What is Spanish for 'Fuck off, I don't trust you?'

It’s a very negative, cynical sort of statement to make, kind of what my mother would tell me before I venture away to another questionable destination. But it is my advice to anyone on their way to South America – don’t trust anyone. Or to be more specific and little less threatening – don’t trust anyone while you have your belongings on you. If you’re not carrying anything important or valuable then go ahead; meet people, practice your Spanish, make new friends. Overall they are great, amiable people who love meeting foreigners and are proud of their countries and are happy to have you there. Unfortunately, however, there are also cunning, creative thieves who see backpackers as easy targets.

While there I met numerous people who had been victims due to lack of care or naivety; situations that could have been avoided by taking simple measures like keeping a backpack on your lap while travelling or keeping your wallet locked up in your room. The only reason you should ever be carrying valuables is if you’re travelling between destinations. You don’t need to keep your passport with you. (Venezuela, of course, is a different story.)

It’s very unfortunate because there were so many highlights, but here are some examples of what can happen.

I was in a market and went to reach into my backpack but somebody had cut a hole in the bottom and taken my things out. Camera, wallet, cash. So annoying.

Cute Dutch girl, Medellin, Colombia

We were riding bicycles outside of Quito (Ecuador) and a car drove up to us. Men got out with guns and made us give them our bags. Our passports and credit cards were in there.

Two Swedish guys, Quito, Ecuador

I arrived at the front door of the hostel in Lima. I put my daypack down to take my backpack off, then turned to pick it up and it was gone. It was, like, two seconds I took my eyes off it. I lost everything. My passport, money, credit cards, id.

Laurette the Irish girl, Lima, Peru

He was really nice and I wanted to practice my Spanish so I sat down on a park bench in the town square to talk. He got up and left after a few minutes, then I noticed he had taken my camera out of my pocket…I was pretty drunk so I didn’t notice when he did it.

Also Laurette the (silly) Irish girl, Santiago, Chile

My handbag was stolen so my mum transferred a whole lot of cash to me. After I picked it up I went to the beach, and while I was swimming in the water someone went through my things and took the cash.

Why did you take it to the beach?

To keep it safe.

Stupid English girl, Mancora, Peru

The bus arrived at 6 o’clock this morning, while I was waiting for a taxi two guys sprayed me with mace and took all my things, I still can’t see properly…do you have any money you could give me?

Danish bloke, Mendoza, Argentina

I passed out on the beach, but before I did I put my camera in my pocket and tied it to the string. Someone went into my shorts’ pocket while I was asleep and cut the cord and took the camera.

My mate Crouchy, Rio, Brazil

I fell asleep on the bus and they took my bag. Laptop, memory cards, and the new camera I just bought.

My mate Crouchy again, bus to Salvador, Brazil

Oh fuck, someone’s been into my bag! They took my laptop! Oh shit! There was two years’ worth of photos on there. Did anyone see anything? Did anyone see who took it?

English guy sitting next to me on the bus to Medellin, Colombia (he was a bit of a dick anyway so I didn’t feel too bad for him).

My taxi driver took me down an alley way and some guys with machetes were waiting for me. Took everything I had with me except my pants.

English bloke, Guayaquil, Ecuador

I was walking back from the club pretty late last night and a guy pulled a knife on me. He took my hat and the cash I had left. Then further on another guy pulled a knife on me. I had no cash left so he took my shoes, my shirt and my belt. I only came home with my pants!

Carne the South African who was an absolute dick so everyone was happy this happened, Medellin, Colombia

I passed out at the favela party, now there’s no cash left in my pocket.

Brennan the American, Rio, Brazil. (kind of deserved that one).

My bag was on the floor between my legs like always. It was only a four hour daytime bus ride so I wouldn’t be sleeping. A nice old man tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at the floor which was all wet around my bag. My laptop was in the bag so I picked it up and put it on my lap, but that made my lap wet and the water kind of smelled, so I put the bag in the overhead compartment and figured I’d be able to keep an eye on it. When the bus pulled in to a stop people filled the aisle to get out. The same nice old man started tapping my foot so I looked down. He was saying ‘boletta, boletta’ (ticket) and his ticket was under my foot. I lifted my foot so he could pick up the ticket, then he started patting my shoulder, saying ‘gracias amigo, gracias,’ before getting off the bus. I thought, ‘what a nice old man,’ then thought, ‘that was strange.’ I stood up to check on my bag and it was gone. I raced off the bus but there was a crowd of people and it was long gone. Laptop, two passports, two credit cards, cash, all id. The creative bastards had poured water on the floor so I would pick my bag up, then got the old man to distract me.

Me. Bus to Lima, Peru.

None of these were life-threatening or violent, they were just petty, irritating crimes that cost people time and money. I had to spend two weeks in Lima then had to race north to Colombia to catch a flight and didn’t have time for anything in between.

Of course not everybody had problems, and plenty will probably say this is all unnecessary paranoia and you have to be stupid to have anything stolen. The guy I travelled with never knew where his passport was, at one point he lost it for five days, but he always ended up with it. There were times when I was extremely careful and watchful, and other times when I was stupid and negligent and nothing happened at all. A lot comes down to luck, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen.  Anyone would rather spend their time at the beach or in the mountains than at the embassy or waiting at a Western Union office. 

Rio De Janeiro

If Rio De Janeiro had been designed by someone from start to finish, from drawing an outline of the bay and the beaches to filling it with buildings and infrastructure, you’d call the architect a nutter. It’s like a set out of a Star Wars movie, not practical by Earth’s standards. The numerous mountains sprout up too close to the coast, but they wedged a city in there anyway. Tunnels have been dug through the rocky behemoths that scatter the landscape and housing crawls up the sides with inconveniently dazzling views over the Atlantic Ocean. It would be a difficult city to traverse if it was empty, a population of over six million makes it a nightmare.

Even the name, Rio De Janeiro, isn’t right. It means January River, but the city is built around a bay, not a river. Nothing seems to have been planned correctly. The Portuguese who first settled and established a colony only did so because there was already a French settlement getting a little too comfortable for Portugal’s liking. The French got the boot, the Portuguese stayed and eventually became Brazil. So the city was founded out of spite. Nothing is typical here, but it all works. Everything that has happened in the past has resulted in the most spectacular, vibrant and bewildering city on earth.

Visiting as a tourist it’s hard to imagine you are here on a normal day, as locals go about their lives as usual. Residents jog along Copacabana Beach with physiques out of a fitness magazine, playing soccer or beach volleyball then spending the whole night drinking the limey goodness of caipirinhas. There’s a perpetual party in Rio. I’m here in July, it’s winter, there’s no notable events on but the city seems like it’s preparing for New Year’s Eve. The Lapa Street Party happens every weekend, all year round no matter what, when the entire district turns into one bouncing, Samba-dancing, pulsating entity. The thought of Rio at its peak during Carnaval boggles the mind.

Brazil’s migration history includes the Portuguese, African slaves, German migrants, the world’s biggest Japanese population outside of Japan, millions of Italians and of course the native Amerindians who linger despite centuries of being pushed aside. All of these marinate in Rio, an exhibition of races that make it hard to spot a tourist. There isn’t really a definitive Rio look…other than being fit. Perhaps the way to spot a tourist is to look for someone pale or overweight. It’d be hard to find a healthier looking population anywhere in the world. Men look like male gymnasts running along the beaches, stopping to do pull-ups and push-ups at the numerous workout stations. Women flaunt their big, round arses and flat stomachs, tanning on the sand under the year-round sun. Surfers are out even when there is no surf, and children always seem to be running. Maybe with a stolen wallet in their hand; maybe just after a football, but always somewhere. Every beach volleyball space, football field and basketball court is always occupied. Catching a 4 am bus home from the Lapa street party I saw the floodlights were still on with games still in progress, players had been waiting all day for their turn. Hopping off the bus I can still find a late night coxinha (ball of fried street food) or Brahma Beer at any number of cafes or restaurants that refuse to close. Time is as irrelevant in Rio as it is anywhere.

Visible from the wealth of the beachside penthouses are the favelas; the shanty towns for the lower classes that climb up the surrounding mountains like they’re peeping over their rich neighbour’s fence. The favelas are a world in themselves. Police aren’t allowed in; they are instead policed by the drug gangs, and because there are no police they claim there is no crime.

Naturally there are tours. In recent years the rise of tourists to Rio has resulted in busloads of nosey tourists being allowed into the favelas under the supervision of tour guides. Photos are only allowed in specific places and the tour conveniently swings by a number of souvenir stalls, bars and restaurants. I notice that our tour guide, Felipe, is the first fat person I’ve seen in Rio. And he’s not fat in that sad, offensive, obese sort of way. He’s jolly fat, full of charisma and jokes and information about the history of his city and the favelas.

Our van climbs the snaking, narrow streets past mounds of rubbish, listless construction workers and dogs and children running among the traffic before it drops us at a lookout of the congestion below. High-rise buildings nestled between the trees spread out to the edge of the blue ocean, numerous mountain peaks conspicuous in every direction.

From here we’re on foot, which is the only way to enter the concrete warrens that navigate the favela neighbourhoods. Along with no police there also seems to be no building regulations. Houses are concrete boxes with flat roofs which allow more concrete boxes to be built on top whenever there is a need to go higher. It’s kind of like real estate Jenga. Any marginally open space is filled with children’s play equipment, but there isn’t much open space. Doors and windows are left open giving a homely sense of cramped, friendly community not found in the high fenced security of the wealthier suburbs. Peering into the households, big screen televisions are on display playing whatever can be picked up by the satellites on every roof. Being poor has never looked so comfortable. I don’t imagine the shanty towns in Africa and India have cable television.

In the middle of the compressed neighbourhood we visit a primary school. The several classrooms are empty for lunch time, with all the students a level below in a small enclosed courtyard playing a violent game of dodgeball. There are more than 20 children, none older than about ten-years-old, and the courtyard is about a quarter the size of a tennis court. The ball is flung hard from each side, hitting faces and heads and rebounding off walls in all directions. The kids mostly laugh when struck; one cries, but gets over it quickly. In Australia, parents would have the game banned for promoting violence and encouraging bullying and competition and the risk of injury. In Rio, children trying to hurt each other is entertainment for the tourists, who are then ushered to another room to buy favela artwork made by the school.

We are invited to a favela party the following night. In typical South American scheduling it starts at midnight and is held in a huge warehouse on the outskirts of the favela. It’s a quiet start, but soon every local youth is there dancing in front of a wall of speakers that produce the loudest noise I’ve ever heard. The up-tempo, repetitive music dominates the neighbourhood. I can feel the rum and lime of the Caipirinha vibrating in my chest as I swallow it. Conversation is impossible. But nobody is here to talk, they are here to dance, or whatever it is Brazilian youth calls dancing. Girls place their hands on the floor, and their rotund bums stick high in the air. Males latch on from behind and thrust vehemently to the deafening music that is so loud it has become a muffled mess of noise. This carries on for hours. With so many people and many dark corners I’m positive something must have been conceived during the night.

On my last morning I realise there’s something I’ve missed. Something that’s been looking over me the whole time but I’ve kept putting off. Christ the Redeemer stands above the city, arms stretched and looking out toward the ocean and over tight sprawl below. 40 metres tall, 30 metres wide and at the top of a 700 metre high mountain the gargantuan statue has been visible since I stepped off the bus and has followed me everywhere since, helicopters buzzing around its head like flies. One of the wonders of the world it is Rio’s glorious centrepiece, a world-famous attraction and first on any visitors list. A tad naïve, I’ve left it until the last morning to go there, and then relied on a public bus to fight through traffic to get there quickly. I do get there, to the base of the mountain. It will take over an hour to get to the statue’s base because of a long line and the slow cable-car. Now that I’m closest to it I can no longer see it and have to leave. In a whole week Rio has provided me with enough distractions that I end up missing the main attraction. I’m not bothered.

As I run to catch my bus to leave Rio, thongs dragging on the ground, backpack bouncing over my shoulder and heart racing I start to hope that I’ll miss it so I could spend one more night in the marvellous city. I’m fifteen minutes late and probably shouldn’t even be attempting to catch it. But sure enough the bus is there, sitting in its bay and waiting. The driver sits on a nearby bench smoking a cigarette, time just as irrelevant to him as to anyone else. 

Cancun is a Whore

Cancun is disgusting. It is America’s prostitute. Its high rise hotels and nightclubs is a smearing of make-up on a once naturally beautiful face. Americans fly in: they throw money at it; use it; and leave, giving it just enough time to reapply some lipstick and spread its legs for the next wave of cashed-up tourists. The pristine beaches, with painfully perfect turquoise water, are decorated with Corona and Rock Star Energy Drink tents, and obedient Mexicans scurrying back and forth to serve fat, tanning businessmen and their spoilt brat children. Four Coronas will cost you four dollars and a dollar tip, the beach lounge is free. Loud speakers blast Top 40 pop while the frigate birds circle overhead wondering what the fuck has happened. Mayan ruins and cenotes are easily accessible but most visitors would never know, opting instead for the raucous nightlife and beach parties and booze cruises. Spring Break is when it steps up a gear and absorbs thousands of college students on their mid-semester break; most are under 21-years-old and heading south to Cancun more for the legal alcohol opportunities than the foreign experience. Touts accost patrons along Cancun Boulevard with offers of free drinking and appearances by T-Pain or Snoop Dogg at any of the dozens of tacky local clubs, where they will be told to ‘wave their hands in the air like they just don’t care.’ People fly in to Cancun, spend seven days at the beach or hotel pool overlooking the beach and seven nights at the clubs then fly home, saying they’ve been to Mexico and ‘it was great.’

As recently as the 1970s Cancun was still a coconut plantation with only three residents. Seeing the potential, the Mexican government financed a number of hotels to go up along the shoreline. Now, nearly 40 years later its population pushes towards one million and it has become a hotbed of excess, with drug-pushing taxi drivers and scamming ex-pats trying to cash in on the influx of naïve, wide-eyed teens on a binge. And now it isn’t only Americans visiting, but horny youths are flying in from all over the world partly due to the success of videos such as Girls Gone Wild and MTV pool parties, all hoping to get involved in a wet t-shirt contest or in the background of a rap video.

Cancun has been denied of any dignity and charm and put kitsch and depravity in its place. Two hours south along the Yucatan Peninsula is the chic and relaxing beachside town of Playa del Carmen. An hour further is the archaeological site of Tulum, famous for its Mayan walled city and verdant, natural beaches where Mayan ruins rest on cliff-tops overlooking the sparkling ocean. Instead of ruins and colonial architecture Cancun has all-you-can-drink bars and prostitutes.

It is disgusting and it is wonderful. Cancun has the potential to be every man’s ultimate fantasy and every woman’s free pass to debauchery. Cancun doesn’t judge nor discriminate. If you’re there, you get in. It doesn’t matter how expensive your shoes are or even if you’re wearing any. You don’t have to pretend to be interested in culture or history, or say things like ‘the Mayans really were ahead of their time.’ Instead you can concern yourself with perving on unchaste women and drinking margaritas. It’s where a middle-class, spotty college student can live like he’s in a rap video, spending money like a tycoon without the risk of going bankrupt. Teen-age girls can grow up dreaming of being the centre of attention to a mob of howling louts in a wet t-shirt contest. In Cancun it becomes a reality. On any night there is a plethora of venues encouraging young women to strip their shirts off on stage and get sprayed with water, alcohol and abuse. And they do it. Cancun is a free pass, an immoral playground removed from the consequences of daily life back home, where ones actions will become anonymous once they pack up and board the direct flight back home. It is freedom, excitement, alcohol, adventure and debauchery all wrapped up like a full, dripping taco.

Despite everything Mexico has to offer, Cancun has cornered market for the much sought after dollars of binging students and prowling deviants. While much of the country doesn’t see the income Cancun enjoys, it also doesn’t have to endure the indignity of a trampled soul that’s been whored out to the wealthy neighbours. An indignity that Cancun, and all of its visitors, is perfectly content with.

Cockfighting

Head nestled into the chest of the man holding him, he looks comfortable. As if it’s a daily occurrence. Today his twitchy eyes notice there are more people watching as his leg is attended to, but he’s still relaxed. Maybe it’s some basic medical attention or grooming. He’s probably unaware there’s a razor-sharp blade being tied to his ankle so he can be thrown before a baying crowd in a bloody fight to the death. He’s just relaxed. He got up at 3 am to crow and wake up the neighbourhood then strut around like a hero. Just another normal day. Now he’s ten minutes from a brutal death or a gory triumph. He is a cock in the Philippines. And the Philippines loves its cockfighting.

The world’s come a long way in the past millennium that began with gladiatorial fights for survival staged purely for the viewing pleasure of the public. As human rights began to sprout its whiny face we progressed to animal combat to quench our thirst for visual blood and suffering. Dogs, as man’s best friend, were readily available and easily agitated to become the logical next step, and then bears were unfortunate enough to draw nature’s short-straw and the sickening recreation of bear-baiting was a prime time hit for the upper classes well into nineteenth-century England. As societies have advanced and animal rights have joined the social consciousness these sports have diminished, but cockfighting – the world’s oldest spectator sport dating back 6,000 years in Persia - has remained an ever-present. In the Philippines, where it’s the national sport it occurs year round, derives enormous income and receives national television coverage. For Greenpeace to march in and try to ban it would be like trying to disarm America. No matter what everyone else thinks and all the negative connotations associated with the practice, it’s not easy to change something so engrained into a nation’s past and culture.

Sitting under a tin roof in the tropics, a soft breeze is the only relief from the stifling humidity. There’s a strange smell in the air; a mixture of cigarettes, blood, stale beer, sweat and chicken shit. Previous losers hang dead from the surrounding fences like warning signs for those to follow. The punters loiter around the outskirts between fights wearing knock-off American brand t-shirts, sharing cigarettes and watching the next competitors being dressed for their slaughter.  Tape is wound around the foot and a three-inch deadly metal talon is fixed into place and covered with a sheath. This is death row. A winning fighter will have any injuries stitched up by a ringside doctor and will fight again another day. This will repeat until he ultimately loses. The loser is tonight’s dinner. The only chance at survival is to win with an irreparable injury and be put out to stud amongst the hens. This is hard to pull off, especially for a chicken.

The crowd moves into the viewing gallery as the fight time nears and a nervous excitement sweeps over me. I’m no vegetarian, even calling myself an animal-lover would be a stretch, but I’m a fan of animals. I enjoy their company and am strongly opposed to killing them for sport or pleasure. Those who do so are making up for some other personal deficiencies, and I think people who get some sick, psychotic thrill out of torturing animals deserve the same treatment as our worst terrorists and rapists. I do eat animals daily, though, and have never considered doing otherwise. As the fighters are carried into the ring – or octagon – and are paraded in front of the audience I try to justify my being there.

Most of the chickens I’ve ever eaten in my life were likely raised in cages, beak to beak with other chickens and fed cheap grain before being mass slaughtered and packaged. In contrast these fighters are free range, raised on farms or in villages and allowed a comfortable existence until their terrifying demise. It’s still probably better than being raised for KFC. These ones are going to be killed and eaten anyway - I tell myself - so why not derive some income first in a country where thousands of girls turn to the sex trade and thousands more have nowhere to turn at all. The winner’s owner takes a cut of the total revenue, the bookies take their share, the announcers and ticketing staff are paid, and because every fighter has odds of 2:1 the winning gamblers take as much as the house. Plus there’s the recreational value of bringing communities together and keeping them entertained. With all these positives it’s still hard not to feel like a massive hypocrite.

With the start of the fight nearing, the fighters are held in their respective corners and the crowd goes into a frenzy. One corner is named Wala, the other Meron, and that’s all people shout for the next chaotic minute as arms wave in the air calling out their pick and the bookies somehow keep track. I put 200 pesos (about $5) on Wala, mainly because it’s closer to me than the other one and its blade looks particularly deadly close up. The announcer makes a speech, the crowd hushes and the cocks are dropped on the floor in front of each other.

Chickens have done rather well as a species considering their physical shortcomings and inability to defend themselves from predators. If they weren’t domesticated they never would have survived as flightless ground-dwellers, but by accepting the protection of people they have also put themselves at man’s mercy. And this is the result. It’s a fairly tame start. The combatants ignore each other, stepping about and pecking at the floor like they had been doing outside earlier. Roosters are natural fighters, usually a hormone-driven ritual showdown that will leave them injured but alive. Being thrown into a confined space, provoked and heavily armed in an intimidating atmosphere isn’t natural, it’s artificial and contrived. After a minute with no action they are picked up again, aggressively thrust at each other a couple of times and dropped together again. This lights the fuse. Wings flap and feet slash down on each other. With money on the line I can’t help but feel some blood driven sentimentality and I find myself on my feet, demanding death with the rest of the patrons. After a brief but frenetic moment of fury, amidst a cloud of feathers the opponent drops flat and lays dead. My Wala has won. A swift strike of the blade has pierced Meron’s neck and he is now dead on the floor. The victor carries on with his strutting and pecking. Half the crowd cheers and I’m handed my 200 pesos worth of winnings. The victor is carried off for any required medical attention and the loser is carried away by the feet, a trail of blood dripping on the floor.

This fight lasted about thirty seconds. A number of fights follow throughout the day, some are over quickly, some last for minutes but seem like an eternity. A gory, brutal marathon where neither cock wants to die but one ultimately does. In bullfighting – another questionable and archaic blood ‘sport’ – the bull will always die whether he wins or loses. It’s not a sport but organised murder entertainment. It’s hard to classify cockfighting as a sport, but at least it’s a fair fight.

  

Nearing the end of the day, before the final fight when the crowd is at its peak a crippled lady is carried into the cockpit and sat down on a chair. She looks no older than 20. Unable to walk, her legs dangle off her body, a lifeless hindrance. She crosses her arms on her lap and her sunken, bony face stares into space while the announcer speaks into the microphone about her. I don’t know what he says but within seconds a hail of money is being thrown into the ring. Notes are rolled into balls and sail in alongside coins of all sizes. It continues until the floor is littered with cash, then every piece is collected into a shopping bag and handed to the lady. She is then given a piggy-back ride off the stage. Her expression never changes. It’s hard to imagine another setting that would induce such a benevolent response. The Philippines doesn’t have a fantastic disability welfare program that she can rely on. This cockfight is a blessing for her.

The final fight is a gruesome anti-climax of a quick kill and the day’s events are over. The bookies collect their tips and given my success throughout the day I give mine a generous amount and ask him what he’ll be doing with the earnings, expecting a celebration to be part of the answer. He says he’ll give it to his wife to buy food for his two young children before he rides his motorbike-taxi until midnight. I ask him how old he is and he tells me he’s 19. Working at the cockfights as a bookie twice a week is half his weekly income. As I exit the arena there are dead roosters hanging from the fence, blades removed and a pool of dried blood on the ground below. Some of them are being dropped into grocery bags to be taken home and cooked. I’m still not sure what to think. 

Baby on a Plane

The most irritating thing in the world might just be a crying baby on an aeroplane. There’s nothing at all you can do. You just have to sit and bear it. You can’t leave the room or hop off. Never in your life will you be so absolutely powerless. The drone of the engine drowns out the aimless chitter-chatter of the passengers but it is powerless against the high-pitched screams of an uncomfortable infant. As much as you want to scream back, or yell at the parent, you can’t. If you do say anything you are now the culprit: the heartless thug who yelled at a baby. Forget the fact you paid one thousand dollars to sit in an uncomfortable chair for eight hours staring at the back of another uncomfortable chair, you are now going to be audibly invaded with no control or say in the matter while the parent sits patiently waiting for the outburst to finish. They feel bad for their little angel, but don’t actually do anything to remedy the situation. And it’s not the baby’s fault. It’s just a baby. It doesn’t know where the fuck it is or why its ears feel funny. The parent, however, knows perfectly well that her very young offspring is prone to glass-shattering outbursts and knew it was more than likely that at high altitude in a confined space it would probably be worse than usual. But this doesn’t concern them. They don’t consider the other hundred people being inconvenienced and go on their holiday anyway, a holiday the child won’t ever remember and may as well have been spent splashing about in a blow-up pool in the backyard at home.

A crying baby is the one thing you can’t call a stewardess for. If your meals wrong, if you don’t know how to fill out your arrival card or if you want an extra pillow you just press a button and they’ll do anything within the realm of possibility to make the flight more bearable and comfortable for you. But ask them to put a muzzle on a crying infant or tell the parent to shut it up and they are as helpless as the rest of us. For all the rudeness, arrogance and disrespect they encounter every flight from passengers, with a manufactured smile and award-worthy tolerance, there is no procedure manual for a crying baby and its languid parent. The best they can offer is a gentle stroke of the head and a compassionate ‘aw, it’ll be okay, darling,’ before pushing the trolley away down the aisle.

A great anomaly of this Earth we all inhabit is that humans have dominated all species despite being so completely and utterly useless for the first few years of our life. Foals walk out of the womb. Reptiles and birds have to peck a hole in a shell and climb out. A human baby has to be carried everywhere, have food delivered directly to their mouth and be cleaned after defecating to prevent them lying permanently in their own shit. They shouldn’t be in an aeroplane.

As I write this another one has started up. A long, slobbery moan broken up by intermittent screeches that startle all around it. Catching a glimpse it isn’t even a baby. This kid could be two or three-years-old and the mother is next to him, reading a book and ignoring him, deciding that a crowded international flight is the best place to apply this new tough-love parenting technique. It’s clearly not working as he starts to increase the volume and kick the seat in front of him at the expense of the lady sitting in it. But you can’t expect much from a woman stupid and naïve enough to take her child of this age on a flight of this length. 

Venezuela Is Crap

I recently had the misfortune of visiting Venezuela and due to a disastrous error of judgment I ended up staying for four months.

On the surface, Venezuela can look like a holiday dreamland. Nowhere else can boast Caribbean islands; lush, untouched jungle; vast, wildlife-rich national parks; a mountain adventure sports capital and a modern city full of first rate accommodation and pulsating nightlife in a tepid land smaller than 33 other nations on earth. It sounds promising.

Spend enough time in Venezuela away from the resorts and organized tours and you will discover it is a nation inhabited by idiots and led by a madman who shuts off the capital city's water supply on weekends and takes over every free-to-air television channel each night to jabber on about how well he is progressing his homeland into the future. The same man who then flew to Cuba when in need of surgery.

While, as a nation, Venezuela does manage to operate at a sufficient standard to allow most of its citizens to live and breathe and dance their nights away listening to mind-numbing Reggaeton, there are countless policies and trends that are baffling to any visitors, and would have those from even the most backward third world countries scratching their heads, a trifle confused.

Receiving four twelve-and-a-half cent coins as change is the first abnormality, then as you get to meet the locals a whole new world of lunacy becomes prevalent. Individually, Venezuelans appear to be switched on as functioning human beings. Many go to university, they can all speak a language I have no idea about, and the capital city, Caracas, has many large buildings and shopping malls erected which must have required some level of competence and cohesion to construct. Collectively, however, they seem to have fallen into a brain drain behind El Presidente Chavez and accepted that his way is the right way, and there are no alternatives worth pursuing.

Even Chavez’s critics have accepted him as a permanent presence, blaming his continual election victories on factious and incompetent opposition and the majority of rural "Chavistas" who support him, leaving the country with no alternative. And it is the actions of his government–that shuts off electricity at universities each Friday-that filters down to its citizens and corporations to implement inane rules and regulations and acts of sheer stupidity by themselves.

Try to board an overnight ferry to Isla Margarita and you’ll wait for two hours with 2,000 other passengers while one man checks tickets and conducts random and regular bag searches.

Try to catch a bus at the designated time and you’ll likely be told by the ticket booth attendant that the bus, which is scheduled clearly at 2:30pm on the large poster next to the ticket booth in the ticket office at the bus station, does not exist, and you’ll have to wait until 5:00pm, tomorrow. No explanation, no excuse or apology. Just total indifference.

After a while it becomes the most appealing part of the country, waiting to see what confusingly inept acts Venezuela can dish up each day becomes more entertaining than the jungle retreats or tropical beaches.

Boarding a bus to a softball match which drops you off at the back of the line you were just standing in would be alarming in most places. In Venezuela, it's the norm.

Having an item bagged at a supermarket before checkout, then having the plastic bag ripped open at the register and replaced with an identical plastic bag should be a concern in a country with a visibly serious waste management problem, but, in Venezuela, nothing surprises you after a while.

It should be a surprise that on a continent teeming with backpackers and tourists, the Venezuelan government fixes the exchange rate at banks at less than half of what is offered on the black market, keeping would be visitors away. And usually it would be a concern that the few tourists who do visit are subject to frequent military searches and thrown in jail if caught without a passport on them, but the Venezuela government seems to want to remain isolated and self-sufficient, perhaps to shield its citizens from the efficiency of the world around them.

So, to make yourself really appreciate where you come from, and if you want to feel justified that you are an intelligent, properly functioning member of a coherent, progressive society, visit Venezuela. Look past the natural wonders and be astounded and entertained by a nation of backward thinking philistines so rare in today's modern world, and remember to check your brain in at the border.

WARNING: BRING CASH

If you decide to visit Venezuela (see my article, Roraima National Park) be sure to carry enough USD with you to last your entire stay. If you try to use your ATM card at a bank, you will only receive about 3:1 for Bolivars to USD, making Venezuela on par with Monaco for affordability. At a land border crossing, 4:1 is normal, but on the black market in cities you'll be able to get 7:1 or even up to 9:1. So plan ahead.

In Search of Toronto

Toronto doesn’t seem to know what it is, or precisely, ‘who’ it is. It’s a Canadian city, Canada’s biggest city, geographically lying below America’s northern states, knocking at the door to come in out of the cold. It’s a part of the Commonwealth, yet inescapably American in everything from sport, music, television, ‘wing nights,’ old people clinging to the imperial system, left hand drive and – let’s be honest – accent. People from northern Manitoba or Newfoundland have what would unmistakeably be called Canadian accents, people from Toronto could easily settle undetected into any number of the states to their immediate south. It is North America’s fifth most populous city, an amalgam of culture and ethnicities that are an example to the world.

The CN Tower lives up to its name and towers above the city, like a giraffe arching its neck to see over Lake Ontario to America and find out what they’re up to. It’s visible from almost anywhere and was my guiding light on many an inebriated saunter home. Beyond that, landmarks are hard to find, or notice. After having lived there for a number of months I looked up exactly what Toronto’s main attractions are and realised I had already seen most of them without knowing their importance.

What I found to be the most interesting feature were the homeless. While the Toronto Tourism Board would understandably be reluctant to list them as an attraction, for me they were the single most fascinating part of the city. They stay outside day and night in conditions only fit for penguins. Air vents on footpaths throughout downtown each night are covered with piles of ragged blankets and a human burrowed underneath. Elsewhere you’ll see them stumbling about, brown paper back in hand, looking for somewhere to curl up and survive. As I shiver beneath my thermals and jacket on my way home to my heated apartment I figure tonight must be it for them, but sure enough, there they are the next day, stubborn as ever, resisting any threats of capitulation. On a corner in the Bloor West Village near where I worked a large, scruffy, grey bearded man looking like Santa’s poor, alcoholic failure of a twin stood outside a liquor store asking for change. Whether in a blizzard, downpour or summer’s oppressive heat he was there, always wearing the same outfit of dirty tracksuit pants and dirty dark jacket. Even when the mercury went so low that it disappeared completely and the streets were empty he would still be there, defiant, like so many others of the super-homeless throughout the city.

Toronto has a rich economy, financial institutions, good schools and universities and boasts Canada’s envied free health care system. Despite its hellishly frozen winters and stifling albeit short summers it constantly ranks as one of the world’s most liveable cities. It’s a place perfect for families and rewards hard workers with promising careers in any desired industry. The public transport runs on time, freeways flow as they should and parklands are large and bountiful. It has everything a major city should have, except for atmosphere or any sense of vibrancy. It may be perfect for raising a family but it’s a disaster for an unmarried twenty-something itching for a night out. Bland is a word that comes to mind. The problem isn’t a lack of bars or pubs, just a lack of people inside. The city hibernates through winter. On Christmas Eve not a venue was open, and the streets were empty but for a few forlorn tourists who’d overestimated Toronto’s potential. It didn’t get much better as winter went on.

I figured a sports bar would be a prime location when the local hockey team was playing. Ice hockey in Canada is as passionate a national pastime as any sport in any country I’ve been to. When the ice briefly melts in summer they use roads and roller blades and use a ball. Males and females both engage, there are junior teams for those who have just learnt to walk and veterans leagues for those whose walking days are numbered. But the sports bars were deserted as well. The Toronto Maple Leafs haven’t won the league title since 1967. They were ordinary this season and hadn’t made the playoffs since 2004. In that time teams from California, Florida and South Carolina have all won the final, states where hockey isn’t a blip on the radar. But what stings of embarrassment even more is that Canada’s biggest city, in an immediate area with over 8 million people, in a city where ice hockey is everything there is only one major team. Just one. In Los Angeles there are two, and most people in Los Angeles couldn’t identify a puck if it whacked the liposuction off their face. I speak to the barman who tells me he knows the Leafs suck, everyone does, but they’re all they’ve got. It’s a fitting acceptance that reflects the city. In other professional sports Toronto latches onto the US leagues with a single baseball and basketball team. Neither is any good, and they find it difficult to attract players who usually opt for the bright lights of American cities as soon as they can. I don’t blame them. Now Toronto is trying to get a professional American football team. I fear the same fate awaits them should it happen. But they’ll be happy just to have a team, another foot in America’s door on their way to integration.

If there is a quintessential Toronto franchise it is the Liquor Control Board of Ontario (LCBO), the state run liquor retailer of Ontario, with a monopoly as the only liquor seller in the province which allows it to set prices high to discourage excessive alcohol consumption. Many LCBOs will shut by 9 pm, so if your party runs out of alcohol you’ll have to go to a bar, which also has to buy their beverages from the LCBO, and will likely shut at midnight or 1 am or even earlier if it isn’t busy enough, which is likely. It’s very Torontonian. Drinking and fun is allowed, as long as it is government regulated and doesn’t go too far. And as long as you’re eating while you do it. Provincial law says that pubs and bars must serve food while open, so when entering an establishment at midnight looking to run amuck on the dance floor with a number of other drunk retards you’ll instead be given a menu and shown to a table among the throng of other occupied tables as you wonder how you ended up at a restaurant when you thought you’d walked into a bar. It’s an effective mood killer. I’m bad enough at approaching females in public, it’s a lot harder when they’re in the middle of a poutine (Canada’s national dish of fries covered with cheese and gravy, originating in Quebec, not Toronto). I’m not saying that enjoyment is completely reliant on alcohol, but unless you’re North Korea, nobody really party’s without it. Compare this with Quebec, with its lax alcohol laws, plethora of discount liquor stores all competing with each other and a lower drinking age limit and it’s not hard to choose where you’d rather spend a buck’s weekend. Tim Horton’s, by contrast – the famous Canadian fast food chain opened by a hockey player – is open all night. So while you can’t escape the overnight chill with a beer in a bar, you can find a donut and coffee whenever you want.

You could try a club, but they’re as pretentious and selective as anywhere else in the world, clones of Miami, where prima donnas dress like they’re in South Beach, short skirts, heavy makeup and Bacardi Breezer in hand dancing to the latest L’il Wayne song while wannabe gangsters grind from behind, thumbs in jean pockets with Ed Hardy t-shirt exposed and eyes hiding behind sunglasses under a flat-brimmed NY hat. All with delusions that they’re somewhere fashionable and important and better than what it is. I’d rather be in the fridge outside.

The cold is quite impressive. Coming from a warm climate I found it incredible that somewhere on Earth could get that cold and even more astounding was that millions of people lived there and had done so for centuries. Initially it was the French who arrived first in 1750, but they only lasted nine years before abandoning the land. Then, during the eighteenth century, before central heating and boilers and underground malls, people began to settle into what is now Toronto, and lived through the winters which can ice piss as it hits the ground. Infants were born and survived, enough food was stored and rationed, enough fires were lit to provide the warmth to make it through and eventually a city was built. I’m amazed they didn’t just pack up and head home as soon as the first wind chill threatened to tear off their faces and leave the land to the natives who knew no better. It’s a wind chill that sent me into shops I had no business being in just to regain feeling in my bones. Torontonians have a staunch resistance to the cold that is admirable. As a society they seem to embrace it, they came up with ice-hockey for example, but more than one individual told me how much they hate the cold. A Canadian hating the cold is like a worm hating dirt. They’re built for it and it’s their only option. There is no Florida or Queensland or Spanish coast to escape to. Toronto is as close to the equator as a Canada goes.

With winter nearing its end I walk out of my basement apartment, avoid a few icy puddles formed from all the melting snow and look at the roasted ducks hanging in the windows and try to work out what the picture writing means. I live in Chinatown. In a short walk to Kensington Market there is reggae music blaring out of bong shop windows while aging punks drink on the street and laugh at a child fall off a bike. An Indian drives me to Little Portugal where a Brazilian serves me a beer that I drink with two Irish labourers. I could go to Greektown, or Little Italy, but they’ll probably shut at 1 am anyway. It’s hockey play-off time so I decide to give it a chance, expecting to be flooded with options, but all you can see is UFC posters everywhere, big screens inside being watched by juiced up, neckless wonders in a trend that is sweeping the city, although I haven’t been here long, maybe it’s permanent. I know it’s the first night in four months that the city has actually had a buzz about it. The definitive month of the national sports season is in full swing, but this is Toronto, and it’s taken a couple of guys beating each other up on TV to get people out and about. Perhaps a world class event will visit soon. Montreal – Canada’s second biggest city and capital of Quebec – has a Grand Prix fixture and International Comedy Festival. Out west, Calgary has the famous Calgary stampede. Toronto has Canada’s only ceramic art museum.

Out of the blue, after months of snow and frost then weeks of mild rain, it’s July, and the sun is out and it’s hot. A heat so out of character. In a city with heated sidewalks and underground malls, ice-hockey rinks and indoor pools, the heat is an aberration. I visit The Beach, the imaginatively named long stretch of colourless sand on the banks of Lake Ontario that lie empty but for a layer of snow for most of the year, which is suddenly covered with people. Torontonians playing volleyball and soccer, sunbathing and building sandcastles. Nobody is swimming mind you, the water not as it once was after centuries of receiving a major cities waste.

Since arriving in Toronto I’d heard constant praise for Canadian beer. Television commercials, novelty t-shirts, billboards and citizens had all boasted about Molson, Labatt Blue and Moosehead. How Canada’s short-straw of a national climate had blessed them with the world’s best beer that was ‘Made from Canada’ and had the perfect natural resources to produce its national passion. On sampling it on a number of occasions I found nothing wrong with it, the problem was rather that nobody was joining me.

A sunny, warm, spring Sunday afternoon following a numbingly frozen winter seemed the perfect time to hit up The Annex, Toronto’s bar rich student quarter. And it was, if I wanted some solitude. Everyone was out drinking, but they were drinking coffee. Every coffee shop was full. Starbucks, Tim Horton’s, Second Cup and all the independents were brimming, not a seat to be found in the street level patios, while neighbouring beer gardens were deserted. In Toronto, coffee culture is king. It is a society fuelled by the beans in an environment built for it. It took me a few months to realise. Coffee is universal in this world, and in Toronto it is a constant. An addiction. Barely a person walks by without their mittens wrapped around one. Now on this glorious day, a clear, bright, Sunday evening, so rare in months, there were hundreds of people bathing in the weekend sunshine enjoying a coffee. It was a totally foreign concept to me. It’s when I realised I would never fit in. I don’t drink coffee and I never have. I drink beer. And although the commercials on television and presence of bars told me it was a drinking town, the people proved otherwise.

But maybe that’s who Toronto is, a contradiction. Being nobody makes them everybody, and doesn’t paint them with a stereotype. Almost 49% of the population was born outside of Canada, and no single minority dominates that figure. That’s a fusion of cultures that exist in harmony with each other, none dominating the other, or completely cancelling the others out. It gives the city a comfortable, liveable serenity. Toronto is the couch where you want to spend your Sunday nights after a busy weekend, bereft of stimulation or excitement. I left the next week.

My First Thanksgiving

I should have said yes to the ear plugs. It had been a few years since the one and only time I’d fired a gun. Now the ringing in my ears reminded me the blast is a lot louder than on TV. I even forgot where I’d put my beer down as I struggled to regain my equilibrium. Safety first, I’d been told, always put your beer down when you’re handling a weapon. It was time to stop for a moment anyway, I had fired way high and possibly into a distant highway.

My first thanksgiving hadn’t quite been what I had expected so far. I was nervous I’d have to say grace as my adopted family held hands in a circle and discussed what they were thankful for. I’d never said grace before, never even been at a table where it was said. This was another Hollywood exaggeration. By the time we sat down to eat there were already members of the family passed out on the couch, just being coherent was manners enough.

A week earlier I’d been sitting in a hostel in Miami with no commitments and apprehensive about how I would be spending the coming long weekend, so I jumped at the chance to travel with a friend to a farm in Frostproof, Central Florida, and spend the most American of holidays with his family in the citrus farming community named, quite literally, for its resistance to frosting over during a freeze in the 19^th century that ruined the rest of the states crop.

I was tired by the time we sat down to the banquet Mum, sorry ‘Mom’ had worked on since 3 am for the afternoon sit down. I was tired because when the bonfire had run out the previous morning at 5 we had taken the tractor out to collect more firewood, and then I had risen early upon hearing the first gunshots. Now the fire was smouldering and my ears were still ringing as I surveyed the spread of food before me, not sure where to start. I looked around the room at the family that had temporarily taken me in. One was passed out on the couch, one was stoned, one was missing, one rocked gently with eyes shut behind dark aviator sunglasses, another was only eating dessert, Dad was watching his college football team on the television and Mom was inspecting the new machine gun that the youngest boy had just purchased on the internet that looked like it could take down helicopters. It was an educated family, all college educated with professional careers. They weren’t hillbillies, but it seemed at gatherings they got the urge to slap a bit of red on their necks.

Sensing my hesitation to eat Mom put down the weapon and offered to pour me a glass of wine. I looked at my amateur martini in a plastic cup next to my freshly opened beer, evaluated the situation and politely declined.

‘So what do you do for Thanksgiving in Australia?’ a voice asked me.

‘We don’t have Thanksgiving, what’s it for anyway?’

The brother swaying behind the sunglasses gave me an express history lesson. ‘Well, basically, when the first Americans came to America they didn’t know how to store or prepare any of the food here. So they got the Indians to show them how, and after that they killed them. And that’s how we have Thanksgiving.’

It sounded stupid but upon further research wasn’t too far off the mark.

After lunch was finished and I had punched a new hole into my belt we all piled into the pick up trucks to visit a neighbouring farm and celebrate the day with old friends by blasting the crap out of some trees and scattered cattle bones with an arsenal that could start a small army. It was like a taste testing of firearms, an express course for the inexperienced and the perfect prelude to go tenpin bowling.

That night, as the bonfire roared and a brother danced shirtless around a pitchfork to an acoustic Eminem performance I couldn’t think of anywhere else I’d rather be. This was part of the America the tourist doesn’t see. The inner sanctum of family togetherness. Yams and pumpkin pie, turkey, excessive drinking, guns and pitchforks. That’s what I was thankful for.

The Ferry To Big Corn Island

There are two small islands off the Carribean coast of Nicaragua called Big Corn Island and Little Corn Island. Neither are shaped like corn, and corn is not noticably abundant whilst there, but one is definitely bigger than the other, so at least in one aspect the name works.

They are located 70 kilometers from the coastal town of Bluefields, which sits virtually alone in eastern Nicaragua, away from the heavily populated west side of the country. This makes the Corn Islands difficult to get to if you are too stingy to fly, which I absolutely was.

Three days after leaving Managua I was waiting to board the boat from The Bluff, the departure point for the islands across the bay from Bluefields. There had been a bus from Managua that more resembled a carnival freak show, then a boat ride down Rio Escondido because Bluefields has no road access. This went smoothly enough, but the speed hump came after being told the boat only left for the islands on Sundays. It was Thursday morning.

Bluefields wasn't a town you needed to spend three days in. Maybe an hour would be too long. The sleepiest of sleepy fishing ports but devoid of any beaches or attractions, Bluefields is rich in lame dogs, garbage littered roads and extreme, dusty heat. My days there were spent squashing cockroaches and unsuccesfully trying to arrange alternative transport to the islands. It was mind-numbing, but miraculously Sunday came and the ferry would soon arrive. I thought surely the worst was now behind me and I would cruise comfortably to the Caribbean paradise, but assumptions can be hazardous in Central America.

The ferry did arrive, but calling it a ferry was a little generous. It was nothing more than a boat. About 20 meters long it was an acceptable size, but the alarming feature was the lack of seats or any obvious passenger space.

'Where do we go?' I asked one of the crew, who listlessly pointed towards the bow, already filled with cargo. Other passengers - local and clearly experienced in this form of travel - were already finding spots amongst the crates so I hurried on to find my own quarters, my very own concrete slab, bang in the middle, for ten hours of rocking atop the waves with no shade under the intense equatorial sun.

Two hours in I was in trouble. Passengers had begun vomiting over the side of the vessel. The rocking was relentless and inconsistent. Some waves were bigger than others, one even joined us in the boat, saturating luggage and belongings. Trying to ignore the conditions I lay flat, hugging my concrete bed with eyes shut trying to forget where I was. A brief glimpse of our surroundings showed blue water, no land in site in any direction, just hours more of rocking and nervously relying on the navigational system that I wasn't really sure existed.

There was some excitement on board when dolphins joined us for a while but standing up was at that moment beyond my skill set so I didn't get to see them. Head down and try to sleep was my only tactic to combat the approaching seasickness. The sun was roasting me so I covered myself with a towel, but under the towel was too hot so a rotation policy kept me busy for a while. Towel on, towel off. I couldn't believe they called it a 'ferry'.

After an eternity I poked my head over the bow and saw a dot of green standing out among the waves. Big Corn Island. Four days after leaving Managua it was there, still a long way off but at least it was there. My illness left me and I felt great again. I was burnt to a crisp, but felt great. I really hoped the islands were worth it.

High Altitude Can Go Fuck Itself

La Paz sits at 3, 650 meters elevation as the highest capital city in the world. Potosi is 4, 090 meters in the sky. Lake Titicaca is apparently the world's highest lake at 3, 811, and if you climb the hill overlooking the lakeside town of Copacabana you’ll be gasping for breath a lot higher up than that. Most of Bolivia is basically in the clouds. It makes it all sound appealing and somewhat romantic, but what they fail to mention is how hard to breathe it is up there.

They’re at similar heights to ski resorts, but ski resorts are in alpine regions, with only fresh snow, trees and clean, crisp air in the immediate environment. Bolivia's cities in the heavens instead provide suffocating exhaust fumes and the smell of fresh garbage being blown about in the strong winds. The extra effort that needs to be made with each breath means an extra intake of pollution into your lungs.

La Paz is an infinite procession of mini-vans roaming the streets and collecting passengers to ferry them around the city. None of them seem to have ever been serviced and black smoke billows from each one as it grunts up and down the steep, narrow streets. Among the vans are larger buses and trucks that also look like they’re from the seventies as eco-friendly vehicles have not yet made it to Bolivia. The fumes go with you when walking up the stepped footpaths, and punch you in the face when going down. The only respite comes from the city block sized town squares, but then you have to dodge the filthy pigeon feathers being blown at you as you stand hunched, hands on knees, panting for air.

Even climbing into a bunk bed, or rolling over as I struggled to sleep would get my heart beating a little faster than it should have been as it searched for oxygen. All over the Andes, through Bolivia to Peru countless tourists suffer from altitude sickness after underestimating its impact and overestimating their own resilience.

Potosi – the highest city in the world, once Latin America’s wealthiest city and home to the Potosi silver mines – was an attack on the senses. A mixture of piss, rotting fruit and dog shit. It had the same wind as deserts have, but this was more than just dust and sand being blown at you as you struggled up the narrow sidewalks.

The reason for visiting Potosi, and the only reason I could imagine anyone would go there, is to tour the silver mines where visitors are given a personal experience of the conditions the miners have to work in. My initial excitement about visiting it was because I had been told tourists could buy dynamite there and set it off in the mines. This didn't happen - the dynamite we purchased was given to a miner who just put it in his pocket - but regardless it was worth the visit, if only for the experience. The streets of Potosi seemed bad, but after ten minutes in the tunnels I couldn’t wait to get back outside. In some sections the temperature rested above 50 degrees Celsius as miners shoveled and transported mountains of loose rock in search of silver that would pay for their shifts of up to 14 hours or more. It was stifling, the dust attacked lungs and the darkness, deep into the mines far away from daylight, took away any sense of day or night. Miners worked whenever they wanted, day or night, it made no difference. The conditions would have been brutal at sea level, the altitude and all the difficulties that come with it just made it cruel.

It made me think of times when I've had to wait a few hours for a bus, or had no hot water in a shower and had a bit of a moan about it thinking 'fuck my life.' After crawling through the tunnels and spending five minutes helping the miners move bags of rubble in the small, dark, hot and stuffy caves, I figured I shouldn't ever complain about anything ever again. Except maybe high altitude.