A Lazy Sunday Morning in Bolivia

A Lazy Sunday Morning in Bolivia

Wednesday 30 November 2011

New Orleans Parish Prison – Not for tourists


I've always known about that song that goes: "I'm in the OPP. Yeah, you know me!" I never really knew or cared what OPP was or who the song was by. It was just a song that came on the radio every now and then and got stuck in my head for a day or so before I forgot about it completely for another six months. Then, as I sat behind bars in New Orleans and looked down at my orange jumpsuit, I saw printed the letters O-P-P. Then it hit me. Orleans Parish Prison! "I'm in the OPP." And there I was too. It was sort of like living a dream, but more precisely, a horrible, horrible nightmare.

When you're slightly (very) intoxicated, many things seem like a good idea. Often times, the poor results don't end up too disastrous. But questioning a New Orleans police officer's spelling ability while being questioned at three o'clock in the morning on Bourbon Street was definitely one for the "never again" basket. They don't take kindly to it.

Three hours later, after an uncomfortable car ride, a series of paperwork, more questions and a quick wardrobe change, I was sharing space with the lowest, filthiest degenerates of a famously crime-stricken city trying to fight off advances for my baloney sandwich. On further inspection of said sandwich, I decided I could pass on the crusted bread surrounded piece of gray meat. I gave it to my neighbor who added it to his pile of even older sandwiches. It seemed they were more valuable as currency than as nutrition.

Time stood still in there. There were people in the cell block--a large, solid walled construction with a tarp roof--who had been there for hours, days, weeks, months. Drunk and disorderly (myself included, apparently) was thrown in with violent criminals and repeat offenders. There's no distinction. Orange jumpsuit means scum. Guilty until proven innocent.

I spent a few hours just lying on my bed hoping that someone was coming to bail me out. It would have been easier had my debit card worked, but insufficient funds meant insufficient luck and then it became a waiting game. Regular roll calls make it difficult to get any sleep, but they can provide entertainment. The usual answers of "here" and "present" were interspersed with more colorful responses. My favorite was, "Suck my d*ck!," although he kept quiet down after being threatened with solitary confinement.

After turning down a couple more sandwiches, I realized I had been there for 24 hours without sleeping. And added to the previous day, it made 38 hours awake. Not a bad effort, and I was beginning to wonder how much longer I could last when I had a wonderful interruption--my name was called out by itself. That meant I was out. I liken the excitement and relief to how I imagine it must feel to win an Oscar. It was one of the happiest moments of my life. I fended off a final advance by the large man trying to steal my shoes and was released back into the world. Bail had been posted at three o'clock in the afternoon. Eight hours later they decided to let me out. I walked home through the dark streets of New Orleans humming a familiar tune.

Latin America: What I won’t miss


I have just spent the best part of 12 months in Latin America. From Mexico down to Argentina, across to Chile and up again. I wouldn’t trade this time for anything, and given the time and resources would gladly do it again. I left regretting so much that I was leaving behind. The endless Argentine nights, Venezuela’s daily head-scratching surprises, the amiable people of Chile, Mexico’s 24-hour tequila consumption and the unique ability to breakout into a party, parade, protest or riot at a moments notice, complete with music, dancing and fireworks. These are a few of the features I will miss.

But while always looking for a positive experience, one of the great benefits of travel is seeing the whole picture. Seeing the bad with the good and making you appreciate where you come from. Remembering the annoyances, the frustrations, the moments of mind-numbing stupidity are what make the journey complete and are often the most memorable.

Discussing the highlights is easy but would take far too long, hearing what went wrong, however, can be far more interesting. These are a few of the traits that – while glad to have experienced them – I will gladly leave behind to the colourful and chaotic land of Central and South America.

Traffic

Pedestrians are treated like pigeons. If you don’t get out of the way you are going to get hit, and it will be your fault. There is no natural instinct in drivers to move their foot toward the break when a person appears within range. The closest they come to a precautionary measure is to beep their horn, which is why so many South American cities sound like an out of tune orchestra. The sound of car horns – honking at all other vehicles and animals as well as pedestrians – takes over many cities, particularly in Lima, where barely a moment passes when you can’t here the cacophony of impatient drivers. Buses toot at taxis, taxis toot at pedestrians, motorbikes toot at donkeys, everyone toots at everyone. Many neighbourhoods in Lima display ‘no tooting’ signs with a picture of a horn with a cross over it. But this doesn’t stop them, as the moment a car slows to make a turn or wait for a gate to open or a pedestrian makes their way toward the gutter the drivers hand is drawn toward the horn so he can join the chorus. There seems to be a myth that tooting the car horn as long and hard as you can will change a red light to green and start the traffic flowing. It doesn’t work, but it doesn’t stop them from trying.

Music

‘Salsa music sounds like it should be accompanying a clown’s act, or some kind of children’s show, that may or may not involve a shitty clown. It’s comedic, but the sad kind of, make you wince and feel embarrassed comedy. You couldn’t possibly enjoy it in any sense if you had any sort of a functioning brain. It’s only fit for children or idiots. No intelligent person could enjoy it. Not possibly.’

I completely agree with this quote. It was said by me, and sums up my opinion of the genre following month after month of hearing it blasted through speakers on long overnight bus rides and hearing the repetitive, soporific beat in every market, store or restaurant I ever went into. I may have been hearing the same song on repeat, or they may have all been different songs, it’s hard to know the difference. And reggaeton is much, much worse.

Inefficiency

In Peru my credit card was stolen. A new one was meant to get to me within 24-hours. Three days later it had not arrived. DHL Peru told me it was in a different city so I gave them the correct address. Another three days later it was still in the same wrong city and they asked me for the address again. After eleven days it still hadn’t arrived so I gave up.

This was not an isolated incident. Whether it’s DHL delivering an important package, buses arriving on time, ordering a cheeseburger at McDonald’s or checking out at a supermarket, everything seems to take a little longer than it should. It’s generally accepted as a way of life and isn’t usually too much of an inconvenience, but if you ever find yourself in an urgent situation or an emergency, i.e. having no source of funds other than an emergency credit card you’re waiting for, this lack of efficiency can end up costing you a lot more than it should and cause flights to be missed. It’s not clear what the reason is, maybe a combination of apathy, insolence and incompetence among public servants, but it’s clearly evident and something everyone will have to deal with when visiting the region.

Waste Management

The term ‘environmentally friendly’ seems to have skipped this part of the world, or maybe just hasn’t reached it yet. Many highways double as garbage tips and for miles are lined with bottles, wrappers, nappies and anything else that should be in a trash can or recycling bin. Passengers in any vehicle casually drop items out the window, and on city streets no second thought is given to throwing a package on the pavement when there is a bin within reach. For me the root of the problem is at supermarkets where they distribute plastic bags as if they have a surplus and have to get rid of them immediately. One packet of cigarettes does not need a grocery bag, especially when the lady buying said cigarettes has a handbag on her shoulder. I often had difficulty convincing the check-out staff that I did not need a bag for my bottle of water. Then I would walk outside and see them blowing around like tumbleweeds. For a region with such amazing scenery and natural wonders there is little being done to keep it this way, I only hope they can reverse the trend before it all overflows from the cities and highways and into the national parks.

Dogs

I assume at one point in Europe and North America dogs ran free through the streets, malnourished, flea ridden and neglected. Then I assume (no research has been done) they were removed from the streets, either domesticated or eradicated, and now are more or less absent from the public, and most that remain live a happy, cared for existence. From Mexico south, they still roam free. Scavenging, fighting, scratching, dying. All throughout Central America I never saw a dog that wasn’t limping, often so skinny that their ribs were all but bursting through their mangy skin. In Chile – somehow – they are well fed, healthy looking animals that wander the streets serenely or lie in the sun of Santiago without concern, but this is an aberration. For all the rest it is a doomed existence, particularly for the females who are resigned to a life of pregnancy, birth, child rearing and repeat. I never got used to this and found it hard to ignore.

Impatience

It is my understanding that queuing is a particularly British characteristic, and Britain’s influence on much of the world meant queuing became an inherent part of many societies. Great Britain had no hand in Latin American, so queuing and any acts involving a show of patience are often absent. This may seem like quite a generalisation, but I experienced it many times first hand. One of the great contradictions is that while there is usually a lack of urgency, there is also no patience. There’s never a hurry to do something, but once it needs doing, it better be done quickly. I’ve waited in many lines and had people push past as if I was just standing in line at the bank for the scenery, any objection being met with a nonchalant flick of the hand in my general direction.

It’s why drivers are always frantically speeding through traffic and not stopping for pedestrians – because they are late, and they are late because they just spent two hours sitting around doing nothing with no urgency or thought to leave early. A typical conversation follows:

Me: We should go, we need to be there in an hour.

South American: It’s fine, no hurry.

(55 minutes later)

Me: It’s too late we won’t get there.

South American: Its okay, we can leave now.

A terrifying car ride would follow, dodging stray dogs and motorbikes and ignoring red lights as I clung to the dashboard. This happened a number of times in all modes of transport. I watched bus drivers chatting amongst themselves and chain smoking until half an hour after the scheduled departure time, then once on the road they would drive like maniacs, overtaking trucks on winding narrow roads on the edge of a cliff because they were running late. It was exciting at times, but most often just frustrating.

And while I’m on a roll; bread, beggars, pickpockets, shoe shine boys asking for my business even though I’m not wearing shoes, military checkpoints, lack of refrigeration, shower electrocutions and ‘can I drink the water here.’

Just want to make it clear that these are not complaints, but merely a few of the things that I won’t be sad to leave behind. I’d welcome any feedback, particularly from South Americans.

Monday 28 November 2011

San Pedro de Atacama to Urunyi


The day got off to an auspicious start with some typically South American inefficiency which had so far been absent for much of my time in Chile. Finding a passage from San Pedro de Atacama in northern Chile to Uyuni in south-west Bolivia had proved harder than expected, with buses only going twice a week and at extremely inconvinient hours, but with a bit of research I had found a company that would take me directly through the desert, four-wheel-drive, in one day. Perfect. But two hours after the intended departure time we were still in San Pedro at the immigration office with every other bus and truck in northern Chile trying to get through at once. And somehow my driver was still at the back of the line, chatting jovially to his colleagues, in no hurry at all.

The usual route from San Pedro to Uruni went through Calama and Ollague, sticking to the major freeways. I tried finding a route on Google Maps, but after entering the origin and destination, the best Google could give me was a southern detour through Argentina. The direct route, through the desert platuea with barely a town in between on a winding, dirt road was only accessible by 4WD and was far more scenic and a lot more fun.

Chile had been almost flawless so far in terms of punctuality and efficiency, but now, almost at it's border it had shown it's South Americaness as one man behind a window processed every truck-driver, delivery man, tour operator and tourist by himself, and the 8am departure time turned into 10am, a 50-odd kilometer drive to the Bolivian border, where a Land Rover would be waiting to make the journey to Uyuni.

Of all the border crossings I have ever been to - and some stand out - the San Pedro crossing was by far the most amazing. In the middle of a large, flat, gray clearing with only distant mountains and volcanos in sight, there was a small, gray, rectangular building with a Bolivian flag fluttering in the wind and 'Micracion Bolivia' painted onto the side. There were no other man-made structures in site apart from a burnt out, wheel-less bus frame, similar to Alexander Supertramp's in the movie 'Into the Wild'. Nobody could have lived there though. Not possibly. There was not a hint of life or vegetation in sight, immigration had to have been the most isolated building in the world. Inside it a stocky, dark skinned Bolivian man sat at a table, a beanie on his head with 'Bolivia' written in green, yellow and red. He grabbed my passport, opened a page and stamped it without looking at anything inside. So far I liked Bolivia.

A Land Rover arrived soon after for the eight hour, off-road drive through the high altitude platuea, basically a giant desert in the sky. I managed to score a front seat, giving a perfect view of the nothingness that lay ahead and of the crack in the wind-shield being held together by a band-aid. Our driver aimed the vehicle north and sped away. The mountains ahead were always visible but never seemed to get closer. The monotony was broken by sporadic lakes, one white, one blue, one turqoise, one was even a dark pink, orangey colour. Don't ask me how. When I got out to have a closer look the wind almost took me with it. Sand stung my eyes and filled my mouth, I got straight back in the vehicle, these were not conditions for people, even the odd lama we passed seemed to be wondering how it had the misfortune to have ended up there.

After two hours of climbing and dipping and swerving along the dirt track through rough terrain there seemed to be a house in the distance, as we got closer it turned out to be an entire village - Villa Mar. It was wedged inbetween two small mountains. I found no reason for it to exist. You couldn't farm anything out here and there were no mines. Villa Mar was about twenty blocks long by three blocks wide, eached filled with identical, light brown, one-storey houses, but no one seemed to live there. As we rolled through the main street at midday the only movement in town was the mini sand twisters that moved through the streets like residents. The houses didn't look abandoned, people obviously lived there, but the weather was too brutal to stay outside. Despite the cloudless sky and sun shining into the car, the wind was arctic and ferocious and explained the snow that still clung to life throughout the desert.

An hour out of Villa Mar we came to a crossroads. A native family was there, huddled together to protect against the elements in their traditional bright coloured clothing, next to them were baskets full of bananas and tomatoes. I'm not sure many people were stopping to purchase any.

For the next hour the scenery didn't change at all, yet the whole time we were continually going about 80km per hour, then suddenly, a stretch of paved road and another empty, destitute town being smashed by the wind. This was lunch in Santa Maria.

The four tourists from our car were ushered into a house and into a long, plain room where a meal of hot-dogs and mashed potato was being served by a native woman who could have been aged anywhere from 25 to 50. We sat quietly chewing, listening to the howling gale outside and watching chickens get blown about in the courtyard, before our driver re-emerged and took us away on the final leg. As we left the empty streets of Santa Maria a lone, small, black mongrel of a dog was curled up against the wall, it's black coat now a shade of brown.

Two hours passed. The dust storms were the only sign of movement on the landscape other than a rare herd of lamas. The only structure was a mud brick hut that had been inexplicabley placed hours from anywhere, in the middle of this freezing, weather beaten desert. It defined 'middle of nowhere.'

The last town of any note before Uyuni was San Cristobal, which seemed like a thriving metropolis compared to it's neighbours. The most notable difference was that there were people. Older looking people - with leathery, dark skin - sat with their stalls of random goods. Coca-cola, nail clippers, biscuits, bananas, incense, remote controls, toy dolls, gloves, batteries, and a thousand other things I didn't want. Young girls pushed wheelbarrows and dirty boys carried bricks and stones. Child labour or not, at least they were doing something. We were given time to explore the town. It sounded like a party was coming out of a large hall so I went to check it out. It was a large basketball stadium, there were three people in there with a stereo, blasting 'Sacrifice' by Elton John. The music didn't fit the setting, but it's better not to judge things in these types of places.

From then on the road remained flat and straight before we arrived in Uyuni just before dusk. The gateway town to the salt flats, a tourist hot spot with a slew of hostels and tour operators on it's streets. I had been looking for the quickest possible way to get here, but, as often happens, the journey had overshadowed the destination.

Wednesday 23 November 2011

5 Things I Hate About Travelling

I am fully aware that every time I quit my job, pack my bag and buy a one-way plane ticket somewhere it is absolutely, solely, my decision. I am not forced into it and should have no complaints regarding any of the bi-products inherent in this selfish act of fulfillment. But this doesn't mean I can't find them slightly irritating and gripe and moan like a victim every once in a while. There are a few annoyances that stand out, particularly doing the backpacker circuit and having to live consistently in close quarters with other stingy, tired tourists often pretending to be polite to each other. These are five of them.

1 The Master Chef

Eating out can often be very inexpensive. Especially in Asia where there are road side noodle stands, and Latin America with its street meat barbecues. Even in the USA a bit of research can yield economic results while only slightly sacrificing your health, with 'Wing' or 'Taco' nights usually advertised in many cities. You can even eat for free at some places - as long as you're drinking.

What I can't stand is backpackers in hostels who have to show off their culinary skills while thirty other guests wait. With all the ingredients, including seasoning and oil, the total of their personal recipe stir-fry adds up to more than eating at a restaurant would, plus they take over the kitchen for an hour while I wait, patient and hungry, to cook my 2-minute noodles. If your meal involves sauteying or basting, then don't do it at a hostel. Hostel kitchens are for basic rice or pasta dishes, eggs, meat or potatoes at a stretch. Otherwise you're not only spending more money than you should, but you're also missing out on some of the local delights that can be found outside on the street and instead cooking the same meals you have at home. You know who you are.

2 Bongos

Many times I have been sitting in a hostel enjoying my time when a dreadlocked, dashiki wearing hippie comes in with a bongo and tries to start a jam by banging on it. Being able to hit a bongo does not make you a musician. I practiced it for five minutes once and got a fair beat happening, and I have no musical ability whatsoever. Nobody likes a bongo. You know who you are.

3 Australians

I am Australian. I always have been and am happy to remain so, but nothing annoys me more than when I'm trying to soak in a foreign culture and a group of Australians crash in and try to take over. Wearing green and gold and chanting 'aussie aussie aussie' at Oktoberfest or Pamplona is not entertaining or amusing, it is embarrassing. I'm sure it's the same for people of all nations, when your own over-zealous compatriots don't realise they're not impressing anyone by chanting drinking songs and wearing national colours. You know who you are.

4 Multi-lingual Europeans

Ok I'm just jealous on this one, but everytime I meet a European who can speak three or four different languages I feel very embarrassed and a bit pathetic. The worst thing is whenever I feel like I'm getting some sort of a grasp of Spanish, I'll meet someone from Germany who speaks German, English (better than me) and French, and says they are just starting to learn Spanish, before going into a fully fluent conversation with a South American whilst apologising for it not being perfect, and making me realise that knowing 'si' 'no' and 'mucho gusto' does not make me a linguist.

5 The Temporary Friends

And finally, for every fifty annoying bongo-playing hippies, show-off chefs or obnoxious patriotic wanker I meet, there is one special person that stands out above all others. A shining beacon that you somehow managed to meet through fate or consequence or luck, one that you want to know forever and who feels like the missing peice in the puzzle of your life, but unfortunately, due to geography and circumstance you'll likely never see again. The temporary friends are worse than any of the above, and sometimes make you wish you had never met them because now you'll always know what you're missing out on. Goodbyes are always hard, but they're worse when they come too soon. The odd message here or there will never compensate for what could have been. But in the end, it was all still worth it.

Dr Suess put it nicely, 'don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.'

I think you know who you are.

Tuesday 22 November 2011

The Beautiful Game?

I'd never been run down by police horses before. I've been drunk out of my mind in rowdy crowds outside racing carnivals and music festivals and wandered past the odd protest rally but never had a problem beyond some burly, overzealous security guards wanting to assert a little authority to make themselves feel tough.

Upon arriving at my first Colombian football match, however, I finally heard the terrifying clip-clop of the cavalry moving in behind me and had to scurry away among the mob of fans for fear of being trampled. And these weren't the malnourished donkeys you see pulling carts around town, these were stallions. Eight-foot tall, armoured with futuristic looking police officers steering them in the crowd. This was only trying to get into the stadium. I could imagine what was going on inside, but first I had to get in. Having an official, previously purchased match day ticket didn't necessarily mean immediate entry into a Colombian football match.

Passing rows of fully equipped and padded riot police on full alert on the way to Campin Stadium gives you the impression this isn't your ordinary sporting event. I was lucky enough to be in Bogota for the local derby between Santa Fe and Millonarios. One half of the stadium would be blue, the other red. I wore green, and was told to buy a neutral ticket. If I sat in either club's main supporters’ stands I would be targeted for not being a true supporter because I wouldn't know any of the chants to sing along to. Having an extremely limited grasp of Spanish meant I wouldn't be able to learn them quickly. But first I had to get in.
After the horses dispersed there was a solid crush of people trying to get into one single gate, made even slower because of the number of supporters without tickets who were trying to fight their way in past the security guards. I felt a couple of hands go into my pockets during the wait and was thankful for being warned not to bring any valuables like cameras or extra money. I had my ticket in one hand and a few pesos in the other, and whoever's hand it was in my pocket would have to move on.

Once inside the stadium - at about the twenty minute mark of the first half - the atmosphere was electric. The flood lights lit up both sides of the crowd that were a constant ocean of waving flags, giant banners and passionate chanting. It far outweighed the entertainment on the pitch, which was a drab affair played at a slow pace with a lack of flair or creativity.

It wasn’t always this way. Colombian football was a powerhouse in the early 1990s. Thanks in part to the drug money of Pablo Escobar and other crime figures of the time they attracted world class players and coaches and competed with – and defeated – some of the giants of South American football. Unfortunately, looking at the current game, those days are long gone.

The cheerleaders were far more interesting. Not for their talent, but instead their complete apathy. About forty were lined up on either side of the half way mark. Half in blue and white for Millonarios; half in red and white for Santa Fe. The Millonarios girls sat chatting to each other in small groups, a couple stood up and tried a hand stand or a cart wheel or a dance move. It was void of any choreography or competence, more like some high school girls passing time in detention. At half time the music started and they all stood up, but only some danced. Some just stood there, one yawned. Soon the players ran back out and the cheerleaders sat back down to wait for the final whistle so they could go home.

Late in the game there was some brief excitement when the Santa Fe goalkeeper made a clumsy challenge and gave away a penalty. This would be a huge upset if the lowly ranked Millonarios defeated the top placed Santa Fe. Half the stadium would go mental, a Santa Fe fan would potentially storm onto the field to attack the referee for giving the penalty before being set upon by the riot police who were now circling the game, shields up and batons gripped and ready. But the penalty missed, and the game fizzed out to a 0-0 draw.
In the end it was what football is in most places around the world. A huge build-up; passionate and energetic crowd; electric atmosphere; and ultimately a cautious, lackluster spectacle leading to further unrest in the stands.

Somehow I had found my way into a Millonarios fan dominated section of the stadium when it was time to leave. To avoid any violence, we were locked in for half an hour while the Santa Fe fans left the arena. This didn't do anything to help the frustration of those locked inside, but further unrest was narrowly avoided when a very nervous looking gate attendant finally got the go-ahead and opened the doors, the crowd being released passed the waiting police force and out into the night.

Voluntarily Stupid


I had to re-evaluate my decision to volunteer in the Venezuelan jungle as I dragged half a tree through deep swamp, the bark scratching against my sweaty, dirty, shirtless skin and providing a bridge for some of the region's more rare and interesting insects to cross onto my body and interact with the mosquitos already there, unable to be swatted away due to the weight of the wood I was painstakingly trying to keep up. All this for firewood.

And once we had enough of said firewood - presumably a years supply - we had to find the boat. The native Warau Indians were meant to be experts in tracking and navigation in the Orinoco Delta - the vast river delta system on the north-east corner of Venezuela - but today I had Caripe - the village idiot - as my guide.

I'd been volunteering at the Orinoco Eco Lodge for about a month. Most days were filled with leisurly tasks such as laundry, preparing food and collecting incoming tourists from the nearest town. Today felt like a futuristic do-or-die reality show, thrown into the wilderness with only a scattered, lazy, air-head of a native to lead me home. We had no drinking water either. Caripe was drinking handfuls of river water which I had been strongly advised against, and all the vines hanging from the trees containing water had been cut down already. Possibly by the last expedition. I didn't know if they'd survived.

It was a feat in itself that Caripe had managed to find the clearing in the first place, where we had to saw and gather the wood from one of the only solid areas of the local wetland region so it could be returned to the lodge to cook the food. It was a simple enough task: fill the boat with fire wood and return to the camp by lunch. But after amassing an impressive pile we had to find our way back to the boat, which turned out to be a challenge. Despite having no means of verbal communication I could tell by his expression that Caripe hadn't paid much attention as he bashed his way to the clearing through the thick, verdant, wet jungle, crossing two tributaries and breaking numerous spider webs. Turning around it all looked the same. Trees and ferns grew on top of each other. Logs lay upon broken branches in the mud underfoot and exotic insects flew in every direction among the rays of sunlight that broke through the tree-tops.

I had heard of an Warao elder who had been lost there for three days before finding his way out. This was not on my 'to do' list, but with Caripe to guide me aimlessly through the mosaic of flora it could have become a reality, especially if I didn't keep up with him.


He shot ahead at break-neck speed, as if it would be more fun if he turned our expedition into a hunt.

'SLOW DOWN YOU BASTARD!' fell on deaf ears as he raced away, disappearing into the jungle. I had left the boat wearing only boots and shorts thinking it would be a leisurely stroll before cruising back to the lodge for lunch. Now it was three hours later in the heat of the day. I was sunburnt, hungry, bitten half to death and thirsty and was involved in the chase of my life.

Muttering expletives to myself it was becomming abundantly clear how lost we were. Every few moments I would catch up with Caripe, who would look dumbfounded but hid any concern with a nervous smile, before breaking away in a different direction. This was extreme jungle walking. Not the guided group tour that takes you along a familiar, beaten path. Twice I had to jump into a river to relieve myself from the mosquitos. And I didn't want to think how close I was getting to disturbing any of the native snakes or anacondas as I trudged through the serpentene paradise in heavy boots. And I REALLY didn't want to think about the anacondas that were common to this region and had been known to be responsible for the disappearance of buffalo at a bordering farm.

With all this racing through my mind and defence plans being considered I almost missed Caripe hiding behind a tree, a wide smile, sitting at the stern of the green boat (don't know why they camoflauged it) right where we had left it hours before. Suddenly he became my hero. I hugged and kissed him, then spat and wiped my mouth because he was filthy, and we made our way back to the camp, to fresh drinking water and a meal.

It was chicken soup, mine had the foot in it. The whole day was a write off, but this was volunteering. It was my choice to be here, I reassured myself as Caripe reached for my chicken foot and started to gnaw on it.