Thank you for being patient as I crafted the last of my travel entries, I hope you enjoy it.
A strange habit of mine which has caused me my fair share of problems is looking into people’s eyes. Most of the time, it’s a quick glance, gently snipping the thread of our individual histories, enabling our irises to connect over an invisible filament. Occasionally though, that filament becomes taut, and it’s strangely transfixing. When I catch those eyes, they crane their heads to follow me, and I do too, as if caught in a dance I can’t get out of. I’m not entirely sure what this exchange means, but over the past three months, I’ve danced a lot.
This newsletter comes late due to unforeseen circumstances which I’ll detail below, but a TLDR is Rio de Janeiro took more than just my breath away; it also stole my phone, digicams, and nearly a gold necklace.
A whirlwind of travel; I begrudgingly left traces wherever I went, I now leaf through snippets of sporadic journal entries, voice memos miraculously backed up to iCloud, soak in the photos my friends have shared, unwrap various scrunched up receipts forgotten in my pockets, and revisit the occasional messages I’ve relayed to my family & friends. All so I can begin to process what these past few weeks have been like.
Originally, the inception of this trip began with an online sale on the Contiki website, where I had been browsing casually for inspiration one year prior. I glanced a a 24 day trip in South America titled “Ultimate South America” and went down a rabbit hole of imagination and possibility!
A few days later, a vision came to me painting a broad stroke of what I wanted to experience.
I want the sands of the Sahara (time) to whip me, Amazonian rain to bucket me, till my body, a souvenir of time, bears with it a deepness of memories, grooves as fine as sandalwood.
It was near this time that I joined a 10 week beginners Spanish school. My mind swirled at the futures of what could be.
Fast forward a year, my entry into South America was Lima in early September. I remember smiling so wide when the plane touched down, giddy with an hour of sleep, or perhaps the raw excitement of reaching a place I never thought I would.
I found myself running late to the very first meeting of the tour. I entered an alfresco with a circumference of strangers sitting down, facing our trip manager - Joel. Little did I know these group of individuals would join me in an epic journey: resplendent and difficult at the same time. After our initial briefing, we were given some time to check into the hotel we were at, and that’s where the interactions began.
A trip like this was very special. Group travel like this felt like a rush of connection, similar to a drug. It’s a unique concoction of openness, and so much time together, which creates an intimate environment that’s perhaps closest described as family. There’s something about meeting complete strangers; sharing both the first timid hello, and the soul-wrenching goodbye.
We spent a lot of time on the road, and it was in the long travel days that we got closer. I vividly recall a moment near the beginning of the trip, where most people had put their earphones in and were settling for a long ride. I had vision of a potential future, where the trip would pass in silence, and that was so far from what I wanted. So I took out my earphones and sat next to Alex, and just began talking. Before long, Emily in front turned around and joined in our conversation. They became very close to me, and we shared many long conversations. It’s these little butterfly flaps that cause tornadoes.
Non-deterministic systems are never more apparent than when you are travelling, because each decision and action has a flow on effect. Who you choose to talk to uncover new information and knowledge about things they were familiar with, which in turns influences your own decisions.
It’s difficult to scratch the surface of what this trip showed us, and of course I could simply list the itinerary, but instead I’d prefer to talk about the things that stuck out to me.
Early in the trip, we arrived at the town of Arequipa. It really surprised me. It was nestled between these snow-capped mountains, and the town centre had this beautiful square where people gathered. My memories of it are of warm hues, and feeling a sense of awe that this place existed.
Another was a mental picture of a volcano smoking in the distance. Speaking of mental pictures, Millen, a hoot’n’hollerin’ Canadian (and very good friend) taught me how to take them. You pinch your ears and pull them down as you squint at your desired target.
One of the places we stayed at had a pet alpaca that wandered throughout the hotel grounds, and we stayed up chatting to him, asking him if he likes being inside or outside.
A road we were on was under construction so we had to wait for a while. In the meantime, I went closer to the river next to us, and climbed a big rock. I helped a few more friends up, and we sat there under the overcast sky. Slowing down felt good after all the rushing of the trip.
Plains of dry grass where guanacos and vicuñas leapt and bounded.
We found ourselves past the Andes, on the largest lake in South America. Not only that, it was 4000m above sea level - a fact which genuinely still blows my mind to think about. We saw floating islands made from reeds, and met the locals who lived there. At the island of our homestay, we played a game of football with pounding headaches. Looking at the water lapping at the coast, you could just imagine you were at the sea. That quickly dissolved when Tim, Jared, and I had to climb what felt like the highest habitable point of the island to meet our adoptive mother for the night.
Coca leaves were found everywhere. It was eye opening to see a single plant so revered and widely utilised, appearing in hotel lobbies, to the foothills of the Andes. It’s purpose is multilayered, but was traditionally used to ward off ailments and provide energy to the labourers in the harsh environments of the mountains, first appearing in archaeological remains over 8000 years ago. I learnt how to chew a handful of leaves with ilucta (a dried ash), and I could vaguely feel a loss of sensation inside my mouth. It later evolved into spiritual significance, a ritual I got to experience firsthand when a shaman blessed our group, as we closed our eyes, made a wish and gave our coca leaf offerings to Pachamama.
I heard the song El Condor Pasa by Simon and Garfunkel many years ago, and found out on this trip that the melody was Andean folk tune in origin. So, it was surreal to wander down the narrow streets of Cusco, squeezed between Inca remains, and hear that beautiful tune. The man playing it was whistling on a pan flute, tapping a drum, and strumming a guitar, all whilst wearing a cowboy hat, and a colourful poncho.
We had the opportunity to do some mountain biking in Cusco, and so a few of us crammed into a van to head up into the local hills. There was a point where a massive boulder had fallen onto the middle of the road, and we got off to try our best to move it. Even with 10 or so people all pushing at the same time, it didn’t even budge. It got me thinking about the very real human effort behind every monument I had seen so far on the trip. Things didn’t just appear out of thin air.
After unloading the bicycles and wearing our helmets, we sat on our seats, with our feet planted on the ground. A flock of sheep ambled in front, kicking up dust. One of us ominously asked, “What are the odds that someone will fall down?”, to which someone responded with “I’ll probably end up in hospital”.
I think sometimes, the universe is cruel.
The daredevils among us were all gleefully bunny-hopping over mounds, but the rest of us were doing our best not to slip on the gravelly track.
Then, I heard a loud crash, and a bone rattling cry. I skidded to a stop, and turned around to see my friend unmoving on the floor. I sprinted over, and asked him what was wrong, to which he said he couldn’t breathe nor move. Seeing someone in so much pain is a harrowing feeling; combining both deep ineptitude at the situation and yet a rush of compassion. We flagged down our activity coordinators, and delicately transported him into the vehicle.
The rest of the afternoon was solemn and we waited for more news. There was a sense of it could have been any one of us.
Two friends, myself and Joel decided to visit him in hospital at night. We sat around in the stark white lobby in silence.
For a brief moment, I felt a sense of imposter syndrome. What was I doing there? Who was I to come visit? Was I needed, or was this serving a different selfish purpose altogether? Questions after questions swirled around in my head, all of which ate into my self-understanding.
When we finally got the all clear to enter the room, we saw him hooked up to a nasal cannula, with the widest smile returned to us. Oliver had an immeasurable joy for life, and everyone he was around felt his infectious playfulness.
It then dawned on me that showing up matters. Being there for someone in a very frightening time cuts into the marrow of what it means to be alive. Remember that.
Cusco in Quechua translates to navel or centre. For centuries it was considered the spiritual, political, and military centre of the Inca empire. It was also where I met Geraldine, Elise, Leah and Sarah - self named as the f*cking fab four (#fff) - an infectiously fun group, who joined us for the rest of the journey. These friends became my second family away from home. It began a nightly ritual of debriefs and endless laughter, in which I added my slow infusions of tea.
You are meant to “connect”: throw yourself into this world, and become a twisted, old growth tree.
For the past couple of years I’ve been crafting a set of maxims that I can refer back to as my own value system. This is one of them.
The best way I can describe it is the palpable effervescence that begins when you dissolve the boundary of you and the world around you. When you realise that things aren’t “there”, and they’re “here”.
I think of how souls intertwine if you let them. There was a point in my life where I thought I’d never be bothered to let that happen, because how could someone ever begin to understand me if they had never glimpsed the texture of my years?
I’ve come to understand my mistake. I realise how easy it is to connect if you open your heart, and listen. Be a part of people’s stories by taking the time to enter theirs. I think by being myself I quietly let people into my own life for a bit.
The Aguaymanto is a cherry-tomato sized yellow fruit wrapped in a dried golden leaf. It was one of many fruits I’d never seen or tasted before. There’s a chemical signal that gets activated in my brain eating fruits, probably rooted in some atavistic instinct. Others I really liked were the granadilla, chirimoya, and the ever-present maracuyá (passionfruit). I feel like most foods are somewhat familiar to me; most cultures have their signature carb base, and meat delicacies. However, I think fruit is a self-contained jewel. It blows my mind to think that these have been surreptitiously growing, and tasting delicious forever without ever crossing my consciousness.
The journey to Machu Picchu was itself an adventure, hearkening to an ancient reality, that this wonder of the world was on top of a literal mountain in the middle of nowhere.
Our morning started early and we headed to the train station, where only a select few people per day were allowed to begin their Inca Trail. After boarding, and chugging along for a bit, the train came to a stop. We didn’t think too much of it, but then half an hour passed, and I saw people restlessly looking out the window or flagging down staff to ask what was happening. It didn’t help that there was no internet whatsoever.
We were told that there were some strikes happening due to a power struggle from an existing monopoly bus company and the locals who had enough of not sharing in the success of the regions tourism.
I am personally all for peaceful striking, because the point is disruption; things are not easy, and it’s only by grouping together to get your point across that elicit change.
In our case though, that meant we were contending with the grim possibility that we wouldn’t get to see Machu Picchu. It was a mix of exasperation, defeat mixed with a dull hope which blunted by the minute.
Then the train began to move.
We got off to our starting destination hours behind schedule, with a 14km verdant trail in front of us. The Inca civilisation crafted a network of roads by hand that spanned 40 thousand kilometres across the whole empire.
The trail to Machu Picchu was one of those forgotten roads. Walking it was walking through the ghosts of the past. I could imagine the thousands of lives dedicated to building and maintaining the track we were on, spending their entire lifetimes on things we know nothing about. It went up and down through the valley, and along the way you could see agricultural terraces holding the slopes in place. I couldn’t tell if it was the fragrant humidity or the movement that made us damp with sweat.
I think this is the rare wonder of the world you have the option to physically earn.
When we arrived at the Sun Gate, we learnt that it’s construction was so precise and the architects so well versed in astronomy that only in summer’s solstice did it intersect light.
This was our entry point to the forgotten city. For a few moments, clouds crept up the mountain and obscured everything. I’ll never forget sitting by the worn steps, eating our lunch and witnessing the clouds parting to give a perfect stage for the sun to shine on Machu Picchu. It glowed ferociously, and I felt a primordial tug towards it.
Our journey that day ended at the iconic vista.
We were told that the city was sinking due to its visitors, and the numbers allowed to come see it will tighten, to the extent that it would be impossible after a decade.
On the train back we were told we were incredibly lucky to have made it, because all the trains running after us were grounded. Out of a hundreds of people per day allowed to walk the trail, only a handful got through.
The next day was when we got to walk through the city, and I observed the buildings in detail. Each stone was expertly carved onto the other without mortar, in airtight precision. Walking through the various houses, it was possible to gently close your eyes to imagine the lives of those ancient families.
The protests escalated on the second day to the point where our predicament made it onto the news because over 1000 people were stranded. Our trip manager gave us one option which could work; walking along the train tracks to the next stop, at which a van could pick us up.
And that’s what we did. Crossing rivers and bridges, precariously stepping over falls tens of metres below. The whole time I walked with L and G, and we yapped endlessly.
When we finally got to the end, our bodies were battered with exhaustion, but our greatest solace was that our ride was waiting there for us, ready to take us home for the night. What we didn’t realise was that our journey wasn’t even at it’s midpoint yet. The drive took over six hours, during which we weren’t aware how much longer we had to go. It was reminiscent of when you were a child, and you asked your parents how much longer before you’re there, and they never told the truth. In our case, it was worse because when we asked to use the bathroom, our driver responded with “in ten minutes”. Those ten minutes dragged on for what felt like forever, till my body was in shock.
The whole ordeal felt like a fever dream, and I can’t remember how that experience ended.
There were some curious things I learnt about Peru that stuck with me. One is that due to their extensive agrarian knowledge and step farming, they have the most varieties of potatoes on the planet, boasting over 4000 variations. I got the honour of trying some, as well as their iconic chicha morada made from purple corn, and spices. One of the best places for it was La Lucha Sangucheria Criolla, a busy 80’s retro diner vibe that seemed to be on every corner of Lima.
Another was the ritualistic act of human sacrifice. This practice was not unique to Peru or Latin America but we got a deeper account of it. The concept of cultural relativism is worth mentioning here, which basically states that we cannot simply judge another culture or era with the self-righteous moral frameworks of our own. What feels acceptable today, may not be tomorrow; history is full of dissonance like that.
To begin to understand one must acknowledge a difference in world ideology. Most indigenous cultures perceived the interconnection of all beings, given that their survival was dependent on a symbiotic link with nature. In a world without the scientific basis for cause and effect, natural disasters were calamities caused by an imbalance in the natural state of things. An interpretation of that was that the manifestation of god was upset.
To think like a ruler, you must imagine commanding an empire of people whom look at you as if you were a god. In the event of a catastrophe, your thought would go towards sacrificing the most precious thing in your life - which was often your own children. This was called Capacoha. Often these children were brought from different parts of the empire and prepared months beforehand, with a inculcation that this was the most sacred act that could be accomplished. With religious fervour and a cocktail of drugs, these children were sent to the afterlife on the peaks of the Andean mountains.
The highest I’ve ever placed myself so far on this planet was Rainbow Mountain; or Vinicunca. It sounds like something out of a Mario Kart game, but the appellation doesn’t lie. It was 5031m above sea level, and we had spent the previous few nights feeling dizzy and breathless to acclimatise for this hike. It was a gentle slope, and surprisingly I felt okay. Elevation affects everyone differently.
Reaching the summit, you could see coloured stripes of ancient minerals penetrating the mountain. Slopes of maroon, lilac, egg-yolk, and blue-flame dusted on a millions-of-years-in-the-making cake.
I remember meeting a European man with a film camera and tripod, his outfit reminiscent of the explorers of old; tan and beige. He was setting it up, and I remembered thinking to myself how he managed to bring it around without it breaking. Perhaps it’s a skill issue on my part. I asked him, “This is amazing isn’t it?”, to which he replied “Yes, it is.” We chatted for a bit, and I was curious why he chose film over digital photography, and he replied with he likes the slow process of it; the act of setting things up, and manually adjusting the exposure, to framing it and keeping the camera still. This reminded me of Sean in the Secret of Walter Mitty.
I think my conception of the Amazon stemmed from imprinting on a DVD movie we had when I was growing up called Anaconda. I can’t quite remember the plot, but I remember being frightened and mesmerised by these strange creatures, growing in my mind up to tens of metres long. I recall observing the murky rivers of that mystical rainforest in that film, filled to the brim with flesh eating piranhas and monkeys swinging over vines. For me, it felt like a place wholly inaccessible to humans.
As I grew up, I learnt how important the system was for the biosphere, dubbed as the lungs of the planet. I also learnt that it was being deforested at a dizzying rate to give way to cattle ranching. Recently I’ve been prioritising travel experiences that feel like they won’t stick around very much longer.
So, you don’t know how excited I was when we landed at Puerto Maldonado’s international airport. An instant wave of humidity and oppressive heat washed onto us as we disembarked. Before we knew it, we were on a boat on a wide muddy river on the way to our home in the jungle for the next two nights.
Everything demands to be respected in a wild place like this. We were told that the rivers in the Amazon are incredibly dangerous because they may seem slow-moving, but the difference between their surface current and bottom current is what can trap you inside.
The first thing that engulfed us when we entered the forest was the music. This rich, textured fugue starred countless species in their daily humdrum. If you stopped for a moment, it felt like you could drown in it.
Two scarlet macaws curiously looked at us and as if they had practised the exact choreography, flaunted themselves upside down gripping the thick wooden branch. We passed next to them on the way to the much needed reprieve of the pool.
In the evening, we were led on a night walk into the jungle with a guide. Slowly, the lights behind us faded away and we were left with only the strong flashlight carving the path in front. The man then swivelled his torch and pointed to a tree trunk right next to us, to reveal a tarantula the size of my palm resting there. A few moments later, we heard a rustle in the trees to see a giant anteater perched up moving its snout around. We were told to keep our feet moving, because near us were these thick angry ants. Everywhere you looked you saw a flurry of life, and it just cemented the fact that this truly was the most bio-diverse place on the planet.
We had the experience to spot caymans and capybaras from a night boat ride. Our host took us out onto the long, low boat we came on and switched off most of the lights. In the distance ahead was a thickness of black clouds. Suddenly we saw a crack of lighting in the expanse, but curiously never heard a sound. It then became a light show, bursting the sky open with light every few seconds and illuminating the shadow of our guide at the front, who was gazing outward. Our guide looked like he was convening with the warring gods for safe passage into their realm. We cut the engines near the shore, and powerful flashlights came on, and we saw emerald eyes looking back at us from the caymans. Later, we saw a herd of capybaras frozen in the painted light; as if we’d caught them marauding.
Far from the green anaconda that brought me here, I saw the tiniest baby snake no bigger than 5 centimetres bopping its head over the water. And I’ll never forget the jewel-like flashes of aqua, lime, scarlet, indigo of the macaws; guardians of the forest, their eyes creased with folds of wisdom, and inquisitive play.
One of the last few places we visited was Iguazú Falls, cited as the largest system of waterfalls in the world, comprising of 275 individual falls.
I remember exiting our bus when we got there, to hear a dull roar blanketing everything. We went on a windy walk passing through a thick canopy, where I saw this beautiful spider web gleaning with tiny droplets of water. Then, it all opened up. In front of us was what I’d draw as paradise. Birds flying over a blue sky, with crystal blue waters buffed clean from the fall. My first impression of this area was how lush and green it was, tropical trees and trailing flora lining the cliffs, growing and thriving despite the constant flow of water. I remember seeing one specific plant tickled into what seemed like eternal laughter interlaced with brief moments of interlude; its leaves in a fluid dance.
We got on a boat and I remember approaching a cul-de-sac of towering waterfalls crashing down in front of us, reducing visibility to a violent haze. It felt like both the gates of heaven and hell. For a moment I thought we would go further into the fog, and I felt myself curiously unafraid.
Both of these countries are named after rivers in the native American Guarani language. To get to Uruguay, we had to cross the widest river in the world, the Río de la Plata. To get to Paraguay, we crossed the border over a river under the cover of darkness.
The second time I visited Rio, our Uber driver said to never under any circumstances visit a favela. He said that things are fine until they aren’t, and then suddenly bullets are flying everywhere. He wasn’t aware that during my first visit, we had a local guides showing us their neighbourhood. We walked there from our hostel, and at the entrance, we saw a man with an automatic machine gun sitting by the steps. Eyes on us, ready to pounce, once he saw our entourage, he let us pass.
Once inside, I saw sunlight filtering through alleyways, sometimes strewn with rubbish. A dusty carpet rug on an exposed rooftop, easily visible because of the sloping hills we were on. Half built houses held together with horizontal concrete pillars, ready for the next injection of materials. Cats floated by, yawning with eyes alert. We passed by beautiful murals made by artists over the years, and a half-opened door to a church. From within, individual voices melted together in a warm embrace.
I thought how things can be two things at the same time.
The narrow street in Pedro do Sal felt like a coagulated pot of honey. Sticky yet porous, we jumped into the fray, following the source of the music. Swimming through what felt like granite closing in around you, it was a battle of pushing and apologising. At one moment, it felt like the inner instinct leapt out with a neon sign flashing “this is sorta dangerous”. What cemented that was the density approaching liquid levels. Deciding to leave, I was leading our group out when I was stopped by a group of men blocking our path. They started shouting at me, in a language incomprehensible to me, with a glint in their eyes. My only thought was to leave as soon as we could, because this was no ordinary look. It was a jaguar flash.
Leaving the scene as fast as we could, and approaching fresh air, I looked to see that everyone had made it out.
Sticking my hands in my pocket, I felt a dread when I realised that my fingers felt nothing. My phone and digital camera were stolen.
Reeling with a million possible futures, it was a matter of choosing the next decision.
I told the people I was with, and headed back to our accomodation, where the process of figuring out what next to do was the only thing on my mind.
Earlier on the trip I had reflected how this small device had the power to move me across the world. Now that it was gone, it was a question of
a) how do I survive the next month?
b) what was lost forever?
I distinctly remember the Uber back to our hostel where I saw Christ the Redeemer flanked by a half moon.
it was a half moon,
last night, the price you pay for,
indelible sights
Out of sheer luck, or perhaps expert planning on my friend’s part, there was a spare iPhone available right then and there. Locking the stolen phone down, and gaining access to my bank account were the first items on the agenda, followed by getting all the essentials logged into like email.
It was only after that I got a chance to grieve for what was lost. The biggest wound was a series of digicam photos I had taken over across the continents; seemingly random moments never to return.
The next day, still reeling from what happened, I was standing with my friends on the main walkway of Copacabana beach, facing the water when suddenly I felt a flash of pain on my neck. Before realising anything, I saw a shirtless man riding a bicycle glaring at me, as if I’d wronged him. We held our eyes on each other as he rode away.
Looking down, I saw my necklace limply curled on the collar of my shirt, when I realised he had tried to snatch it.
At that moment, I felt danger all around me and all I wanted to do was to go into a room with four walls of safety ensconcing me.
I couldn’t hate anyone if I tried. Even those who steal or attempt to hurt me. I think it comes back to perhaps a naive notion I have; that if you got a chance to share a warm meal together, you’d be able to understand one another.
I’d be able to know what caused that hateful glint in their eye, what made them so cold towards another human being.
Looking back, I think while it sucked, I needed a dose of reality to know that there are different levels of safety throughout the world, and I wasn’t calibrated to this one.
I thought how losing these items was the price of entry to this land, a major inconvenience for me (but an inconvenience at the end of the day), whereas for others, they can’t simply leave.
My empathy faltered, and I resolved to boost it again. So, at night, I watched the film City of God once again with the intention of generating more compassion for the bandits. Poverty is not something people choose.
Losing my journal reflections hurt. But I’ll do my best to recollect today and tomorrow. I’m at a cafe now after getting pastries from another one and I feel grateful for safe spaces like this that make me feel good.
When we took an Uber that lasted a few minutes to pass a tunnel, Oren tipped our driver. I asked why, since I normally didn’t really tip drivers, and what he said stuck with me.
“We’ll all be dead in 80 years, and people remember the good things you do”.
I wish to hang on to that.
A friend gave me a green hard cover Moleskine before I left. She told me that on her solo travels once, she brought one with her, and slowly it was filled with memories with people she had shared a connection with.
I thought it was a wonderful gift, and I asked people before we parted ways to write a few words in. Looking at it now, fills me with a lot of joy, to think how malleable we all are when we’re ready for connection.
From the very first day, I was set up with someone to be my roommate. At first, I wasn’t sure how I felt about him, because he was unfamiliar to the types of friends I’ve had before in my life. Abrasive, and opinionated. It was an interesting sensation sitting with the discomfort that comes with people who hold wildly dissimilar life experiences. I remember a distinct moment, where I could have either pulled back or chosen to engage. It was that moment that our relationship also changed. I saw his kindness and understanding come through. I realised it’s when you take this time to speak honestly, you open up a surface vector that begets real connection. I think it’s so easy to classify people in this era of cancel-culture, but the real work begins when you realise you’re each sandpaper to another, and that by showing up you both gently become smoother.
Growing up an only child, I could only imagine what it would be like to have siblings. The kind where you’re in each others hair, but also know you have each others backs. I felt something close to this, meeting someone whose energy was infectious, yet provoked in me a strange desire to annoy endlessly. Through it all though, was a sense of care that was really special.
I think it’s so beautiful to have such rich, varied connections with people in this journey of life.
Goodbyes are never easy. I recall one that stuck with me, because it was another lesson in the importance of presence. My friend was bound to leave for a flight back home later in the day. I told him the night before I’d see him off, and when I arrived he was at the hotel lobby with his suitcase. We had a few minutes before he had to go, so we sat down on the seats with a small table separating us, both facing the concierge. A narrow strip of clocks shared the same tick of the second hand, yet reflected vastly different times throughout the world. We sat there unspeaking, but it felt like it said everything.
longest country on earth
The flip side of goodbyes is that they give the space for new hellos.
When I originally conceived this trip, I thought it would be a lonely pilgrimage. I was sure that I’d make new friends, but what I didn’t imagine was sharing in these moments with some of my closest friends. It was a characteristic Thursday afternoon when I told of my plans to R.
What I didn’t imagine was seeing her and her friend Q on a park bench in Santiago. The meeting of old and new friends in foreign lands.
We spent the next couple of days exploring, and instantly acclimatised to our travel personalities; a shared love of serendipity.
Then, we took off southbound towards Puerto Natales, one of the southern-most cities on the planet. It was certainly the closest to the South Pole I’ve ever placed myself in.
Just finished the W trek in Torres del Paine. I’m now on a flight to Santiago, and then connecting to Buenos Aires. It’s been incredible. Every part of my body felt like it was present. To be at the complete mercy of nature was a humbling and important feeling. Reaching the end of the day with our refugio in sight brought a joy I can’t express.
Eating warm dinners washed down by electrolyte infused hot water, trail mixes where they belong (on the trail), and cold, soggy hummus sandwiches at pointy rock lunch stops was life giving. The last meal we ate was bolognese cup noodles (strange, but yummy!), potato chips and peanut m&m’s - an absolute feast.
Every day it felt like my legs were telling me to stop, and they punished me for not obeying by sending cramps and stiffness. Despite that, we all pushed on, going higher and higher, and lower and lower. We met a lot of people on the way, but I was most glad for the friends I had with me. Every moment that felt uncomfortable was countered with the thought that I had elected to spend my time, money and energy to arrive exactly where I was. That choice itself felt incredible, and it imbued any negative moment into a cause of gratitude.
I think that lesson is important. Once you take ownership of your life, and make decisions with your whole heart, despite the outcomes which are beyond your control, you can rest with assurance that the past version of yourself was thinking with you in mind. I love seeing reminders of my past self seeping into the present moment, because it feels like I can almost time travel.
A closer account of the 4 day trail is detailed below.
We arrived to our Refugio just shy of the evening after taking 2 coaches. We’d gathered our equipment and supplies the day before, each of us scrambling to ensure we were well provisioned for the journey ahead. I myself rented hiking boots, and bought rain-proof slip-on pants (taking a cue from the fickle rain we faced in the town we had arrived in). The two non-negotiables were hiking poles and crampons. The Refugio itself was beautiful, made mostly with wood, it fit in with the alpine environment we were in. After seeing our bunk beds, we got a free welcome drink and dinner.
A few days before we arrived, the area we were in was inundated with snow. That wasn’t totally unexpected given it was the budding of spring, however, it brought with it a complication. The requirement in winter was that you needed a guide to get to the base of La Torres (the iconic jagged peaks of the Patagonia brand). Due to the snow storm, this requirement was reinstated, which led us to an unfortunate scenario of not being able to do the hike the next day, since we didn’t book a guide.
An audacious plan started to swirl at the early brushstrokes of evening. We were to start hiking at 3am in the dark, armed with our headlamps and phone flashlights as backups, to push for the base before the rangers came to the checkpoints. With this, we tucked into bed at 8:30pm.
Then, suddenly we heard a scuffle in the room and a voice asking for our group. Opening our eyes, we saw a staff member who then miraculously heralded that due to the weather conditions and the new rules, the company we booked with had arranged for a guide to meet us at 9:30am in the morning. This probably saved our lives.
Our first day shook off any semblance of overconfidence. Most of the journey was beautiful and mildly difficult, tacking on elevation. But then almost in an instant, everything changed. Speckles of snow blowing in the air turned into a thick undergrowth of ice. Certain exposed segments of the walk funnelled wind gusts that left us unsteady over cliffs. We wrestled on our crampons and continued onward. Then, the fallen snow became deeper, reaching up to my hip. We were lucky that we had a trail to follow, because otherwise in the untouched blanket of snow there would be no visible path whatsoever.
At the base of La Torres, I couldn’t believe seeing the most delicate bird standing on a rock, hunched up to protect itself against the frigid winds. The mountains were shy, clouds continually drifting over the iconic peaks until a brief moment where they parted, revealing a wonderland. Then, the cold set in to my fingers, and all I could hope was I didn’t have frostbite. There was no way we would’ve been able to make it without our guides. In sobering terms, we found out that 5 people had died in the same region a few weeks later.
The next few days felt like we were transported to a simpler time, where all we needed to worry about was putting our next foot forward, eating, sleeping and hoping our legs held up for the trail.
It was on day 2 that we experienced what I call the Taste of a Hurricane™. Along a rocky section in the morning, we were surprised with a buffet of wind that overwhelmed our hearing. It got louder and louder, the gust picking up speed till eventually we couldn’t hold our ground. For the first time in my life, I experienced a moment where I thought the wind would pick me up into the sky and I had to get down on all fours to stop that from happening. In the battle, the wind took my lens cap, leaving my camera to fend for itself.
Our third day was the toughest. It involved a very long, gradual ascent to a lookout that was a detour from our next accommodation point. There was a lot of snow. We didn’t have our crampons on this time, and it was sorely felt. Without them, each step was a precarious balancing act, dispersing just the right amount of pressure on each foot so that you didn’t slip. The end was marked by a rocky outcrop, which after summiting gave you a 360 degree view of the mountains around us. Q left her sandwich in a small cross sling bag on the ground, which provided enough of a scent for a local to come inspect. A Culpeo fox appeared, at first timidly, and then brazenly. It was about to steal the bag before we scared it away with few loud “Hey!”s, our voices echoing through the valley. After absorbing the sun on our skin, and feeling a gulp of accomplishment, we made a move since we had not even made it halfway through day’s journey.
The last day almost didn’t happen. When we arrived at our lodgings the night before, the people at reception told us that the next day they were predicting it would be torrential rain with wind gusts at the order of 80km/h. Hearing this, we mentally prepared ourselves to potentially rest on the last day. However, Torres del Paine had different plans.
I almost didn’t get up early on the last morning of the trek. I saw the early sun teasing its golden light into the room, urging me to come see where it was originating from. But still I lay there slumped on my bed exhausted from the days of endless hiking. However, I couldn’t close my eyes because a thought rattled around my skull.
“When else will I be here to witness this?”
That phrase came to me like lightning, and with it, I got up out of my comfortable bed. And it was a sight to behold, a magnificent sunrise over water and a hill, and the mountains were PINK! I was so happy.
Our efforts took us to a wind swept vantage point facing a a glacier. I had never seen that before, the lake a magnificent blue because of the ancient ice. It was just around there that we also saw an iceberg shooting up from under the water. I wondered how much of it we couldn’t see.
To celebrate, we napped in front of a fireplace and then ate a feast: cup noodles, chips and m&ms.
It felt good to physically earn a shower and meal, and even the uncomfortable was in retrospect so wonderful. The whole experience felt like we were exposed to every sensation and element known to us, as if staked under the sun for a million years.
After we’d finished the W Trek, a minivan picked us up to head back into town. I asked if I could sit in the front seat next to the driver, and he gladly obliged. Half an hour later though, a few more people boarded and a man tried to converse with me in Spanish, and I did my best to reply in my 6/10 week Spanish course I attempted last year. It ended with him signalling to move to the back because that was his spot.
I moved to the back of the cramped bus and got myself comfortable for the next couple of hours.
The sun began to go down; the sky turned bruise-like.
Then, out of nowhere, I was jolted forward into the seat in front, and simultaneously heard a loud bang. It felt like a tire had blown, but at the same time it felt much worse than that, because the van kept bouncing up and down. I hoped that the driver still had command of the vehicle and we didn’t flip. Then, I felt a jolt as the car seemed to have mounted a kerb.
I turned back to see a large animal strewn across the road.
We had just hit a guanaco.
The van was totalled, and smoke was rising from the engine in front.
The man who had taken my seat yelled “You, the Australian man, come here!”.
I obliged, and he said “You are so lucky, and I am so lucky. Normally these fly up to the windshield and kill the driver and passenger. Today it went under.”
Our lives were spared, and it felt like we paid for passage on the road with its life instead. I was shaken by the closeness of it all. I turned to the sky and asked for more time; I wasn’t ready for annihilation just yet.
Then, we heard a faint cry in the distance from another guanaco - a friend, lover, mother or father - who knows? It was heartbreaking.
An account of South America would be incomplete without describing Buenos Aires - whose name translates to fair winds. It is one of the biggest cities in the whole continent, and I’m so glad I got a chance to taste it. I use taste, because my most favourite activity here was eating. I visited twice, once with my Contiki group, and the second with my small group of friends. I don’t think I’ve experienced a place like that, a mix of New York’s busyness, Parisian aesthetic, Milanese architecture, and Madrid’s cultural richness.
It was there that I met a new friend A, and rejoined with Leah from my Contiki - who I’d invited for the remainder of the trip. Isn’t it wonderful to think that whole futures are conceived by the simple meeting of two people?
My fondest memories include simply walking in Palermo, a suburb enshrined with trees and green spaces, with cafes dotting every corner. It was a complete 180 to what we had endured days prior in Patagonia - I had forgotten that the sky could be so blue and harmless. I bought a digital camera from a store, and met a local who took a candid photograph on film of us. He said to walk outside and meet the city. I love that phrase.
I’ve realised visiting a place twice is one of my favourite ways of travel. The first time I prioritise the art of being a tourist - ticking off the must see’s, unabashedly falling for the tourist traps. The second time however, is characterised by meeting the city.
A specific memory comes to mind. We went to a local bar that was filled with people of all ages, the younger rowdier ones spilling onto the street outside, and an older audience inside on bar stools. We first sat inside, and saw a man wearing a checkered shirt strumming with his guitar, and another man with a salt and pepper stubble and necktie tucked into his shirt vocalising a song I couldn’t understand. What I could see though, was a beautiful, soul-tugging performance, one in which his creased eyes and his acting brought me nearly to tears. I wondered how rare these performances were, and how beautiful things have existed for the span of human history, just previously they were only in existence for those who had been there.
It’s an interesting thought that now in the world of hyper connectivity, it’s so easy to mass publish, and share these beautiful things. But at the same time, there is something so magically alluring about these experiences which only happen once.
R, Leah and I made our way to the quaint Germanic town of Blumenau just in time to join in to the festivities of the worlds second biggest Oktoberfest (after Munich). We were picked up from the airport in Navegantes by this lovely dad, who drove us safely through the night, and indulged in our music fluttering through the speakers.
To prepare for the day of beer, I bought a lederhosen, and Leah rented a dirndl. We attended on the Saturday and it was like a big county fair in a sectioned off showground. It got busy quickly. The selection of beer was insane! Each stall had their own variant, and one that we liked had kegs of over 40 different types. One of my favourites was the mysterious “fruit beer”, it had a sweetness like cider, with a slight hoppiness that gave it a delicious aftertaste. We danced on top of chairs, learnt traditional songs, went on rollercoasters and capped off the night 6 pints in.
On the Sunday, R and I went to a cafe and it had such a different tone to the drinking and partying of the night before. Easels lined the streets, and kids sat on plastic chairs on the street painting. A Portuguese speaking family asked us where we were from and engaged with us with a big smile, and suddenly a couple more families from the neighbouring tables joined in and we all became friends. At one point in my life this peace and quiet would’ve bored me, but now all I wish is to soak myself in these moments.
We left at nightfall, with a tempest of black clouds underneath us as we flew. For some reason, I felt a sense of dread. I had never before seen an oceanic expanse of clouds lit up from the city lights below, with only the darkness of space above.
The raw contact of wheels at 300km/h landing on tarmac, wobbling before the front wheel tilts down, the whoosh of the airplane wings going up; loud, dangerous yet carrying with it a jolt of safety. Hitting the ground after travelling for hours in the suspension of firmament, touching the closest we can to the sanctity of space, I think it’s moments like this which make you feel the intensity of what life is really made up of. Sometimes, we also come into contact with people like this too.
I realised that the conception of a good life is impossible to universalise. I think that as I sit in a Korean cafe, in a diasporic neighbourhood where I hear families speaking Spanish. People come inside the store on this perfect blue sky day, as anyone would in Sydney on a similar Sunday. I think of the teenagers sitting with their parents, and thought of how their family unit thrives or exists in a place like this, and what their notion is of a good life? What does their family want for their children? What do the kids dream or wish for? I could potentially give an answer to that for the people I see in my hometown, but it’s incredibly mind-bending to try and understand what that might be for someone in a parallel life, in a parallel place. It all puts things in perspective, everyone’s on their own life track.
I adore the public affection here in Latin America.
Whilst I was in a park in central Santiago, I saw a man who sat on the grass tearing paper up, all whilst mumbling. Then, he threw a bright orange highlighter onto the grass and poured out his beer, all whilst shouting incomprehensibly. I got up to pick up both and put them in the bin, unknowingly carrying an ant on my pants to what may have been a different ant country. In the process I also forgot my own coffee cup nestled between a tree root. Don’t worry, a couple hours when I remembered, I picked that up too. This highlighter now rests at my desk at home.
“Take the time to do things that make you smile” was a phrase etched onto the tote bag of a woman listening to music with her headphones as she passed by. Isn’t that what it’s all about?
I’ve never experienced a city like Rio. Your pulse quickens at the rush that’s ever present, holding in it’s beauty a dichotomy of its pleasure and pain. It was once described to that Rio is like a jaguar, beautiful to look at, but if by chance it’s eyes meets yours - perilous.
I think it’s very special that some favelas are in some of the best spots in the city, seeing one of the natural wonders of the world - the Guanabara bay - views that would’ve traditionally been fruit for the rich. A gritty realness soaking through the world famous beach scenes.
My time in Rio can’t be categorised with words like ‘good’ or ‘bad’. It was tumultuous. It carried memories of a stadium going wild with dancing and song when Fluminense - one of the largest football teams in Brazil - won, but also a prickly feeling that no one was going to save you if something went wrong. The most perfect boat party at sunset, with Christ the Redeemer blessing us. Screams of terror at night.
My second time visiting this city was strung together from suggestions by strangers. Arriving with no concrete plans, I let the wind blow. We found ourselves at the most delectable Brazilian BBQ restaurant called Fogo de Chão by listening to our Uber driver. Then, to the slippery Pedra do Arpoador for the start of nightfall, with the signature mountains of Rio turning purple. Hiking up Sugarloaf, to listen to Innerbloom by Rüfüs du Sol with the whole city sprawled out in front of us. Journeying far into the suburbs of Rio, surrounded by favelas to get a tattoo from a man who didn’t speak a word of English. All of these adventures required a leap of faith, and a touch of wind.
On the last day in Rio, my friends and I walked a few minutes over to the beach and saw the sunrise. The night unfolding into a brilliant splash of purples and reds, I asked out loud if the sun ever gets sad that it doesn’t get to see the beautiful colours the appear before and after its set & risen. A replied maybe it’s happy enough.
In signature style, my time in South America came to a denouement with a familiar crisis. I arrived at Santiago airport 2h 45m before my flight. I was mentally preparing for my 41 hour journey back home, having to layover first in Dallas and then San Fransisco before finally heading to Sydney. Earlier that day I had spent hours scouring for souvenirs for family and friends at a local market. When I returned to my Airbnb, I lay everything out and experienced a brief moment of panic when I realised that it wasn’t going to fit. My life for the past 3 months was sprawled across the living room, a careful mess which had a system of its own. One by one I folded my clothes, zipped up my packing cubes, and pressed the air out of plastic bags, and then when all the lego pieces were ready, I compressed them with every ounce of force I could muster inside my backpack. The outcome? A misshapen ovoid potato that weighed 17kg. I was proud that it all worked out. Now, back to the airport.
The feeling of calm before the storm has never felt more relatable. I was waiting in line before checking in, with a serenity that I’d be home soon. After handing my passport to the middle-aged lady in front of me, she smiled, and then scanned it. A few moments later, she asked if I had a visa. This was the first alarm bell. I replied no, and explained I was doing an international transit to go back home to Australia. She called her colleague over and explained the situation, and the other lady went through the check-in process with a breezy assurance that everything would be okay. Spoiler: it wasn’t. They were faced with an error on their screen stating I needed to have an ESTA (or electronic visa waiver). I discovered that America doesn’t have the concept of an airside/land-side. If you enter the country, even if you’re doing an international transit, you need the relevant visas or else you aren’t allowed in. It was at this point, I experienced a surge of panic. The kind which prickles your skin, and causes you to heat up.
A variety of possibilities swam in front of my eyes; did I need to book another night at a hotel? If I couldn’t make this flight, did I need to cancel the remaining 2 flight connections I had? What was the next direct flight to Sydney? I operated with multiple threads at the same time. But the first step I had to immediately take was to apply for an ESTA. I’ve never filled out a form as fast as I had then. After punching in my card details and seeing that the transaction went through ($60?!), I saw that processing the application could take up to 72 hours.
My phone earlier had been stolen, which meant I had no SIM card that could make phone calls. Any attempt at fast tracking my application by contacting the U.S. Department of Homeland and Security, or rebooking my flight was a no-go. All I could do was wait. The attendant in front of me was very kind, and said that there weren’t many people right needing to check in so I could stand there and wait, and she gave me a deadline of 45 minutes before I wouldn’t be allowed on, since the flight was due to depart.
Every few minutes I refreshed my application, and saw that it still said “Processing”. The clock ticked down, and I resigned that I won’t be catching the flight. My next best alternative was booking a direct flight to Sydney the next day for close to $2000.
One more time, I checked my application at 8:41pm and saw it was still stuck. Approaching near resignation, something pushed me to check my email and I saw a strange message delivered at exactly 8:42pm saying there was an update to my application. I frantically opened up my ESTA application and there it was; “Authorized”. As if operating on instinct, I thrust out my passport to the lady in front of me, and the myriad of futures that could’ve been melted away into three boarding passes handed back to me.
Security and boarding were a blur, and I recall the faintest sense of relief only after I settled into the seat of my 9 hour flight.
I landed in Dallas at around 6:30am, and my next flight to San Francisco was at 12:30pm, which gave me a solid 6 hours to kill. Given it was a domestic flight as well, I realistically needed to be at the airport at around 10:30am. That’s when the ideas starting to come in. I decided I would rent a car, and drive to a lookout to see the sunrise in Texas. Then I wanted to try an authentic joint for a Texas BBQ, and get a feel for the local town of Grapevine.
And that’s exactly what happened. I absolutely love the feeling of agency, and self-assurance that things will work out. Never in a million years did I imagine myself driving by myself on a massive Texan highway, with overpasses and many lanes, but I did it!
The towns in Texas are so interesting with their architecture and distinctly Southern style. I got a coffee and croissant at a local cafe in the centre of town, and just observed people - a man wearing a suit drinking a coffee scrolling on his phone, an older couple at a bar table speculating what the new restaurant down the road would be with the waiter. At the counter, the man in front of me was white and asked the Mexican lady if he could ask a cultural question. She replied yes, and he asked timidly “Do you prefer to be called Latina or Hispanic, or is it the same?”. I found that to be an enriching question, seeing how the desire to understand others was well and truly alive. She responded with “Either is fine most of the time”, and that it was based on individual preference. I learnt that Hispanic encompasses Spanish speaking populations, whereas Latina/Latino refer to people hailing from the Latin America region.
While I was driving, I saw children walking to middle-school, and the iconic yellow school bus as well. Then police cars, the kind that I’ve seen on TV and video games. At the Texan BBQ joint where I got a beef brisket, four police officers came in to order after me, and a tall one with a moustache said “Nice earrings!”. I replied “Thanks, mate!”.
I found myself at a strange plaza, that looked like it was old, but was occupied by designer stores in the facade of 19th century buildings. I filled up gas at a station, trying to work the nozzle for a couple of minutes before realising I needed to pre-pay inside. Then I drove back to the airport, on a highway, peering through the windows into everyone passing on their way to work.
A strange obsession I have is embedding myself in normal situations in a completely foreign environments; it’s just my way of make belief that I could have lived a life there in an alternate universe.
It’s a comforting thought that a version of me might be happy there, as I am now.
Near the end of my 3 months, I felt a colliding sense of longing; to go back to my life, and gratitude for where I was, because this time would never come again. It was the strangest feeling to start looking my calendar again, planning for things that would happen in a few weeks ahead, thousands of kilometres away from where I was then and there.
There were things I saw, that I never dreamed of seeing. Innumerable instances where I pinched myself to ask, “Where the f*ck am I?”.
I was glad that I created these memories for myself, and took the step to do this. Life truly is what you make of it, and it is so, so big.
While hiking in Patagonia, we met a man called Derek, whose orange-tinted sunglasses and smile radiated a big-brotherly warmth. He told us he had done a big South America trip in his early 20’s, and now coming back a decade later was a full circle moment for him. When we asked him if his current trip had changed him, he said it brought him closer to who he was and things he may have forgotten, rather than learning something completely different. He mentioned maybe that’s also a good thing.
This trip taught me that the act of openness is radical and life changing - its reaffirmed that saying yes is what lets me be me. I’ve seen and done incredible things and through it all met so many wonderful people, sharing parts of them, and parts of me. Feeling like a leaf in the wind is the most humbling and exciting thing we can do.
It also reiterated that I am more than capable of taking care of myself and others, and that after backpacking for 3 months, I can get used to a lot.
In a way, I was rotating the core of who I was, all throughout the world, so that it reflected differently in the sun. In its multi-refractive glint I received clarity, deepening my understanding of myself; I know for a fact that I am resilient, kind and trusting, not just by my own analysis, but by others. It gave security to know that giving energy and love in a mutually beneficial way is what I want to focus on.
Something that reframed my understanding of self, was how varied life can be with all the different roles you occupy in different contexts. One second you’re navigating the desert, another you’re hip deep in snow gauging the next step without falling. Another you’re taking care of your friends in a hostile environment, and in another you’re bridging connections with strangers. Giving impromptu speeches, method acting, pleading, staying firm, voicing hard truths, having fun. All of these are a glimmer of what you’re capable of when put in the right place and time. With that knowledge, you realise everyone occupies roles in their lives; some inherited, some chosen, and some worn for a brief time. Implicitly therein lies a responsibility of acting in accordance to those roles. What is freeing though, is that the roles can change however you see fit.
I learnt what this is called in social psychology; identity salience.
A question I found myself asking was “what is the biggest problem in my life right now?”. I think it’s a powerful anchor, and happiness machine; often sparking gratitude when you verbalise what feels wrong in the here and now.
Don’t forget at some point, these consumed you:
Everything is temporary. Hold onto that knowledge.