approached the noise fell silent. The leaves rustled, the bows shook, flashes of colour darted through the air and the animals had vanished. And soon we had too, back over the dirt road to civilization beyond.
The Yerba Matte Tribes
30/01/11
Back in Argentina, we headed to a little town called Gualeguaychu having read in the paper that there would be a big carnival where one goes to “escape the boundaries and conventions of modern society.” We found considerable disappointment when this translated into sitting in reserved seats among a bunch of kids spraying silly-string all over the half naked performers.
The mission was not a bust however because we met a bunch of nice young Argentines who taught us rude expressions (cara de verga) and drinking songs (yo tomo liquor, yo tomo cerveja, y me gusta las chi-cas...). That somehow translated into a couple of nights out in the clubs and a nice rainy afternoon sitting on the sidewalk eating tortas fritas.
Gualeguaychu is set up nicely on the sandy bank of a river where everybody goes to take sun. We spent a bit of time there and had the chance to get into the Yerba Matte culture. For those not in the know, this is not the name of some exotic South American tribe, but rather the name of the drink consumed at all times by all people, all over Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. It has to be the most equipment intensive beverage in the world, requiring a special cup, metal filter-straw, pack of yerba matte, and a thermos full of hot or cold water. A pack of Tang is an optional addition used to enhance refreshment delivery. To jazz things up a bit, rebellious youth sometimes elect place some stickers on their thermoses.
Throughout this part of the world we have been entirely amazed at the lengths people go to in order to consume their matte. It seems that you don't leave the house without thermos tucked under your arm, hand holding steaming cup of matte at chest level as you walk determinedly toward any destination. Further observation suggests that there is no inappropriate time to consume the concoction as it is drunk at all times of day or night.
It is pretty good. I guess.
Leaving the matte behind, we headed out for some off the track adventure in the Pantanal region of Brazil. I sat on top of a truck as we approached and once again began to feel the throb of the jungle. As night fell the pulse grew more intense with the rhythmic whine of thousands of frogs. Out in the water were the dozens of gleaming eyes something silent but much more deadly than the insect eaters. These were the cayman, a predator nearly as vicious as the millions of mosquitoes. They were looking for whatever they could find in the night, perhaps a tasty water pig - the world's largest rodent. That night I slept with the noise of the jungle all around me.
The following day we set out on foot hopping over rotten logs and listening for the buzz of unseen wasps. Not carefully enough, and I was soon stung through my pants. Undeterred we forged ahead past holes in the trees rich with honey and bees, before stopping to watch a baby anteater cling to it's mother's back as she climbed through the leaves above.
We went down to the river to catch some piranhas and this drew the interest of some Cayman that actually came up on shore after the fish on my line. I was amazed how voracious the little fish were as the scraps of steak disappeared one after another from my hook.
The jungle was alive with noise, the calls of hundreds of birds but most distinctly the screech of the McCaw and the howls of the monkeys. Eyes are watching from the treetops and as we approached the noise fell silent. The leaves rustled, the bows shook, flashes of colour darted through the air and the animals had vanished. And soon we had too, back over the dirt road to civilization beyond.
Back in Argentina, we headed to a little town called Gualeguaychu having read in the paper that there would be a big carnival where one goes to “escape the boundaries and conventions of modern society.” We found considerable disappointment when this translated into sitting in reserved seats among a bunch of kids spraying silly-string all over the half naked performers.
The mission was not a bust however because we met a bunch of nice young Argentines who taught us rude expressions (cara de verga) and drinking songs (yo tomo liquor, yo tomo cerveja, y me gusta las chi-cas...). That somehow translated into a couple of nights out in the clubs and a nice rainy afternoon sitting on the sidewalk eating tortas fritas.
Gualeguaychu is set up nicely on the sandy bank of a river where everybody goes to take sun. We spent a bit of time there and had the chance to get into the Yerba Matte culture. For those not in the know, this is not the name of some exotic South American tribe, but rather the name of the drink consumed at all times by all people, all over Argentina, Uruguay, and Paraguay. It has to be the most equipment intensive beverage in the world, requiring a special cup, metal filter-straw, pack of yerba matte, and a thermos full of hot or cold water. A pack of Tang is an optional addition used to enhance refreshment delivery. To jazz things up a bit, rebellious youth sometimes elect place some stickers on their thermoses.
Throughout this part of the world we have been entirely amazed at the lengths people go to in order to consume their matte. It seems that you don't leave the house without thermos tucked under your arm, hand holding steaming cup of matte at chest level as you walk determinedly toward any destination. Further observation suggests that there is no inappropriate time to consume the concoction as it is drunk at all times of day or night.
It is pretty good. I guess.
Leaving the matte behind, we headed out for some off the track adventure in the Pantanal region of Brazil. I sat on top of a truck as we approached and once again began to feel the throb of the jungle. As night fell the pulse grew more intense with the rhythmic whine of thousands of frogs. Out in the water were the dozens of gleaming eyes something silent but much more deadly than the insect eaters. These were the cayman, a predator nearly as vicious as the millions of mosquitoes. They were looking for whatever they could find in the night, perhaps a tasty water pig - the world's largest rodent. That night I slept with the noise of the jungle all around me.
The following day we set out on foot hopping over rotten logs and listening for the buzz of unseen wasps. Not carefully enough, and I was soon stung through my pants. Undeterred we forged ahead past holes in the trees rich with honey and bees, before stopping to watch a baby anteater cling to it's mother's back as she climbed through the leaves above.
We went down to the river to catch some piranhas and this drew the interest of some Cayman that actually came up on shore after the fish on my line. I was amazed how voracious the little fish were as the scraps of steak disappeared one after another from my hook.
The jungle was alive with noise, the calls of hundreds of birds but most distinctly the screech of the McCaw and the howls of the monkeys. Eyes are watching from the treetops and as we approached the noise fell silent. The leaves rustled, the bows shook, flashes of colour darted through the air and the animals had vanished. And soon we had too, back over the dirt road to civilization beyond.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
Suicide Leap off the Gringo Trail
From the time I hit Buenos Aires I haven't reported much. That is not to say that nothing was going on, but rather that the number of distractions pulled me away from this blog project that has provided a common thread for me through all the places I have been. Looking back now, it is hard to synthesize everything that has happened in the last few weeks, but I suppose that is the point. Rather that chronicle every detail of my activities it is sometimes nice to look retrospectively and focus on the impressions that stuck with me.
Buenos Aires is a city that is hard not to love. The place has so much soul, from its leafy plazas where people gather for drinks and tango, to its back alleys where chubby men sit topless, swilling from bottles and tending to the asado (beef bbq). The city seems to pulse like some beast full of life and I spent my time exploring its different limbs.
The buildings would fit in as well in Paris as they do in South America. There are plazas at every turn where people meet to sit and sip beer in the afternoons. In the evenings bands show up and take turns entertaining the crowds. Sunday night is a big street party with thumping drums and lots of revelry in the streets. The sketchier areas warranted their own investigation and judging by the amount of broken glass in La Boca, it looks like there is a pretty wild party there as well.
Out in the bars there is a sophisticated scene. It seems that people have money here and they're not afraid to spend it. My gringo status gets me nowhere and it is refreshing that nobody seems to care that I am a foreigner. After a few too many nights out at the disco, an epic new year's eve with rooftop fireworks over the city that ended with street festivities, I decided it was time to make moves and we jumped on the ferry for Uruguay.
We rocked up to Montevideo to find the city completely deserted. Everything was closed and there was nobody in the streets. The apartment building had no lights in the windows and there was very little traffic in the streets. We stood in grand plazas, without another soul anywhere around and walked past the closed shops. The explanation provided was that everybody had gone away on holiday. A bit hard to believe but that was the consensus.
There was no point in spending much time and the following day, we headed out to Punta del Este, a posh South American beach resort town. The place is supposedly full of high rollers, but all I could seem to find were high prices. The clubs were lame, but still people were dropping hundred dollar bills to get in. I figure that the only reason they could be doing so is that they had never been to a good party before. But what the hell do I know. I guess the point is to show you've got money to burn.
And it's not hard to do. The beach chairs go for ten bucks a pop, a coffee costs eight, a burger and a coke is twelve, and a beer in the bar is the same. It seems like everyone there is either under 18 or over 40, and it is totally not my scene. The bars are full of guys posing up wearing tight shirts flaunting brand name designers. I leave the bar and finally make a friend outside, a stray dog who I dubbed “gimpy one eye.”
It was time to get the hell out of there so we hit another bus down the coast to some little beach town called Cabo Polonia. We had no idea what to expect other than some little fishing village so we were a little surprised to find it packed with Argentinian potheads.
The place was like nothing I had ever seen before, just a bunch of shacks in the dunes. Apparently it is one of the most expensive places to get real estate in the country because it falls within the confines of a national park and further development is prohibited. A small shack (and I mean shack) can go for tens of thousands of dollars. These things are nothing more than plywood playhouses with no electricity or plumbing. Eighty people live there year round but over a thousand show up during Argentine school holidays. They have reservations. We did not.
We walked among the shacks for a couple of hours looking for beds and just when things were hopeless we managed to score the last ones in town. We were starving from a day traveling and not eating and after some fried fish we each drank a beer. It was dark and we were exhausted so we began to make our way back. Seeing as there was no electricity we couldn't see anything. We walked for several more hours through the sand dunes, through the grass, jumping little streams and inspecting shacks to see if we recognized anything. It seems we had both forgotten where our place was, and remembered only that it was painted with a bunch of snakes. Snakes that we couldn't see in the dark.
After hours of searching we slept on the beach until dawn. It was better than walking around all night. When we awoke, we realized we were actually quite close. We decided a change of scene was in order, strapped on our packs and headed onto the beach. We had heard that the hike to the next village would take anywhere from 2 – 3 hours along the beach. We encountered a number of dead seals along the way and stopped elsewhere for a bit of lunch en route, and it took about four.
By the time we arrived at Valizes, accommodation proved to be a problem. I walked for a while in a torrential thunderstorm, checking every place in town with negative results. By the time we realized we were out of luck, the buses were all booked, and we returned to a hostel only to find that the available places for the following day were now reserved. Another night on the beach wouldn't have been so bad (considering I had just had a natural shower in the rain) but everything was soaking wet. In the end we found a cafe and sat up drinking coffee all night as people got piss drunk and ganja smoke floated all around.
The weed culture was really extreme in the little town. It seemed like everybody was smoking. We turned up at a bar/restaurant and found the guy behind the counter puffing a massive conga spliff. Apparently you can do anything you want there because there's no cops for miles around. Finally dawn broke and the sun burned the moisture from the sand. I crashed out face first in a heap, exhausted, salt on my skin, sand between my toes, and dreamed of a return to civilization. We staked out the bus station and soon had tickets on the late bus back to Montevideo.
Though nothing went as planned, it could have been worse. It was the first time in two and a half years that I have failed to find a place to sleep, strange that it happened two nights in a row. I didn't regret it at all, particularly because we hadn't seen another gringo since we left Buenos Aires.
Buenos Aires is a city that is hard not to love. The place has so much soul, from its leafy plazas where people gather for drinks and tango, to its back alleys where chubby men sit topless, swilling from bottles and tending to the asado (beef bbq). The city seems to pulse like some beast full of life and I spent my time exploring its different limbs.
The buildings would fit in as well in Paris as they do in South America. There are plazas at every turn where people meet to sit and sip beer in the afternoons. In the evenings bands show up and take turns entertaining the crowds. Sunday night is a big street party with thumping drums and lots of revelry in the streets. The sketchier areas warranted their own investigation and judging by the amount of broken glass in La Boca, it looks like there is a pretty wild party there as well.
Out in the bars there is a sophisticated scene. It seems that people have money here and they're not afraid to spend it. My gringo status gets me nowhere and it is refreshing that nobody seems to care that I am a foreigner. After a few too many nights out at the disco, an epic new year's eve with rooftop fireworks over the city that ended with street festivities, I decided it was time to make moves and we jumped on the ferry for Uruguay.
We rocked up to Montevideo to find the city completely deserted. Everything was closed and there was nobody in the streets. The apartment building had no lights in the windows and there was very little traffic in the streets. We stood in grand plazas, without another soul anywhere around and walked past the closed shops. The explanation provided was that everybody had gone away on holiday. A bit hard to believe but that was the consensus.
There was no point in spending much time and the following day, we headed out to Punta del Este, a posh South American beach resort town. The place is supposedly full of high rollers, but all I could seem to find were high prices. The clubs were lame, but still people were dropping hundred dollar bills to get in. I figure that the only reason they could be doing so is that they had never been to a good party before. But what the hell do I know. I guess the point is to show you've got money to burn.
And it's not hard to do. The beach chairs go for ten bucks a pop, a coffee costs eight, a burger and a coke is twelve, and a beer in the bar is the same. It seems like everyone there is either under 18 or over 40, and it is totally not my scene. The bars are full of guys posing up wearing tight shirts flaunting brand name designers. I leave the bar and finally make a friend outside, a stray dog who I dubbed “gimpy one eye.”
It was time to get the hell out of there so we hit another bus down the coast to some little beach town called Cabo Polonia. We had no idea what to expect other than some little fishing village so we were a little surprised to find it packed with Argentinian potheads.
The place was like nothing I had ever seen before, just a bunch of shacks in the dunes. Apparently it is one of the most expensive places to get real estate in the country because it falls within the confines of a national park and further development is prohibited. A small shack (and I mean shack) can go for tens of thousands of dollars. These things are nothing more than plywood playhouses with no electricity or plumbing. Eighty people live there year round but over a thousand show up during Argentine school holidays. They have reservations. We did not.
We walked among the shacks for a couple of hours looking for beds and just when things were hopeless we managed to score the last ones in town. We were starving from a day traveling and not eating and after some fried fish we each drank a beer. It was dark and we were exhausted so we began to make our way back. Seeing as there was no electricity we couldn't see anything. We walked for several more hours through the sand dunes, through the grass, jumping little streams and inspecting shacks to see if we recognized anything. It seems we had both forgotten where our place was, and remembered only that it was painted with a bunch of snakes. Snakes that we couldn't see in the dark.
After hours of searching we slept on the beach until dawn. It was better than walking around all night. When we awoke, we realized we were actually quite close. We decided a change of scene was in order, strapped on our packs and headed onto the beach. We had heard that the hike to the next village would take anywhere from 2 – 3 hours along the beach. We encountered a number of dead seals along the way and stopped elsewhere for a bit of lunch en route, and it took about four.
By the time we arrived at Valizes, accommodation proved to be a problem. I walked for a while in a torrential thunderstorm, checking every place in town with negative results. By the time we realized we were out of luck, the buses were all booked, and we returned to a hostel only to find that the available places for the following day were now reserved. Another night on the beach wouldn't have been so bad (considering I had just had a natural shower in the rain) but everything was soaking wet. In the end we found a cafe and sat up drinking coffee all night as people got piss drunk and ganja smoke floated all around.
The weed culture was really extreme in the little town. It seemed like everybody was smoking. We turned up at a bar/restaurant and found the guy behind the counter puffing a massive conga spliff. Apparently you can do anything you want there because there's no cops for miles around. Finally dawn broke and the sun burned the moisture from the sand. I crashed out face first in a heap, exhausted, salt on my skin, sand between my toes, and dreamed of a return to civilization. We staked out the bus station and soon had tickets on the late bus back to Montevideo.
Though nothing went as planned, it could have been worse. It was the first time in two and a half years that I have failed to find a place to sleep, strange that it happened two nights in a row. I didn't regret it at all, particularly because we hadn't seen another gringo since we left Buenos Aires.
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Missions
From the border, the highway rolls out over rich red tropical earth. Deep green fields stretch to the horizon in every direction over gentle hills. I signal the driver and climb out of the bus and with pack on back I head across the highway and up a narrow roadway paved with fragments of stone. The heat drips all around me and the going is tough. I walk about a half hour and finally arrive at Trinidad, a Jesuit mission out in what was once the Paraguayan jungle.
As I stand there and look over the grass, I imagine the black robes walking stone corridors in the damp jungle heat. The complex contains a couple of dozen stone buildings, and centres on a ruined cathedral of epic proportions, a massive stone edifice, the likes of which that world had never seen. Christ in the jungle, carved by Guarani hands. World heritage or not, these are strange structures to find out here.
I try to imagine the ruins full of Guarani tribespeople – kids running around and dogs playing as the priests give lessons and save souls. The houses are all smashed now, but rows of arches survive to suggest the splendour of what lay here before. Intricate carvings once covered the walls with foreign saints staring down to grant their divine benevolence to the natives who were only just invited to the pious party that had controlled Europe for over a millennium. And many took up the invitation, underwent the education and the baptism, and as a result gained the legal protection of the king of spain. The places also made prime targets for slave raiders and many were marched off in bondage, bound to poles on a long march out to the markets in the east.
I sat for a while looking out at the surrounding vegetation, now mostly green farmer's fields. I can only imagine the impression created by these massive stone leviathans for the indigenous who lived around campfires in small villages.
I headed back down the road, everything I have strapped to my back, and stood on the tarmac waving at passing cars as the heat seemed to rise through the soles of my shoes. Finally I got a hitch and an hour later I rolled into Encarnacion, the great city in the south of the country.
I was amazed at the how different it was from Ciudad del Este, hard to believe it was the same country. This place seemed downright pleasant. I walked around a bit in the afternoon heat but that pretty much wasted me so I found a place out by the bus terminal and had a siesta for a couple of hours. The breeze in the warm evening air provided some relief from the heat and I was able to stroll around a bit. There were many options for dinner including sushi, chinese, korean, italian, and the typical street stalls that pop up all over this country.
The following morning I headed to Asuncion, the “City of God” according to the signs. It is a modern city, founded centuries ago by conquistadors and was a major site of missionary activity throughout its history. After finding a place I went for a walk in the old part of town. The buildings show faded glimmers of decadence in their crumbling balconies, each ornately carved with care in an era gone by. Now there is a modern shopping street and I stop in a cafe, sipping coffee while I watch a midget do headstands for cash.
On my way back, I walk through the Plaza Uruguaya and I am amazed to see that it has been converted into a squatters camp full of Guarani. The place is a hive of activity and the whole plaza smells like shit. Men string their garbage bag tents on ropes tied to palms, women wash clothes and hang them in the trees to dry, and naked kids run around playing games. I sit and watch the scene for a while as teenage boys wrestle violently with the girls, and young women use scoops of water to wash the filth from their limber bodies. There are trash piles burning on all the corners, I begin to feel sad to see what these people have been reduced to. Some of the kids have dystended bellies, and it doesn't look like anyone has much.
So much has changed since those missions were built all those years ago. I can hardly imagine how these people used to live. The only thing that remains of the jungle is the overpowering shrill of the cigarra up in the trees. That and the heat.
As I stand there and look over the grass, I imagine the black robes walking stone corridors in the damp jungle heat. The complex contains a couple of dozen stone buildings, and centres on a ruined cathedral of epic proportions, a massive stone edifice, the likes of which that world had never seen. Christ in the jungle, carved by Guarani hands. World heritage or not, these are strange structures to find out here.
I try to imagine the ruins full of Guarani tribespeople – kids running around and dogs playing as the priests give lessons and save souls. The houses are all smashed now, but rows of arches survive to suggest the splendour of what lay here before. Intricate carvings once covered the walls with foreign saints staring down to grant their divine benevolence to the natives who were only just invited to the pious party that had controlled Europe for over a millennium. And many took up the invitation, underwent the education and the baptism, and as a result gained the legal protection of the king of spain. The places also made prime targets for slave raiders and many were marched off in bondage, bound to poles on a long march out to the markets in the east.
I sat for a while looking out at the surrounding vegetation, now mostly green farmer's fields. I can only imagine the impression created by these massive stone leviathans for the indigenous who lived around campfires in small villages.
I headed back down the road, everything I have strapped to my back, and stood on the tarmac waving at passing cars as the heat seemed to rise through the soles of my shoes. Finally I got a hitch and an hour later I rolled into Encarnacion, the great city in the south of the country.
I was amazed at the how different it was from Ciudad del Este, hard to believe it was the same country. This place seemed downright pleasant. I walked around a bit in the afternoon heat but that pretty much wasted me so I found a place out by the bus terminal and had a siesta for a couple of hours. The breeze in the warm evening air provided some relief from the heat and I was able to stroll around a bit. There were many options for dinner including sushi, chinese, korean, italian, and the typical street stalls that pop up all over this country.
The following morning I headed to Asuncion, the “City of God” according to the signs. It is a modern city, founded centuries ago by conquistadors and was a major site of missionary activity throughout its history. After finding a place I went for a walk in the old part of town. The buildings show faded glimmers of decadence in their crumbling balconies, each ornately carved with care in an era gone by. Now there is a modern shopping street and I stop in a cafe, sipping coffee while I watch a midget do headstands for cash.
On my way back, I walk through the Plaza Uruguaya and I am amazed to see that it has been converted into a squatters camp full of Guarani. The place is a hive of activity and the whole plaza smells like shit. Men string their garbage bag tents on ropes tied to palms, women wash clothes and hang them in the trees to dry, and naked kids run around playing games. I sit and watch the scene for a while as teenage boys wrestle violently with the girls, and young women use scoops of water to wash the filth from their limber bodies. There are trash piles burning on all the corners, I begin to feel sad to see what these people have been reduced to. Some of the kids have dystended bellies, and it doesn't look like anyone has much.
So much has changed since those missions were built all those years ago. I can hardly imagine how these people used to live. The only thing that remains of the jungle is the overpowering shrill of the cigarra up in the trees. That and the heat.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
East of Nowhere
It is not every day that one gets to see a true wonder of the natural world. Today was such a day. As I write this, my words are still wet from the mists of Iguacu. At the fringe of dripping jungle, I watched hundreds of cascades, sliding like sheets falling from their basalt bed. Torrents of water gushed all around me like some type of sublime dreamscape. And why not, it is a place of dreams after all. For years I have wanted to see Iguacu, the place where three nations meet out in the jungle. It was one of the biggest ambitions on my list. And now it will fade into its place in my past as somewhere I have felt and lived in for a moment.
The feeling couldn't last forever and I was soon on the move again. In the heat of the afternoon I made the spontaneous decision to hit a city bus to the border and on into nowhere: Paraguay. I couldn't resist stopping for the night in Ciudad del Este as I had heard a rumor that this was a dangerous and violent city where gunmen prowl the streets after dark. I had left my friend Sohail behind and as a result, forged ahead with no map other than some crude lines scrawled hastily in my notebook. As I walked through the streets many people called out to me and even beckoned me over. I am sure they were up to no good and I waved them off dismissively. .
My first impression of the city was not good. All of the shops had shut and there were bales of trash everywhere – odd things, like a pile of denim cut from the legs of jeans. As I waded through styrofoam cups and plastic bags, I began to remark some people passed out on the sidewalk. One poor soul had apparently shit his pants and then decided to drop them to his knees, though he did not finish the job of cleaning himself up and remained in a state of unconscious intoxication, caked in his own faeces. Since my hotel is around the corner, he makes an unmistakeable landmark.
The hotel itself is nothing special, just another cheap room; this one going for 80 000 Guaranies (which I hope is about $20 bucks). The room was actually nice with air conditioning and a big double bed. As an added touch, the guy from the front promptly offered to set me up with some whores but I gracefully declined.
After a brief look around, I took a long walk to cash up. I had a hard time finding a “cajero automatico” (ATM) but my frustration was tempered by a seemingly endless procession of pale white women with dark black hair. Notwithstanding the pretty faces, I felt I had seen enough and took the decision to get a ticket out the following morning. Since I had no map, or any idea where the terminal was located, I headed to a main road an began following buses that I saw on the street. I hoped for the best and soon began to see bigger long distance coaches. I followed as best I could in the heavy heat of the low afternoon sun.
As I walked, the first impression that I had taken gave way to another side of the city. There were many parks that were beautifully landscaped, though they all seemed full of trash. I entered one designed like a chinese garden, complete with a round entrance way in the wall, gilded pagodas and traditional bridges over a small stream that made the whole thing feel downright feng shui. There was still loads of trash everywhere, but the grass looked freshly cut and the buildings were in nice shape. This provided a stark contrast not only to the trash, but also to the gang of filthy beggar kids congregated around a pavillion. I stood and watched in disbelief as little flames flickered from lighters as they freebased whatever poison they had got their hands on. I felt sad to see the little guys smoke from the straw. They couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old.
I continued on my way past red earth football pitches that sprawled for miles down the side of the road. Every single one was in use by full sides playing hard against each other. Everyone had gotten involved, whether young or old, fat or thin. I watched for a while, then off anew as the twilight began to set in.
There I was in the unknown again, no guide, no directions, following a road on an impulse. The dying light of the day took on a greater significance for me. How much more of this did I have left. How many more unknown streets, unknown cities, countries, people would I come across. The twilight of my journey is upon me now, and I began to think back to the big experiences that these two and a half years of vagabonding have brought – the faces I have seen, the languages I have heard, the food I have tasted. In the end, I could not escape thoughts of the people who had entered my life along the way. That is what I take from the journey, more than the waterfalls, the mountains, the deserts, the jungles, the continents and the oceans. And now it begins to fade into twilight.
I wandered on without certainty and had the good luck to see a big bus turn a corner. I followed suit and soon saw the terminal ahead. Lost in thought, with no idea where I was going, I must have walked for about an hour, but for whatever reason it had worked.
As I walked back to my hotel, I hardly noticed the garbage everywhere, the fallen electrical wires sizzling in heaps on the sidewalk, the other man that had fallen, passed out cold on the road next to his shit covered chum. All I could think about was living on the edge of nowhere.
The feeling couldn't last forever and I was soon on the move again. In the heat of the afternoon I made the spontaneous decision to hit a city bus to the border and on into nowhere: Paraguay. I couldn't resist stopping for the night in Ciudad del Este as I had heard a rumor that this was a dangerous and violent city where gunmen prowl the streets after dark. I had left my friend Sohail behind and as a result, forged ahead with no map other than some crude lines scrawled hastily in my notebook. As I walked through the streets many people called out to me and even beckoned me over. I am sure they were up to no good and I waved them off dismissively. .
My first impression of the city was not good. All of the shops had shut and there were bales of trash everywhere – odd things, like a pile of denim cut from the legs of jeans. As I waded through styrofoam cups and plastic bags, I began to remark some people passed out on the sidewalk. One poor soul had apparently shit his pants and then decided to drop them to his knees, though he did not finish the job of cleaning himself up and remained in a state of unconscious intoxication, caked in his own faeces. Since my hotel is around the corner, he makes an unmistakeable landmark.
The hotel itself is nothing special, just another cheap room; this one going for 80 000 Guaranies (which I hope is about $20 bucks). The room was actually nice with air conditioning and a big double bed. As an added touch, the guy from the front promptly offered to set me up with some whores but I gracefully declined.
After a brief look around, I took a long walk to cash up. I had a hard time finding a “cajero automatico” (ATM) but my frustration was tempered by a seemingly endless procession of pale white women with dark black hair. Notwithstanding the pretty faces, I felt I had seen enough and took the decision to get a ticket out the following morning. Since I had no map, or any idea where the terminal was located, I headed to a main road an began following buses that I saw on the street. I hoped for the best and soon began to see bigger long distance coaches. I followed as best I could in the heavy heat of the low afternoon sun.
As I walked, the first impression that I had taken gave way to another side of the city. There were many parks that were beautifully landscaped, though they all seemed full of trash. I entered one designed like a chinese garden, complete with a round entrance way in the wall, gilded pagodas and traditional bridges over a small stream that made the whole thing feel downright feng shui. There was still loads of trash everywhere, but the grass looked freshly cut and the buildings were in nice shape. This provided a stark contrast not only to the trash, but also to the gang of filthy beggar kids congregated around a pavillion. I stood and watched in disbelief as little flames flickered from lighters as they freebased whatever poison they had got their hands on. I felt sad to see the little guys smoke from the straw. They couldn't have been more than seven or eight years old.
I continued on my way past red earth football pitches that sprawled for miles down the side of the road. Every single one was in use by full sides playing hard against each other. Everyone had gotten involved, whether young or old, fat or thin. I watched for a while, then off anew as the twilight began to set in.
There I was in the unknown again, no guide, no directions, following a road on an impulse. The dying light of the day took on a greater significance for me. How much more of this did I have left. How many more unknown streets, unknown cities, countries, people would I come across. The twilight of my journey is upon me now, and I began to think back to the big experiences that these two and a half years of vagabonding have brought – the faces I have seen, the languages I have heard, the food I have tasted. In the end, I could not escape thoughts of the people who had entered my life along the way. That is what I take from the journey, more than the waterfalls, the mountains, the deserts, the jungles, the continents and the oceans. And now it begins to fade into twilight.
I wandered on without certainty and had the good luck to see a big bus turn a corner. I followed suit and soon saw the terminal ahead. Lost in thought, with no idea where I was going, I must have walked for about an hour, but for whatever reason it had worked.
As I walked back to my hotel, I hardly noticed the garbage everywhere, the fallen electrical wires sizzling in heaps on the sidewalk, the other man that had fallen, passed out cold on the road next to his shit covered chum. All I could think about was living on the edge of nowhere.
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
The Love of One Prisoner
There's a grand old structure behind a huge wall at Calles Canada y Strongest: San Pedro Prison.
The place houses the worst Bolivia has to offer. Murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and the poor ones too. If you have three thousand euros you get out in much the same way as I got in – just grease the right palms. There is a fine line between getting out and serving your time. Once sentenced, you are on your own and everything costs money. It is hard to support yourself in prison and the cells go for between $200 and $1500 (for prime views of the range). If there's no space on the range, you can simply start building on the roof and as a result, ramshackle shacks block the view of church spires and freedom beyond the walls. The cells are all priced for those with a bit of money, but not quite enough to get out. And some don't want to get out.
There is a great deal of pride on the five ranges. Each is like a neighbourhood and the prison like a town. Each area has it's own sauna, billiard hall, restaurants, ice cream stalls, a tienda (corner shop) and guys roam around selling bootleg DVDs and cakes, while local ladies come in to sell fruit. The guys are proud of where they live. As we stand looking at the colourful crests of each area's football team, one inmate pumps his fists in the air and proclaims that his range “es el mejor!” (is the best). Lots of the guys in there were street kids who found a home in the jail, have their friends, their business and their life set up in there. They don't want to get out because they own the cell for as long as they stay there and outside lies a world full of poverty with nothing but uncertainty beyond. Besides, it's all they've ever known.
We engage a guide for a few bucks, a European who I will call “F”, serving his time after getting busted with 12 kg of cocaine at the airport. He complains that it was not actually 12 kg because that crazy amount included all the packaging that he had used to conceal the product. He went on to lament not what he had done, but rather the fact he couldn't come up with 3000 Euro to buy his way out. After two years inside with no trial I can understand why. I think of Canada's constitutional right to trial within a reasonable time, and feel sure that I would have the case thrown out by now in a Canadian court. But this is Bolivia. He talks a lot and slings loads of bullshit stories, but it sure as hell is interesting. “F” plans to set up a guy who is giving him trouble, and goes on to provide evasive and non sequitur responses when I grill him about the location of the clandestine cocaine lab that I am sure is operating within the walls. He is more interested in discussing the colossal murals of tiger headed supermen that represent that area's football team. The fact that I can get in there has been a tremendous front-page embarrassment for the Bolivian government in the past. At least the last crackdown on corruption has the guides playing down the coke lab.
Though the guide may lie, the biblical quotations on the walls speak some truth. The also juxtapose well against the ubiquitous posters of topless chicks, the latter seeming more consistent with the interests of the people within. They are among the worst that society has to offer, though not everybody inside is a criminal. Many move their families inside so there are women breastfeeding in the corridors and terraces, and kids running all over the place. “This is not a good place for them” advises “F” as a little guy chugs past us unattended in a gloomy concrete hallway. Their safety is up to the parents and inevitably some are raped.
We cut through halls with tiny doors and little light. “F” points out some places where murder went down and adds that killing inside adds two years to the sentence. In other words life is cheap. The security is provided by jailer guards with sticks but the place is clearly unsafe and there are certain “no go” hallways. On account of this, we have a bodyguard, a young guy from Peru serving year ten out of eleven for drugs. That is fine for the day, but if you are inside, you'd be better to get yourself a good knife. Don't worry about the contraband. If the cops show up, just refuse to let them into the range until all the knives and drugs are carefully concealed. Yet another advantage to the self governance that comes out of privately financed incarceration.
We walk amongst a bunch of mean looking dudes, stoners, drunks, pretty boys with slicked back hair, goons with scars on cut up faces. A guy approaches us and it turns out he has done pencil sketches of us and written a heartwarming message. It reads “Prison” (in bubble letters), followed by “Renember [sic] always the love of one prisoner” and his signature. I buy the portrait for ten bolivianos ($1.40 CDN), not much to pay for great art. We continue amongst the condemned, and come out into the main range where we find a bunch of kids laughing and swimming in the pool in their undies. For a moment, it seems almost as if this was a normal existence for a child.
As the day wears on, it is almost time to leave. Years ago there were some “opportunities” for overnight stays, but this was not the wisest idea because most of the girls and some of the guys who did so got raped. Time to go, really. But one last thing to take care of before that.
We are ushered into a small room where the cocaine transactions go down. We are straight up offered the powder for 100 Bolivianos per gram ($14 CDN) and some are inclined to imbibe. Reactions indicate that it is “good shit” and “so fuckin pure” as it is chopped and snorted on a mirror provided for that purpose. At the first opportunity I headed for the door and breathed a sigh of relief as I headed back toward Calles Canada y Strongest.
As I sat sipping a beer that night, I thought about the prisoners. Stylish guys with pretty girls, alcohol, fights, drugs, stabbings and a roof over everybody's head.
The place houses the worst Bolivia has to offer. Murderers, rapists, drug dealers, and the poor ones too. If you have three thousand euros you get out in much the same way as I got in – just grease the right palms. There is a fine line between getting out and serving your time. Once sentenced, you are on your own and everything costs money. It is hard to support yourself in prison and the cells go for between $200 and $1500 (for prime views of the range). If there's no space on the range, you can simply start building on the roof and as a result, ramshackle shacks block the view of church spires and freedom beyond the walls. The cells are all priced for those with a bit of money, but not quite enough to get out. And some don't want to get out.
There is a great deal of pride on the five ranges. Each is like a neighbourhood and the prison like a town. Each area has it's own sauna, billiard hall, restaurants, ice cream stalls, a tienda (corner shop) and guys roam around selling bootleg DVDs and cakes, while local ladies come in to sell fruit. The guys are proud of where they live. As we stand looking at the colourful crests of each area's football team, one inmate pumps his fists in the air and proclaims that his range “es el mejor!” (is the best). Lots of the guys in there were street kids who found a home in the jail, have their friends, their business and their life set up in there. They don't want to get out because they own the cell for as long as they stay there and outside lies a world full of poverty with nothing but uncertainty beyond. Besides, it's all they've ever known.
We engage a guide for a few bucks, a European who I will call “F”, serving his time after getting busted with 12 kg of cocaine at the airport. He complains that it was not actually 12 kg because that crazy amount included all the packaging that he had used to conceal the product. He went on to lament not what he had done, but rather the fact he couldn't come up with 3000 Euro to buy his way out. After two years inside with no trial I can understand why. I think of Canada's constitutional right to trial within a reasonable time, and feel sure that I would have the case thrown out by now in a Canadian court. But this is Bolivia. He talks a lot and slings loads of bullshit stories, but it sure as hell is interesting. “F” plans to set up a guy who is giving him trouble, and goes on to provide evasive and non sequitur responses when I grill him about the location of the clandestine cocaine lab that I am sure is operating within the walls. He is more interested in discussing the colossal murals of tiger headed supermen that represent that area's football team. The fact that I can get in there has been a tremendous front-page embarrassment for the Bolivian government in the past. At least the last crackdown on corruption has the guides playing down the coke lab.
Though the guide may lie, the biblical quotations on the walls speak some truth. The also juxtapose well against the ubiquitous posters of topless chicks, the latter seeming more consistent with the interests of the people within. They are among the worst that society has to offer, though not everybody inside is a criminal. Many move their families inside so there are women breastfeeding in the corridors and terraces, and kids running all over the place. “This is not a good place for them” advises “F” as a little guy chugs past us unattended in a gloomy concrete hallway. Their safety is up to the parents and inevitably some are raped.
We cut through halls with tiny doors and little light. “F” points out some places where murder went down and adds that killing inside adds two years to the sentence. In other words life is cheap. The security is provided by jailer guards with sticks but the place is clearly unsafe and there are certain “no go” hallways. On account of this, we have a bodyguard, a young guy from Peru serving year ten out of eleven for drugs. That is fine for the day, but if you are inside, you'd be better to get yourself a good knife. Don't worry about the contraband. If the cops show up, just refuse to let them into the range until all the knives and drugs are carefully concealed. Yet another advantage to the self governance that comes out of privately financed incarceration.
We walk amongst a bunch of mean looking dudes, stoners, drunks, pretty boys with slicked back hair, goons with scars on cut up faces. A guy approaches us and it turns out he has done pencil sketches of us and written a heartwarming message. It reads “Prison” (in bubble letters), followed by “Renember [sic] always the love of one prisoner” and his signature. I buy the portrait for ten bolivianos ($1.40 CDN), not much to pay for great art. We continue amongst the condemned, and come out into the main range where we find a bunch of kids laughing and swimming in the pool in their undies. For a moment, it seems almost as if this was a normal existence for a child.
As the day wears on, it is almost time to leave. Years ago there were some “opportunities” for overnight stays, but this was not the wisest idea because most of the girls and some of the guys who did so got raped. Time to go, really. But one last thing to take care of before that.
We are ushered into a small room where the cocaine transactions go down. We are straight up offered the powder for 100 Bolivianos per gram ($14 CDN) and some are inclined to imbibe. Reactions indicate that it is “good shit” and “so fuckin pure” as it is chopped and snorted on a mirror provided for that purpose. At the first opportunity I headed for the door and breathed a sigh of relief as I headed back toward Calles Canada y Strongest.
As I sat sipping a beer that night, I thought about the prisoners. Stylish guys with pretty girls, alcohol, fights, drugs, stabbings and a roof over everybody's head.
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