On Monday afternoon I arrived at the Tan Son Nhat airport on a direct flight from Manila.  After collecting my bag and exchanging some money, I was faced with a common traveler’s dilemma: where to go and how to get there.  After deciding on a recommended hotel from my guidebook, I headed out onto the streets.  Immediately I heard the call of taxi drivers: “Sir, Sir, this way, where are you going?. . . this way, Sir.”  After inquiring how much it would cost to get to Pham Ngu Lao, the so-called backpacker district, I was quoted $10.  I thought this was strange to have a price quoted in U.S. dollars as opposed to Vietnamese Dong, but with an exchange rate of 19,000 Dong to 1 u.s.d., I guess they figure $10 dollars somehow sounds less expensive than 200,000 Dong.  I then asked them how much the local bus was, and they replied “same, same.”

Suspecting the cab drivers were attempting to over-charge me and knowing there was no way in the world a local bus in Vietnam would cost $10, I opted to try my luck with the latter option.  “Pham Ngu Lao?” I asked the bus driver.  He stoically shook his head in the affirmative and pointed his thumb to the back of the bus.  I boarded the bus, taking the seat directly behind the driver and began fumbling through my wallet in an attempt to pay my fair.  After seeing several locals board the bus and pay 3,000 Dong (about 20 cents) I did the same.

Now it was time for the fun part, trying to figure out where the bus was heading and when in the world I was supposed to get off.  I kept trying to look at street names and match them with the crude map in my guidebook.  This was anything but easy with street names like “Le Thanh Ton” and “Ly Tu Trong.”   I must have appeared to be the typical, beleaguered foreigner because I soon heard the wee voice of a young girl sitting behind me.  “First time here?” she asked in remarkably good English.  “How could you tell?” I replied jokingly, “I’m trying to get to Pham Ngu Lao.”

Thanks to the kindness of strangers, I exited the bus at my correct stop and soon found myself in the midst of backpacker central, Pham Ngu Lao.  Like Khao San Road in Bangkok, Pham Ngu Lao is a district of Saigon that is crowded with budget hotels, bars, cafes, travel agencies and souvenir shops.  Nearly half of the people you see walking down the road are travelers.  Pham Ngu Lao is ground zero of the Saigon Western traveler’s scene.

Upon entering the hotel I’d selected from my guidebook, a place called Madam Cuc’s Hotel 64, I was greeted by Madam Cuc herself who said, “Put down bag, you need beer.”  Lao Tzu could not have spoken truer words.  After sipping down a delicious, icy-cold Saigon Lager, I was asked to take off my shoes before being led up a staircase to my room.  I turned to pick up my bag but was told to leave it there. “We have machine,” Madam Cuc informed me.  After climbing a steep flight of stairs, we began to climb another, and then another, and then another.  At the top of each of the consecutive flights of stairs I thought “O.K. there’s no way it’s any higher than this.”  But sure enough, I was wrong.  In the end we climbed up 8 flights of stairs, barefoot. I began to see why Madam Cuc had offered me the beer and mentioned some sort of machine for my bags.

Thankfully, the room that awaited me on the top floor was perfect and by far the nicest I’d had on the entire trip.  It contained my own bathroom with hot water, a queen-size bed, refrigerator, T.V. and, most importantly, air-conditioning, not to mention an unobstructed view of Saigon.  For this room I was paying a whopping $16 per night.  As I turned back toward the door, I heard the cranking of a large wench ingeniously constructed to lift over-sized backpacks up the otherwise impossible staircase.

Staircase aside, I found Madam Cuc’s to be the perfect headquarters for exploring Saigon.  My room’s location on the top floor gave me the feeling of living in a penthouse and the lack of an elevator made its location feel all the more private.  The only drawback was the occasions that I got to the bottom of the stairs only to remember I’d forgotten my camera or guidebook.

That night I explored the streets around my hotel in the Pham Ngu Lao district.  I started with a delicious meal of lemongrass and ginger chicken, accompanied by rice and five fresh spring rolls.  Vietnamese cuisine is one of my very favorites, so I was delighted to sample the “real McCoy.”  In addition to the wonderful flavors, I found the price to be just as pleasing, the dinner costing about $5, including a beer.  With a full stomach and slight buzz, I began to wander the streets, intoxicated by everything around me.

As I walked along crowded Bui Vien street, a pair of local girls on a motor scooter came cruising by.  The one driving smiled at me and I instinctively smiled back.  She immediately slowed down and asked “Hey, where are you going?”  “Just walking,” I replied, as I had no real destination in mind.  “You come with me,” she said, “we make love one hour.”  “Thanks, but no, I’m good,” I replied, taken aback by the forward nature of her offer.  I continued to walk on but she soon swerved the motor scooter in front of me, blocking my path.  “You come now, we make make love one hour. One million Dong.” All along her friend sat on the back seat with a flat, expressionless look on her face. “I appreciate the subtlety and coyness of your offer,” I said dryly, stepping around the scooter, “but I’m really not interested.”

Granted, maybe this happens all the time, but I have to say it was a first for me.  Sure, hookers and pimps will offer their services just about anywhere in the world, but such a bold approach by two girls who appeared to be heading somewhere was quite a shocker.  Obviously prostitution is a huge racket all over Asia and just about every cab driver will ask if you want “nice girl” or simply “boom-boom?” but a couple of freelance hookers, hand-picking their clientele off the busy street was something I’ve never encountered. “Welcome to Saigon,” I thought to myself with a laugh as the girls cruised back onto the street and disappeared into traffic.  Although I spent two more days in Saigon, this was the only instance of this happening.

The next two days I spent exploring Saigon and visiting several museums.  Although I prefer to walk as much as possible when exploring a new city, this proved difficult in Saigon. Traffic consists of countless motorbikes and scooters all zipping around with little regard for traffic rules.  The simple act of crossing the street takes daring and bravery (or just plain stupidity).  After several near accidents and false starts, I gave up on trying to walk and instead hired one of the ubiquitous motorbike taxis that offer their service on every corner.  I found this to be a much quicker and more exciting mode of transportation.  Instead of dodging the maelstrom of motorbikes, I decided to join it.  The average ride costs only 20,000 Dong ($1), and you can hire a driver for the entire day for around $10.

My first stop was the Reunification Palace.  Once the headquarters of the South Vietnamese government, this building was the last to fall into the hands of the North Vietnamese, the Viet Cong.  According to the film they played inside, on the morning of April 30, 1975 the first Communist tanks arrived and crashed through the wrought-iron gates.  In a dramatic scene captured around the world, a Viet Cong soldier rushed into the building and up onto the fourth floor balcony where he unfurled a VC flag.  In a chamber nearby, the South Vietnamese President, General Minh, waited with his defeated cabinet.  As the VC soldier entered the room, General Minh said, “I have been waiting since early this morning to transfer power to you.” The VC soldier replied, “You cannot give up what you do not have.”

After touring the Reunification Palace I headed to the War Remnants Museum.  Once known as the Chinese and American War Crimes Museum, this is the most popular museum in Saigon.  Surrounding the building are several pieces of American artillery, bombs and planes captured by the VC, now standing like trophies in central Saigon.  Inside is a horrifying exhibit documenting the atrocities committed during the Vietnam War, referred to as “The American War” by the Vietnamese, displaying everything from the use of torture and tiger-cage prisons to the disfiguring effects of Agent Orange. There is even a plaque on one of the walls that calls U.S. Senator Bob Kerrey, an abject murderer and war criminal.  Another interesting and disturbing display was a sculpture made out of shrapnel, simply titled “Mother.”

Granted, the museum only tells one side of the story and some of the rhetoric seems to border on propaganda; however, I think it would be difficult for any American, even supporters of the war, to pass through the museum without feeling a sense of disgust and regret.  I began to feel like a German must feel while touring Auschwitz or Dachau.  I started to wonder if similar museums might one day be erected in Baghdad or Kabul thirty years from now.

While browsing through the gift shop of the museum, I was shocked to see (presumably fallen) American soldier’s dog-tags for sale.  There were also military patches and medals, as well as Zippo lighters engraved by soldiers.  Certainly these things belonged in a museum, but a museum gift shop? And for only $4?  Needless to say, this was in very, very poor taste.

The final interesting museum I visited was the Museum of Ho Chi Minh. Housing many personal effects of “Uncle Ho,” this proved to be an interesting exhibition that reminded me of some of the revolutionary museums I’ve visited in Havana, Cuba.  Among the collection on display were several of his outfits, typewriter, eye-glasses and even his will which was chiseled into metal.  The museum did a good job of deifying him, and you left with the feeling he was the Vietnamese equivalent to Gandhi.

After touring the museums I explored more of the Dong Khoi area of Central Saigon.  Here I was surprised to see designer stores by Gucci and Louis Vuitton that would seem more fitting in Beverly Hills than in a city in Indochina.  America may have lost the military war here, but when it comes to culture, nothing stops American influence.  A single Strarbucks or American movie can convert more people to the American way of life than all of the bombs and war planes in the world. . . .

Of the over 7,000 islands that make up the Philippines, tiny Boracay is known as the “Pearl of the Archipelago.”  Located a stone’s throw north of Panay Island, Boracay is a tropical paradise matched by few others on earth.  Crystal-clear, turquoise water laps across a flawless beach of fine white sand. Lush palm trees sway gently beneath a brilliant blue sky that is punctuated by robust, white clouds.  Arriving here after 5 days in the hellish heat and humidity of Manila, I truly felt as if I’d taken a flight from Hell’s kitchen to Heaven’s front yard.

But as is so often the case with traveling, getting here was no easy feat.  On Tuesday afternoon I headed to the Manila airport to catch my Cebu Pacific flight to Caticlan.   Caticlan is a town on the north shore of Panay Island and the main departure point for ferries to Boracay.  Arriving at the airport I learned the flight was delayed by over an hour.  This disappointing news was amplified when I was told that due to weather conditions we would be landing in Kolibo, some two hours away from Caticlan, then shuttled to our intended destination.  In the end this meant that instead of arriving in Boracay around 5:30 p.m.,  I actually didn’t arrive until after 11:00 p.m.  Exhausted, I checked into a recommended hostel called “Friendz Resort” where I ran into a Dutch couple I had met my first day in Manila.

The next day I awoke to a cup of strong black coffee and feasted my eyes on glorious White Beach, a lovely stretch of coast that is the epicenter of activity in Boracay.  Stretching nearly the entire west side of the island, White Beach is the place to lay-out, dine, swim, get henna tattooed, massaged, or to just sip a fresh mango shake and squeeze the sand between your toes.  The beach is over three miles long and packed with restaurants, resort hotels, massage parlors, touts, souvenir shops and juice bars.

Although modern conveniences can often enhance the experience of a beautiful, natural setting, Boracay’s, and especially White Beach’s main drawback is it’s over-development and over-popularity.  On the whole, though, my experience here was great, but the throngs of Korean package tourists and Starbucks coffee shops, at times, brought to mind the term “Paradise Lost.”  Like so many other once pristine locations around the world like Bali, Koa Samoui, Cay Caulker, and Maui, the world has long since discovered Boracay and shortly thereafter built a McDonald’s.  Well, not a McDonald’s exactly (thank god there isn’t one on Boracay), but you get the point.  A fellow traveler expressed his disappointment with the existence of a Starbucks here, shortly before ordering a java-chip frappuccino. I reminded him that there is a Starbucks everywhere in the world, including the Forbidden City in Beijing.

I’ve spent most of my time here relaxing on the beach and partying with a vast array of travelers from around the world, including a troupe of Brazilian acrobats who work for Cirque de Soliel in Macau, China.  But the highlight of my time spent here was sailing around the entire island and snorkeling in two prime areas.  I was walking the beach one afternoon when I ran into two Canadian guys I had met at the guest house I stayed at in Manila.  The three of us decided to do a three hour sailing and snorkeling tour.  We began by sailing to the south end of Boracay and snorkeling near Crocodile Island.  Unfortunately, I don’t have an underwater camera but, take my word, it was as good or better than any snorkeling I’ve done in Belize, Hawaii or Indonesia. There was an abundance of tropical fish, coral and sea urchins. Sailing around the island also gave us a glimpse of several untouched beaches far away from the commercialism of White Beach. While sailing back we saw one of the most glorious and spectacular sunsets I’ve ever seen in my life.

Today I flew back to Manila and tomorrow I’m flying to Ho Chi Min City (Saigon), in Vietnam.  I’ve heard a lot about Vietnam, and the general opinion is that it is great if you can get over the fact that you’ll be over-charged for everything if you are a foreigner.  More from country 62, Vietnam, in a few days.

At long last I’m back on the road and exploring new parts of the world.  For this trip I’m focusing on two countries I’ve never visited:  the Philippines and Vietnam.  This is my third time in Asia, and these two countries are among the last I have yet to visit on the continent.

My first trip to Asia was in 2002 when I took the trans-Siberian railroad from Moscow, Russia, to Ulaanbaatar, Mongolia, then on to Beijing, China.   From there I headed to Shanghai before boarding a ferry to Japan.  My last trip to Asia was in 2004 when I covered Hong Kong,  southern China, Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia, Thailand, Cambodia, Laos and India.  I had intended to visit Vietnam on that trip, but ended up running out of time, so it has been sitting on the back burner all these years, enticing me to return. . . .

My present journey started in Salt Lake City, Utah, where I was the last stand-by passenger admitted on the direct flight to Narita Airport outside of Tokyo, Japan.  Fortunately, I was seated in business-class and greeted with a freshly poured mimosa. I spent the flight enjoying a fillet Mignon and drinking screwdrivers until I passed out in the plush, over-sized seat. The flight ended up being just over 11 hours.

After a relatively short lay-over in Japan, I boarded a flight bound for the capital city of the Philippines:  Manila.  Again I was awarded a seat in business class; however, I was so exhausted I spent the flight sleeping, too tired to reap the benefits of free drinks and pseudo-gourmet meals.  That flight was just over three hours long.

When we landed in Manila, it was around 10:30 at night.  Walking off the plane and onto the ramp I could immediately feel the sweltering, thick, humid air of a torrid summer night.   Although it had been nearly 20 hours since I’d left Salt Lake City,  I also lost 13 hours due to the time change.  This meant I left the U.S. on Wednesday morning and landed in Manila late Thursday night.

After a half-hour cab ride, I arrived at a pension in the Malate district.  Malate is known for being a very colorful and cosmopolitan district of Manila.  It is sometimes referred to as “old Manila” because there have been several newer districts developed, such as Makati, where modern sky-scrapers and hi-rise condominiums abound.  Feeling completely sapped of energy, I retired to my humble room consisting of four walls, a bed and an ancient fan.

The next morning I awoke early and immediately headed to the Vietnam Embassy with the intention of obtaining a visa.  As far as embassies go, I found this one to be quite empty and hassle-free.  The only catch was they wanted 5 business days to process my application.  Thanks to some bad information posted on Lonely Planet’s on-line travel forum, I had been operating under the assumption it would only take one day.  Of course it was a Friday and five business days would end up keeping me in Manila for an entire week.  Luckily they offered an express option for an additional $20 fee that would allow me to pick it up on Tuesday morning. I spent the rest of the day exploring the Malate district where I am staying.

Manila strikes me as a city of great extremes.  It has a pretty terrible reputation, and it’s not difficult to see why.  It’s loud, polluted and overcrowded.  The heat and humidity are oppressive, and the poverty is disarming.  But for all the things that seem to plague the city, there is a lot to see and enjoy here as well.  If you are a person who can take a city for what it is, and have the time and patience to seek out what gems it has to offer, Manila is a pretty cool place.

On the contrasting poverty side of things, I was walking down Adricatio Street on my first day here and was accosted by 8 year-old boys selling packs of cigarettes.  Truthfully, this didn’t really shock me.  However, when they offered me boxes of Viagra and Cialis, even I, the hardened traveler I fancy myself to be, was a bit taken aback.  Poor children selling the latest erectile dysfunction medication is truly a memorable and perplexing image. In a strange way it seems a perfect metaphor for this city, a strange clash of third-world poverty mixed with modern excess.

That night I met a lot of cool travelers at the guest house I’m staying at, aptly named “Friendly’s.” It was a good mix of Canadians, English, Swiss, Chinese, Korean, and even a girl from Singapore.  We all had a great time talking about our travels and enjoying San Miguel lagers at about 50 cents a bottle.  I was still suffering from jet lag that night, so I ended up going to bed early and trying to adjust my body to the 13 hour time difference.

The next day I spent walking through as much of Manila as possible.  I headed north from Malate and ended up doing a walking tour of Intramuros.   Intramuros is an ancient and historic section of the city that was once the site of a huge Spanish fort built by Miguel Lopez de Legazpi.  Originally erected in 1571, Intramorus  has been invaded by Chinese pirates and fallen under the control of several foreign armies, including the Americans.

That night I contacted a friend who is a local here, named Paolo Lao.  Paolo was born and raised in Manila but recently lived in Salt Lake City for 7 years.  He was a regular at the bar and restaurant that I work at in Salt Lake City, and we have several mutual friends.  He ended up inviting me to have dinner at a friend’s house before we went out for drinks.  Paolo lives in the newly developed Global City district of Manila near Makati.

Although it should have only been a half hour cab ride from Malate to Global City; shortly before I left, the skies opened up and a torrential downpour of biblical proportions ensued.  Within about ten minutes the streets of Malate were flooded with nearly a foot of water. Several cab drivers refused me when I told them I was headed to Global City.  Finally, with the help of a doorman at a swanky hotel, I was able to get a cab driver to agree to take me.  The ride was a harrowing experience and ended up taking over an hour.  Several of the streets downtown ran like rivers.   The taxi died several times and I started thinking I might have to walk, or swim rather, to my dinner appointment.

Finally I arrived at my intended destination: a ritzy, hi-rise condominium complex near Fort Bonifacio.  I was immediately struck by the opulent entry way and the clean-cut doormen who knew where I was heading before I even opened my mouth.  “Good evening sir, you are here to see Mr. Essay. . . . This way please.” I was soon on an elevator headed to the 14th floor. After having walked through some of the poorest parts of the Manila, it was obvious I was about to see how the other half lived.

I soon found myself in the living room of a huge luxury condominium, one of the nicest I’ve ever been in.  Paolo greeted me warmly and introduced me to a group of eight of his friends, all locals of Manila.  We spent the evening having a terrific dinner, talking and watching the World Cup.  All of his friends were incredibly nice, spoke perfect English, and did their best to welcome me to the Philippines.  It was obvious they were part of the upper-crust of the Filipinos.  Mike, the owner of the condo, was a successful business man who had everything from a maid to a chauffeur.  After having spent the last few days in my cramped, budget room, I truly felt I’d gone from vagabond to international socialite.

After several hours of hanging out, we headed to a chic bar.  There we met up with more of Paolo’s friends and danced until nearly 3:00 a.m.  Paolo was a very gracious host, and I can’t thank him enough for the wonderful evening.  I finally took a cab back to my guest-house in Malate and fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

I spent the next two days relaxing and exploring more of Manila.  I visited a very cool Chinese graveyard that included giant mausoleums, some of which were two stories high and included full kitchens with running water. Talk about being set-up in the afterlife. . . Who said you can’t take it with you?

I also spent some time in the massive malls of Manila.  There are several here that are some of the largest and nicest I’ve seen anywhere.  There are hundreds of incredible restaurants inside,  featuring cuisine from every corner of the world.  I’ve had some great chicken adobo, a specialty here, as well as some insanely tasty fried chicken.  The Philippine islands are an incredible melting pot of several different cultures, all of which have brought their cuisine here.

This blog wouldn’t be complete without mentioning boxing.  Boxing is “huge” in the Philippines, thanks to a man named Manny Pacquiao. In addition to being the current #1 ranked pound-for-pound boxer in the world, he is also my favorite sport celebrity.  His popularity in the Philippines is unmatched, and his face is plastered on countless advertisements and billboards.  He even recently won a seat in congress here. Manila was also the location for one of the greatest boxing matches of all time, “the Thrilla in Manila.”  It was Muhammad Ali’s third fight against Joe Frazier.  Having experienced the killer heat and humidity here, I feel a much greater appreciation and insight into what exactly those men had to deal with.  They were not just fighting each other; they were also fighting the elements.

On Tuesday morning I picked up my Vietnam visa and caught a flight to the beautiful island of Boracay.  I am now on what is reported to be the nicest stretch of beach in the Philippines.  I’ll write more from here later.

After leaving Valparaiso we spent two days in Chile’s capital, Santiago. Although we didn’t spend much time there, we found Santiago to be a pleasant capital city. On the night of October 4th, we headed to the airport and caught a flight back to the United States.

This concludes our 6 month adventure through 17 countries in Central and South America. I would like to thank all of my friends and family that supported us in this undertaking. I would also like to thank Bambara restaurant for graciously offering us our jobs back. Finally, I want to give a very special thanks to my father, Bob Jowett, who helped tremendously in the proofreading and publication of these blog entries.

That’s all for this edition of Jack’s World. Tune in next time for more travel tales from far-flung regions of Africa, the Middle East and Asia . . .

Ahhh, Chile. Another landmark country in my prolific travel career. Certainly one of the most distinctively contoured countries in the world, Chile’s impossibly long skinny shape represents a gigantic finish line for me. It is the 60th country I have visited, and it signifies the accomplishment of my long-held dream of visiting 60 countries before my 30th birthday. Chile is also the final destination of our trip and, most fortunately, one could not ask for a finer place.

Just when I thought the trip was winding down, I arrived in Neruda’s “Ocean’s Sweetheart”–Valparaiso, and found myself completely blown away. For me it was love at first sight, and I felt my mind struck suddenly to life once again. Within moments of wandering its intriguing alleyways, I found myself completely enraptured by the chaotic charm of this port town. Just like the unexpected gem of Panama City that awaited us at the end of our Central American trip, Valparaiso has proved to be another jewel, an extraordinary city that ranks solidly among my favorites.

Valparaiso is a bohemian city, full of poets, artists and dreamers. The town itself is stunningly situated atop a series of hillsides that tumble down into the vibrant blue ocean below. The city comprises ancient mansions, brightly colored houses, and a divine complex of cobbled paths and rambling staircases. It is a place abundant with the same kind of enchanting beauty one might find while peering down a hidden canal in Venice. The architecture is reminiscent of the faded grandeur of Havana Vieja, Napoli, or Casco Viejo in Panama City. It’s a place so picturesque, each new twist and turn seem to reveal the perfect photograph.

Although Valparaiso is a place where beauty and charm come first, it is not like such places as Venice and Cartagena in that it hasn’t been taken over by tourists; it is a real city full of real residents. This town has remained authentic in a way few places with such beauty are allowed. Tourists don’t rule the streets of Valparaiso, artists and madmen do.

Let me retrace my steps in getting here. After leaving Mendoza, Argentina, I took an eight hour bus ride across the Andes to reach Valparaiso. The moment I left Argentina and crossed the remote, mountainous border into Chile, I began feeling a profound change come over me. It felt as if I had finally broken free from some strange, bleak stasis that had haunted me throughout my time in Argentina. The freshness and vibrancy of the Chilean landscape made me feel as though I had miraculously stepped into another world.

Once across the Andes, the sky cleared to a cloudless, brilliant blue. Flowers were blooming in abundance, and the distinct freshness of Spring was in the air. I suddenly felt rejuvenated and refreshed, as if I were a dying plant that had finally been watered and placed in direct sunlight.

I arrived in Chile less than a week after their Independence Day, yet a sea of Chilean flags still flew proudly from every home. Freedom still seemed to be the theme of the day. Once I arrived in Valparaiso, I beheld before me a city that immediately brought to mind Napoli, Italy. Of all of the cities I’ve seen in Central and South America, Valparaiso is unlike any other. A city like this would seem more fitting in Sicily or Malta.

After having traveled through the mundane, modern cities of Argentina, Valparaiso’s class and style seemed all the more accentuated. I felt as if every place I’d visited since Rio de Janeiro ought to be burned to the ground. Argentina and Uruguay seemed cast in a gray light like pieces of abstract wreckage. I had enjoyed my time in those countries, but it was now, in Chile, that I remembered that I live for the places that blow me away. Rio had done that, now Valparaiso was doing that too.

Throughout our trip Eric and I have searched the nooks and crannies of each place we have visited, always looking for those little details that speak to our personal taste and vision of the world. Things like crooked roof tops, enchanting back alleys, blind accordion players, and silhouettes in windows. For all of the patches of magic we found in other places, it was here, in Valparaiso, that I found a kingdom.

Although Eric and I had agreed to spend time traveling alone, Valparaiso was one treasure I could not keep to myself. I immediately sent him an email declaring: “Valparaiso feels like Napoli.” I knew this single phrase would get the point across. Eric knows me well enough to know that I would never use an utterance like “Napoli” lightly. Such terms are sacred to us and have taken on a nearly religious connotation in our travel vocabulary.

After all, Napoli is the place where Eric and I first experienced traveling together, nearly three and a half years ago. The idea had come to us, more or less in passing at work, that we arrange to meet up in Italy for a few days before embarking on separate trips. After arriving in Napoli, we immediately found ourselves caught under its spell. It was during those brief powerful days that the seeds were planted, not just for this Central and South American trip, but for the very foundation of our friendship. The bonds and promises we made back then built the bridges we’ve taken all the way from Napoli here to Valparaiso.

Eric emailed me back and said he would arrive in Valparaiso in three days. I ended up spending those next three days enjoying the town with two girls I met at the hostel. They were both sweethearts that were traveling alone through South America. One of them was a twenty-year-old Swedish girl named Martina. She ended up telling us a heart-wrenching story about a bus accident she survived mere weeks ago in Patagonia. Apparently, the bus she was on collided with a truck, killing both drivers as well as one other person on board. She said the surviving passengers were then stranded on the side of the road for the next 10 hours before another bus was able to pick them up.

“By the time I got to Mendoza I’d had nothing to eat for almost 30 hours, ” she told us. “So I went to a restaurant and ate a rabbit steak.”

“A rabbit steak?” I asked, to make sure I’d heard her correctly.

“Yes a rabbit steak, and the man who served it to me gave me a discount because I told him of the accident.”

Although their sweet smiling faces and interesting travel tales were a pleasure to be around, I found myself still anxiously awaiting Eric’s arrival. I knew I had jewels to cast before him and couldn’t wait to see the beauty of Valparaiso ring his bell. I was giddy with the knowledge that the “travel magic” he had first tasted in Napoli, still had tricks to pull out of its hat, even this late in our Central and South American travel adventure.

Three days later Eric arrived, and our first day in Valparaiso together turned out to be one of the most beautiful and epic of the entire trip. We started off the day by taking a leisurely stroll along a twisting residential road high in the hills. We were en route to visit the poet Pablo Neruda’s house and looking at our map, when a gentleman with a bag of groceries passed by. He and I happened to make eye contact, so I simply said “Hola.” He smiled and walked a few more paces, then paused for a moment before turning around and walking back our way. He then asked us if we needed directions.

“Buscamos para la casa de Pablo Neruda,” I replied.

Although he spoke rapid Spanish with a thick Chilean accent, we were able to gather that we were right down the street from Neruda’s house, but he informed us it was closed today. He also mentioned that his girlfriend worked as a tour guide there, so that’s how he knew it was closed on Mondays.

The gentleman who stood before us had prominent facial features and a mass of wild, curly black hair. He was dressed in a light sweater and wore a certain style of pajama-like pants that Eric and I have found common among hippie and bohemian types in South America. He spoke with a great deal of intensity and leaned in close to our faces when he addressed us. He told us his name was Patricio and that he was a local artist and wood worker. Then, to our surprise, he invited us to walk with him to his house to meet his girlfriend and have coffee.

We were at first taken aback a little by this totally unexpected act of kindness being offered from this intense, mysterious stranger; but after only a moment’s hesitation, we agreed. After all, Naruda was dead, and even the museum that occupied his house was closed for the day. It seemed fitting to be meeting a living, breathing, Chilean artist.

We followed Patricio down a side street before arriving at his humble home. Constructed of old wood and corrugated steel, it was a kind of shanty house, typical of Valparaiso. As he opened the door we were greeted by his energetic young dog Farfalle. His girlfriend Deane was still enjoying her morning off by sleeping in, but was soon roused from her bed to meet the two strangers in her living room.

Deane greeted us with a smile, and we soon discovered she spoke excellent English. We found ourselves spending the next three hours hanging out with Deane and Patricio, and they turned out to have been the ideal locals for us to meet up with. They told us all sorts of interesting things about Valparaiso, and Chile in general, all of us speaking a mix of Spanish and English, and they even taught us some priceless Chilean slang.

Patricio told us about his artwork and how he sculpts his works from old antiques and objects he finds in the streets of Valparaiso. Of the artists I have met and read about in my life, Patricio had what seemed to me to be the authentic demeanor, disposition, and personality suited to true artistic geniuses. He had that certain intensity about him, and he had an artful, distinctive way of doing even the most mundane of tasks. I truly felt as though I were with a Van Gogh or Dali while in his presence.

After a few hours of hanging out in their house, Patricio and Deane took us out for a tour through the labyrinthine hidden passage ways and random staircases that cover the hills of Valparaiso. During this time we visited an incredible ancient cemetery and also visited the ruins of a prison dating from the 1800′s. Visiting the prison was an amazing experience because the city of Valparaiso officially turned the site over to the local artists to paint and make studios out of.

“This place was once full of sadness and punishment, but now it has transformed into a place of beauty and freedom,” Deane explained to us.

It all turned out to be a most memorable visit, and since that time we have hung out with Patricio and Deane almost everyday. They are truly the most hospitable people we have met on our trip. They are always eager to invite us to eat at their house and join them in whatever activities they have planned for the day.

Eric and I did eventually end up visiting Pablo Neruda’s house a few days after meeting Patricio and Deane. Deane was working that day, so we had a great time wandering around the five-story house of the Nobel Prize winning poet. The domicile was still full of interesting personal artifacts belonging to the poet and was still in the condition Neruda left it when he died in 1973. Although photos weren’t allowed inside, we did get a few of the exterior.

A final highlight of Valparaiso was riding it’s strikingly unique, antique funiculars, called ascensores. It is hard to visualize Valparaiso without them as they are so distinctively characteristic to the town. Constructed between the years of 1883 and 1916, there are 15 different ascensores throughout the hills of Valparaiso that are still functioning, providing fun and interesting alternative ways to ascend the hills.

Valparaiso, the “Jewel of the Pacific,” has certainly turned out to be one of my favorite places in the world. Just wandering through its beautiful streets makes every cell in my body sing. The kind of energy that exists in a city like this is powerful enough to affect everything from the way the blood flows in your veins to the serotonin levels of your brain.

Day 162 and I am still roving the land like a troubadour. The open road has brought me many things to contemplate, digest and consider. My travel partner Eric and I have agreed to take some time apart to experience the sensation of solo travel. Traveling alone is a feeling I have experienced before and continue to have profound respect for. No man knows his own potential, or the expanse of his own horizons, until he goes it alone.

For the last three days I’ve been lurking around Mendoza. I spend my mornings in the cafes along Sarmiento Avenue. Tight curls of steam rise off my tiny espresso and a frost of crema clings to my mustache. My afternoons are spent wandering beneath the gnarled branches of ancient sycamores and staring at the bruised, overcast sky.

One of my dorm mates here is an introspective Frenchman who lives in Paris. He is traveling alone and “buscando para esposa de Argentina” (looking for an Argentinian wife.) He can tell I’ve been brooding, so he strikes up a conversation. We start out in Spanish but after a few minutes I figure we might fair better in English. I eventually shatter the balance of the conversation by switching languages abruptly. He rolls with the punch and we continue to chat. He mentions he was recently divorced from his Brazilian wife.

“And now you’re looking for an Argentinian wife?” I comment with candor, “Do you not like the women in France?”

He laughs heartily.

I stare out the window and wonder if the skies are overcast where Eric is, in Cordoba. A bluster of wind slaps the fingers of a sycamore branch across the window pane. They strike with a sort of urgency, like the hands of a neighbor’s wife who is running from an ax murderer. I know a storm is coming, but I find it comforting in a strange way.

Then I think back to those last days in Rosario and remember the awkward specter of silence that was always lurking in the background. Mitch knowing he was heading back to a familiar but uncertain life in Phoenix, Eric and I preparing to part ways temporarily and do some soul searching in the comfort of anonymity.

Then my thoughts circle back to Che, and I remember him writing about a “glimpse of two lives running parallel for a while with similar hopes and convergent dreams.” Rosario was Che’s hometown, the place from which all the roads he traveled stemmed. The irony struck me that fate had now cast it as the town where our roads temporarily split.

A grin sneaks onto my face as I think about some far off time in the future. I see a framed picture sitting on the mantel of one of Eric’s grandchildren. It’s a picture of the two of us, with our hats and mustaches, prosciutto sandwiches in our back pockets, the world at our feet . . .

It is in these terrible, fleeting moments that I know this trip has changed us in some fundamental way. Like a meteorite entering a lake, it has disrupted the placid facade of our everyday lives and sends out tiny ripples that will resonate throughout us for years, decades.

My friendship and admiration for Eric have grown greatly throughout this trip. I have no doubt these days will remain as some of the greatest in our lives. We have been two seekers trying to get at the marrow of life, two young men doing what young men ought to.

The final chapter of our adventure is quickly approaching. The future is rushing toward us like a phantom freight train. I can hear its whistle in the distance and can feel its vibrations beneath my feet. I close my eyes and breath evenly. There is not a cyclone whirling behind my eyelids. There is an inner calm.

Of all of the current hot spots to visit in South America, Buenos Aires is certainly the most popular and arguably the most sizzling. Filled with sultry tango dancers, decadent parrillas (steak houses), and savvy well-dressed locals, Buenos Aires is now the place to see and be seen on the South American travel circuit. Argentina’s capital is an energetic, nocturnal city where dinner is rarely served before 10:30 p.m., and people don’t even think about heading out to the clubs until at least 2:30 a.m.

Since Argentina’s economic crash in 2001, Buenos Aires has become one of the most affordable world-class cities anywhere. However, as with anything that seems too good to be true, the cat’s been out of the bag for quite some time and Buenos Aires’ once rock-bottom prices have steadily been rising over the past 6 years. Like several places in eastern Europe, the constant influx of travelers to this city has inevitably led to an increase in prices. Although still cheap by international standards, it seems the legend of the “five dollar filet-mignon” is now a thing of the past, now costing about $7.50 these days.

After only an hour-long ferry ride from Colonia, Uruguay, Eric and I saw before us the sprawling skyline of Buenos Aires. Upon seeing it, we looked giddily at each other and began planning how we would spend the next week. Our expectations for this town were high and we hoped it might end up in the same league as Rio de Janiero and Panama City. Our cab ride from the ferry terminal gave us a good taste of Buenos Aires’ seemingly endless spread of broad boulevards and towering buildings.

We spent our first two days exploring central Buenos Aires and the busy area located along Avenida de Mayo and Avenida 9 de Julio. We immediately indulged in our first of what ended up being several meals at a true Argentinian parrilla (steak house). Although the quality of the beef was obvious and the price was right, we quickly learned that Argentinians cook their steaks considerably more than we do in America. Although we learned the correct terminology for ordering our steaks rare (jugoso, in Spanish), we found they always came out somewhere around medium +. By the time we left Buenos Aires, we had eaten at least 8 steaks each but, I must sadly report, at least 6 of the 8 were overcooked. This dining experience proved to be a bit frustrating and with each consecutive time we’d order one, we tried to emphasize more and more exactly how rare we wanted it. “Rojo (red), “jugoso” (juicy) and “poco hecho, por favor,” we would plead.

On our third day in Buenos Aires, Eric’s girlfriend Rori arrived, and I moved from the hotel we were staying at to a popular youth hostel nearby. I ended up spending the next three nights at the uber-popular Hostel Milhouse. Of all of the youth hostels I’ve stayed at in the world, I can safely say Milhouse is the biggest party hostel of them all. A typical night at Milhouse starts around 11:00 pm with people having drinks and talking before they head out to the clubs around 3:00 am. The night usually ends around 8:00 the next morning, when everybody finally makes it back to the hostel and crashes for the duration of the day before getting up and doing it all over again.

Sleeping in a dorm room at Milhouse felt like living amidst a den of vampires. During daylight hours, the darkened dorm room would be full of people trying to catch up on sleep, while at night the entire room would usually be empty until the wee hours of the morning. Partying is an all-consuming activity in Argentina, the likes of which I’ve seen in few other places.

I met a lot of other travelers at Milhouse. There was an incredible mix of people from all over the world. I ended up hanging out and going clubbing with a group that included travelers from Ireland, France, Brazil, and England. I even met two different lone travelers who were days away from finishing year-long trips. We had a great time dancing and drinking until sunrise.

Rori, Eric and I spent our days exploring the different neighborhoods of Buenos Aires, including Palermo, Recoleta, Balvenera and San Telmo. Each district had its own flavor, but San Telmo I found to be my favorite. San Telmo is a very old, classy neighborhood that is full of curio-shops and antique stores. It also has leafy plazas and cobbled streets that help create a very tranquil and charming environment.

On our fifth day in Buenos Aires my good buddy, Mitch, arrived from Phoenix, Arizona. The night before, I had been out partying all night and hadn’t gotten home until 6:00 a.m. By the time he arrived in town, around 11:00 a.m., I was still a wreck and he was tired from his flight, so we ended up spending most of the rest of the day in bed.

In addition to a lack of sleep, I was suffering from a wicked cold I had recently come down with. I’m sure this made for a slow start to Mitch’s trip; however, by the third day, we were back at Milhouse, and Mitch was getting a taste of what the party and youth hostel scene is like in South America. During the day Mitch and I visited Buenos Aires’ famous soccer stadium in La Boca as well as its beautiful cemetery Cementerio de La Recoleta where Eva Peron is buried.

On the morning of September 5th, Mitch, Eric, Rori and myself took an hour and a half flight to Iguazu Falls in northern Argentina. Although there is plenty to see and do in Buenos Aires, I was more than ready to leave when the time came. My cold and the debilitating effects of so much partying had taken its toll on me. It seemed, to me at least, the good air of Buenos Aires had turned a bit stagnant.

Luckily, a true breath of fresh air awaited us in Puerto Iguazu. Coming from the chilly climate of Buenos Aires to the sunny, balmy climate of Puerto Iguazu, felt like arriving in Hawaii. Although the weather in Buenos Aires was considerably better than it had been in Uruguay, it was nowhere nearly as nice as it was in Puerto Iguazu. Eric and I were again baffled a bit at this dramatic change in weather. It seems the weather in South America is a very patchy subject in the winter. There are plenty of micro-climates here, and you can easily travel from a place with weather in the 50′s to a place in the 90′s without necessarily going north toward the equator. I still can’t explain why a place like Florianopolis, Brazil, would have cold beaches, while Iguazu Falls (at roughly the same latitude) has weather in the 90′s.

This change in weather was a very welcome surprise, and it seemed to relax and brighten all four of us. We immediately checked into a highly recommended youth hostel called Hostel Inn. The facilities at the hostel were incredible and included a huge swimming pool, free breakfast, pool tables, wi-fi, and plenty of great common areas to hang out and meet other travelers. Like Milhouse in Buenos Aires, Hostel Inn proved to be where all of the in-crowd hangs out. We were surprised to see that even Mitch’s twin brother showed up to use the internet (pictured below).

On our second day in Puerto Iguazu we went to visit the stunning series of waterfalls at Parque National Iguazu. Located at the convergence of Brazil, Paraguay, and Argentina, the Iguazu area is a very special corner of the world. There are national parks on both the Brazilian and Argentinian side that provide different views of the falls as well as the spectacular natural setting they inhabit. We ended up visiting the Argentinian side of the falls, and it proved to be a very memorable day.

The waterfalls at Iguazu National Park are powerful and picturesque, set in an environment that is replete with rainbows and butterflies. The entire setting is so perfectly beautiful you would think you were looking at a Hallmark card or an inspirational poster at the dentist’s office. The infrastructure at the park was very developed, and throngs of tourists could easily navigate an elaborate series of catwalks that spread to every corner of the park. There was even a tiny train, the type of which you might find at a zoo or amusement park, that shuttled people around to different areas of the park.

Visiting the falls was great, but the train and all of the catwalks made me feel like I was on a ride at Disneyland. I personally preferred the untouched setting of Angel Falls in Venezuela more. Angel Falls felt truly remote, and just getting there was an adventure in itself. Iguazu Falls is so easy to get to I think it may even be wheelchair accessible.

The highlight of our visit to the falls was standing on top of Devil’s Throat. Devil’s Throat is the largest and most powerful of all the falls in the Iguazu area. Standing on the catwalk and looking over the edge of Devil’s Throat felt like looking off the end of the world. The powerful rushing water was quite a site, and the deafening sound of the falls added to the exhilaration of the experience.

On our third day in Puerto Iguazu, we took a short ferry across the Rio Parana to Ciudad del Este in Paraguay. Although a visa is required to visit Paraguay, it is possible to make a day trip without having to purchase one. We caught the ferry on an area of the river where you are able to see all three bordering countries at once. It was terrific to be standing in Paraguay, seeing Brazil on one side of the river and Argentina on the other.

Our visit to Paraguay was a short one and we mostly spent our time walking around Ciudad del Este, visiting its copious amounts of electronic shops. Ciudad del Este is a buzzing border town that is comparable to Tijuana, Mexico. Hordes of people from both Argentina and Brazil travel to this town to buy cheap, tax-free electronics that they then take back to their respective countries to sell.

Today we flew back to Buenos Aires, and Rori will be flying back to America tonight. Mitch will be traveling with us for another week before he heads back to Arizona. Tomorrow we will be making our way to Che Guavara’s hometown, Rosario. From there we will be crossing Argentina before entering our final destination, Chile.

We’ve been spending the last week in the tiny country of Uruguay. After leaving Rio de Janeiro, we took an 18-hour night bus south to Florianopolis. The fantastic weather in Rio had us temporarily deceived into thinking beaches as far south as Florianopolis might be the same. After arriving in Florianopolis, however, it became immediately obvious that the beach was out of the question. Overcast gray skies and temperatures in the mid 50’s were sobering reminders that it was winter as usual in South America.

We ended up spending two nights in Florianopolis, just hanging out. There were plenty of beautiful women there; however, there was a suspicious lack of decent restaurants. Overall, the town turned out to be pretty boring, so we soon found ourselves on a 20-hour bus bound for Montevideo, Uruguay.

As it turned out, there were only two direct buses per week that ran between Florianopolis and Montevideo. Unfortunately, the bus we took left at 10:00 a.m. and arrived in Montevideo at 3:30 a.m. the next morning, so after 20 lovely hours on that bus, we got dumped off in the wee hours of the morning at a freezing cold bus stop in Montevideo. Ah, the pleasures of world travel . . .

Montevideo, Uruguay’s capital, turned out to be a pleasant city that reminded me a little bit of Chicago in the winter. Coming from the bright sunshine of Rio de Janeiro to the chilly winds and gray skies of Uruguay felt like walking from a technicolor movie into a black and white one. Montevideo, however, like a black and white movie, had a classic mood and feel all of its own. The atmosphere of the city reminded me of the lobby of an old hotel from the 1920’s or 30’s. We found it full of classic old skyscrapers, and it had an abundance of once grand, but now faded, hotels.

Eric and I spent a fair amount of time checking out several hotel rooms scattered along the busy Avenida 18 de Julio. Our favorite experience was riding on a couple of very old elevators that felt as if their cords might snap at any moment. We ended up finding a great room with 15-foot tall doors, high ceilings, and a private balcony. We spent most of our time walking around Montevideo and observing daily Uraguayan life.

Uruguay has a pretty European feel to it, and most people who live here have light skin and dark hair. Everybody in Uruguay carries around a thermos and a special mate gourd for sipping piping-hot mate. Mate is a type of bitter tea and is considered the national drink of Uruguay. Mate is taken very seriously here, and its preparation is considered a ritual. In both Uruguay and Argentina, 5 times more mate is consumed than coffee.

After leaving Montevideo, we took a two-and-a-half hour bus to Colonia del Sacramento. Colonia is a charming old smuggler’s port, located just 2 hours across the Rio de la Plata from Buenos Aires. It is a sleepy, picturesque town that reminds me a little of Nantucket, only much more authentic. Lighthouses, tree-lined cobblestone streets, and old fashion street lamps give this quaint sea-side town an atmosphere that would make a fitting setting for a tale by Jack London or Herman Melville. There is also a terrific amount of old cars here, and we even saw some rare models made by Opel and a Rambler.

We have been lying low here in Colonia for the past 5 days, burning up some time before heading to Buenos Aires. In Buenos Aires we will be meeting up with Eric’s girlfriend Rori, as well as my friend Mitch Fonnsbeck. Our trip continues, and soon we will soon enter into our sixth and final month. We are still pushing forward from one country to the next, one season to the next, one genre to the next.

We are now in one of the greatest cities in the world, Rio de Janeiro. Rio is a legendary city of heroes, magic, and marvel. This city´s incredible natural setting alone is enough to count it among the world’s greatest metropolises. It is spectacularly set along the Atlantic coast amidst beautiful stretches of pristine beaches near lush, towering limestone peaks.

Rio de Janeiro is the place that every evil genius and criminal mastermind dreams of retiring to. Its famous beaches of Ipanema and Copacabana are perfect places to sip rum out of a coconut and chuckle about how you’ve out-foxed them all. Rio de Janeiro is the kind of city you escape to after pulling off a major heist or caper.

The caper we had to pull off to get here was a harrowing four-day-long overland crossing from Sucre, Bolivia. What may not look so far on a map of the world, turned out to be a good 70 hours of solid travel. It all started with our taking a 14-hour night bus from Sucre to Santa Cruz in eastern Bolivia. Although we didn’t make the excursion, we passed not far from La Higuera, where Ernesto “Che” Guevara (our hero and spiritual icon for this trip) met his Christ-like demise at the hands of CIA-trained Bolivian troops. I have heard there isn’t much to see other than the monument at the actual locale itself, but a tourism-based “Che trail” is under construction that tours through some of the last sites visited by the legendary revolutionary.

After a sleepless night on the bus, we arrived in Bolivia’s largest city, Santa Cruz, where we immediately headed to the train station and booked a ticket on the “Death Train” to the Brazilian border town of Quijarro. The train left at high noon and didn’t arrive until around 7:30 a.m. the next morning. As I’ve said before, at this point we are willing to do just about anything to avoid a bus and get the chance to travel by train. I am a huge train buff in general, so I really enjoyed the chance to take this obscure route through the heart of South America. The ride was great; however, the train was not a sleeper, so we spent a second sleepless night periodically repositioning ourselves within the tight confines of our chairs.

We arrived at the Brazilian border after a good 21 hours on the train. It was at this point that we noticed we had another 28-hour bus ride to reach our next intended destination, Rio de Janeiro. Although I was feeling just masochistic enough to make the trip, my travel partner Eric admitted exhaustion. I must admit, it didn’t take too much for him to convince me that we should take a full day to recover before subjecting ourselves to the further punishment the awaiting bus ride would bring.

Unfortunately, we decided this after we crossed the Brazilian border. That decision turned out to be unfortunate for us because it was at this point that we discovered exactly how expensive Brazil is. Coming from the poorest country in South America–Bolivia, to one of the richest–Brazil, proved to be quite a shock to the wallet. We ended up spending the night in the forgettable border town of Corumba, Brazil, after trudging around to countless overpriced hotels. Although both our hotel room and meal that night were little more than basic, they ended up being among the most expensive of the entire trip.

In addition to the “sticker-shock” we experienced from the expensive prices in Brazil, we also experienced a fair amount of confoundment when confronted with the Portuguese language. After everything we had learned from our four months in Spanish speaking countries, we were right back to square one language-wise, the second we entered Brazil.

I know what you’re thinking: “Isn’t Portuguese really similar to Spanish?” That’s what I was thinking; that is, up until the moment I heard Portuguese spoken. Granted, both Spanish and Portuguese are Romance languages derived from Latin and yes both look similar when written; however, hearing Portuguese spoken sounds nothing like Spanish. Even with our fierce arsenal of Spanish vocabulary, we were hard-pressed to make out a single Portuguese word spoken to us; they may as well have been speaking Vietnamese.

As difficult as it is to understand, I’ll admit that Portuguese is a beautiful language to hear spoken. There is a very distinctive accent used in Brazilian Portuguese that is evidenced in their lazy-sounding enunciation of words. In some ways it reminds me of a mix between a strong Boston accent and something like Cajun.

There are plenty of sounds like “sh” and “oi” used in Portuguese, and we found it hilarious that the Spanish number 2, pronounced “dose” in English, became “dois” in Portuguese. Also the saying “mas o menos” (more or less) in Spanish ends up sounding like a Steinbeck novel when given the Portuguese pronunciation “mice o menos.”

After having traveled through twelve countries so far on this trip, entering Brazil felt distinctively different. We felt as if we’d just landed on another continent that seemed like a strange mix between Latin America and Europe. Like a giant, unpolished emerald, the country of Brazil spreads over nearly half of the total area of South America. It is a world unto itself and I have no doubt a person could spend an entire six month trip just exploring it’s expansive terrain from the Amazonian rain forest to the wetlands of Pantanal. Fittingly, the Brazilian flag is a jewel-like emerald green in color and depicts the outline of the world.

After our day of recovery in Corumba we valiantly boarded what ended up being a 30-hour bus ride to Rio de Janeiro. The hardest part about a 30-hour bus ride is the last 8 hours or so. It requires a heroic effort to maintain a healthy mental composure while in such dire circumstances. A person needs the serenity and inner-peace of Siddhartha, working in tangent with the ass-kicking endurance of Charles Bronson.

In addition to the obvious pains inflicted by 30 hours on a bus, it ended up being the price of the ticket that really wounded us. The price per person was 220 Reais (pronounced hay-ice) which equate to a scorching $120 u.s.d. I repeat, that was the price for a bus, not a flight! In other South American countries, a similar bus ride would have been anywhere from $30- $55. It proved to be a depressing experience for both our psyches and our budgets.

Our non-stop bus trip was so long that it required 6 different drivers. The transfers from driver to driver made it feel as if the bus were an Olympic torch being passed from one runner to the next. We finally arrived in Rio’s main bus terminal around 7:00 p.m. on Friday night. We immediately took a cab to the Flamengo district and found a cheap hotel for the night. When I say “cheap,” I’m referring to the quality of the hotel, not the price, which was still expensive by our standards.

We have now spent the last 5 days here in Rio, and I can certainly say we love it. It’s probably my second favorite big city we have visited so far on our Central and South America trip, ranking not far behind my overall favorite: Panama City.

Rio is very cosmopolitan, and its streets are full of beautiful people of every skin color and shade imaginable. Walking along the boardwalks of Copacabana and Ipanema feel like walking along a catwalk at an international fashion show. It’s glamorous, it’s fabulous, it’s Rio.

Our first full day here was spent exploring the districts of Gloria, Lapa, and Santa Teresa. The highlight of the day was riding on the charming Bonde trolley through the neighborhood of Santa Teresa. Santa Teresa is a bohemian community full of old colonial mansions and rolling hills. It’s a neighborhood that would fit nicely in San Francisco, and the Bonde trolley definitely adds to this feeling. The trolley only costs 30 cents to ride, but if you stand on the thin wooden side-rail, and hang off the side, it’s free. We of course opted to do it like the locals and hung off the side. Riding the trolley in this manner made us feel like ninjas from an old kung-fu movie. We decided a movie could be made about us called American Trolley Ninjas in Rio.

Trouble struck our trolley when it encountered a car parked along the track. Although the trolley shares the road with cars, everybody in Rio knows you can’t park your car too close to the tracks. The owner of the car was not around so we and some other trolley-ninjas had to take matters into our own hands. As the pictures will show, we had to use our combined trolley-ninja training to bounce the car off the road. For all I know, this may be an everyday occurrence, but it seemed to take on epic proportions at the time. Once our mission was accomplished, our entire trolley burst into applause. We bashfully took our bows — it was just another day on the job for trolley-ninjas like us.

That night we got to bed around 10:30 p.m. The partying on the streets was loud enough to keep us awake, so we lay there silently, in the dark, unable to sleep. It was then that we realized that it was Saturday night in Rio de Janeiro!!! What the hell were we doing in bed at 10:30? We quickly got dressed again and headed out to carouse and cause trouble on the streets of Rio. We ended up checking out a couple of different clubs, both of which were multi-level affairs, set in beautiful 19th century mansions. The nightlife in Rio is certainly alive and kicking. There were throngs of people both at the clubs and out on the streets. We didn’t make it back to our hotel until around 4:30 a.m.

Our second day in Rio was spent sleeping until nearly 2:00 in the afternoon. After that we walked around the district of Botafogo and checked out Sugarloaf Mountain. Sugarloaf Mountain is a 600 million-year-old limestone peak that juts out of the water along the coast of the city. There is a cable car that you can take to the summit of Sugarloaf, but at a price of $20 each we opted to skip it.

We started off the next day with breakfast at our favorite Rio juice bar, Big Nectar. Rio is jam-packed with great juice bars serving an array of exotic fruit juices. Our favorite juice is made from the Amazonian super-fruit called açai. It is known for being one of the strongest natural anti-oxidants in the world and has a terrific flavor that tastes like chocolate-covered blueberries. Although you can find forms of açai in certain specialty food stores in the U.S., they simply don’t compare to a fresh glass, blended right in front of you.

After our fix of coffee, acai and pastries, we walked to the cog-train station at the bottom of Corcovado Mountain. Corcovado Mountain is a unique hump-shaped peak that overlooks Rio from the west. Fittingly, the name Corcovado actually means “hunchback.” It is on top of this towering peak that the famous statue of Christo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer) looms with his arms outstretched.

Although the cog-train to the top of Corcovado was also $20, this was one attraction we could not pass up. After the 20 minute train ride, we arrived at the top. At over 700 meters above the city, arriving at the summit of Corcovado felt like arriving at an island in the sky. We were well above a majority of the clouds, and the views of Rio were breathtaking, albeit a little cloudy.

In addition to the wonderful views, the placid-faced statue of the 39.6-meter-high, 700 ton statue was truly a marvelous vision to behold. Christo Redentor is both the icon for Rio de Janeiro as well as its guardian angel. It certainly deserves its recently elevated position to be included among the new seven wonders of the world. The only annoying part of the experience was witnessing every tourist replicate the same outstretched arm pose for a cheesy, candid photo.

The next day we spent walking around the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. As I wrote before, this is the place where the beautiful people are. It is a very posh area of town, similar to South Beach in Miami. I was surprised to learn that the original Copacabana is actually the fishing village that we visited in Bolivia along the shores of Lake Titicaca. For some reason I had assumed the more famous Copacabana of Rio must be the original.

A lot of the high-rise neighborhoods around this area reminded me of Central Park West in NYC. If you had the bank role, it would be easy to make Rio de Janeiro your home base. Like Panama City, it is not only a great place to visit, but would also be a great place to live for the rest of your life. We are going to spend another day or so here before heading south. Right now I’m not sure if we’re going to visit Sao Paulo or skip it and head straight for the beaches of Florianopolis.

We are continuing on our adventure unimpeded. No boundary, be it physical or mental, will stop our relentless march upon the capital cities of the world. We are chasing the muse at all cost. To each place we bring our own personal style, our own unique way of seeing the world, and creating it as we see fit. Sensitivity, humor, and imagination are the tools required when traveling through the topography of the world, and of the mind. In each place we are building tiny empires, like sandcastles on the beach.

After leaving Copacabana, we took a three and a half hour bus to Bolivia’s capital, La Paz. As we entered the city from the heights of the district called El Alto, we saw before us a sprawling metropolis, dramatically situated in terraced fashion, across a vast and deep Andean valley. At an altitude of 3,660 meters, La Paz is the highest capital city in South America. This high altitude seems to affect everything from the mentality of the people to the quantity of foam on a freshly poured beer.

La Paz is a city with its own crazy style and an attitude as distinctive as its altitude. Its streets are bustling with street-food vendors, sidewalk-invading storefront markets, and plenty of pedestrian traffic. As with Lake Titicaca, the people here appear a bit more rugged and seem to have a certain rustic nature you can only find in people from mountainous regions.

On our first night we stayed in the ever-popular Loki hostel. Loki is a string of three hostels that were started by a group of four backpackers about five years ago. We have now stayed at all three locations: Lima, Cuzco, and La Paz. All the Loki locations have a party atmosphere and each is the quintessential “backpacker hostel” for their respective cities.

The bar at the La Paz location was very stylish with high ceilings, velvet curtains, and a collection of gilded antique mirrors. Unfortunately, the rooms were pretty abysmal. We were first offered one of the only two doubles in the entire hostel. It was a dank, windowless troll’s den that smelled of mildew and lichen. We ended up opting for a small dorm that was also shabby, but at least didn’t appear to be out of a horror film.

The next morning we awoke early and took a cab to the Brazilian consulate. We had read in our guidebook that the procedures to obtain a Brazilian visa should be straight-forward and that they were often issued on-the-spot. However, having dealt with several embassies and consulates abroad on other trips, I knew that each embassy was its own beast, and my experiences with them have spanned the spectrum from delightful to nightmarish.

As our cab approached the Brazilian consulate, I thought back to my best and worst consulate experiences. My worst experience was visiting the Chinese embassy in Moscow, Russia. This was during my third backpacking trip when my passport was stolen for the first and, thank god, only time. My ex-girlfriend Gina and I had just arrived in Moscow from Saint Petersburg. We had gotten little sleep on the train, and the first thing I had to do was head out into the gigantic metropolis of Moscow, alone, to find the Chinese embassy.

I was under the gun because I had a limited amount of time left before my Russian visa would expire. My plan for the trip was to cross Siberia, then visit Mongolia and China before taking a ferry to Japan and eventually flying out of Tokyo. I knew if I couldn’t get a Chinese visa in Russia, I would have to gamble on getting one in Ulaanbaatar, and perhaps be stranded in Mongolia.

The Chinese embassy in Moscow turned out to be a bleak 200 person queue that was loosely held together by screaming and argumentative embassy employees. After standing in the line for nearly 4 hours, they shut the door in our faces and told us they wouldn’t be open for another 2 weeks. Luckily, the Chinese embassy in Ulaanbaatar turned out to be my best embassy experience, and I ended up getting my much-needed visa in less than a day which enabled me to continue my trip as planned.

Fortunately, the Brazilian consulate of La Paz, Bolivia, only had a few people waiting when we arrived at its opening time of 9:00 a.m. After hearing our number called, we approached the clerk’s window and inquired about the visa. We were then informed that in addition to the requirements we expected– such as the ‘reciprocal’ $100 charge, an application, a passport and passport-sized photo–we also needed to provide bank and credit card info for the past three months, a yellow fever vaccination card, and a ticket out of Brazil.

This certainly stymied us, at least temporarily. The consulate hours were slim, from 9:00 a.m. to 12:45 p.m, so we spent the rest of the day reluctantly performing the tasks required for the visa. We accessed our bank accounts online and printed them out, then proceeded to locate our yellow fever vaccination cards and our electronic airline tickets scheduled out of Santiago, Chile, in October. We weren’t able to get it all done before the consulate closed at 12:45 that day, but we were able to return early the next day and successfully turn in our applications. We were then informed that there would be a 2 day processing period before we received our visas.

On our second day in La Paz, we changed our accommodation to a very beautiful and centrally located hotel called Hotel Fuentes. Tucked away behind the Plaza de San Francisco, Hotel Fuentes was a bright, clean hotel, with an amazing view from our private 4th story room. Its location was in a very charming area of town full of steep, cobbled one-way streets that were lined with stores selling handicrafts, souvenirs, and vibrantly-colored local clothing.

Our hotel was also just down the street from an area called the Mercado de Hechiceria (The Witches’ Market). This so-called “witches’ market” turned out to be an intriguing array of small, mostly outdoor stalls, selling everything from holistic herbs and remedies to the peyote-like, hallucinogenic cactus called San Pedro. I forgot to mention in my last Peru blog post that we were surprised to find that the central market in Cuzco also sold not only San Pedro, but also the very powerful hallucinogenic shaman’s brew known as Ayahuasca. I may write more about these intriguing, legal hallucinogenics in the future.

In addition to exploring the witches’ market, we also visited the Museo de la Coca. It turned out to be a pretty humble exhibit that focused mostly on the history of the coca leaf. The overall tone of the museum was fairly balanced, and they did a good job of showing the positive uses of the coca leaf, while also showing the devastating effects of the chemically produced drug, cocaine. We found the museum interesting because it dealt with a subject that is hotly debated in Bolivia right now: whether or not coca leaves should be legal to grow.

Bolivia’s president Evo Moralez is the first indigenous person to serve in that position and is an avid defender of the coca leaf. He is a one-time coca grower, and his politics are the kind that would have him sitting at the same table as Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez. He has started a few popular slogans here, such as: la coca es no cocaine (coca is not cocaine), and coca es no drogas (coca is not a drug). “Evo,” as he is affectionately known, is also infamous for holding up a coca leaf at the United Nations and pointing out that its color is green, not white.

On our third day in La Paz, we participated in what was touted as ¨the Greatest Outdoor Sporting Adventure in all of South America: Mountain Biking Down the Most Dangerous Road in the World!!!” What may sound like the tag line for a production by P.T. Barnum, turned out to have nearly as many shenanigans.

Eric and I had both heard plenty about Bolivia’s so-called “Road of Death” before we even began this trip. I had even seen a cable television special devoted exclusively to this dramatic and deadly stretch of mountain road that connects La Paz to the town of Coroico. Numerous surveys have shown it to be the most dangerous road in the world, with over 100 deaths annually.

The circus that was our all-day biking tour started at 7:30 a.m, when we were bused to the beginning of our route. After being outfitted in ridiculous matching outfits that made us look like rejected construction workers, we were sized up for our bikes and given a safety speech. Our guides were an American guy named Zack and an Englishman named Aaron. Both were outgoing guys, but came off as a little dense.

We started our road adventure by plunging down a paved section of what is called the “New Death Road.” The New Death Road is a recently opened alternative route to the Old Death Road which is the most dangerous in the world. After cruising down a stretch of the New Death Road at speeds around 40 mph, we turned off onto the infamous Old Death Road. From here it was a knuckle-jarring scramble down a rocky, dusty narrow road with huge drops and lots of blind corners.

Our group was stopped periodically by the guides to be told grizzly stories about certain gruesome accidents that had occurred at this or that particular turn. Zack and Aaron often ended up contradicting each other and arguing over whether it was two Jewish boys who were racing that went over the cliff, or if it was a 19-year-old French girl trying to pass a truck. Anyhow, there were plenty of crosses and memorials along the route for the bus-loads of people and the 15 mountain bikers that had lost their lives on the road.

Although I enjoyed the location and the mountain biking, the overall feeling of the tour drove me nuts. Everything seemed too planned out and contrived, and being herded together with 20 other people felt oppressive. My feelings were mixed throughout the day, everything from excitement to outright disgust. The whole experience ended up feeling gimmicky, and the tour was far too choreographed. I started to feel like I was with a bunch of jocks that thought it was the coolest thing in the world to conquer the World’s Most Dangerous Road. So there I was, feeling ridiculous, plunging down the Road of Death as fast as I could, showing that I could conquer it as well as the next fat tourist.

To make matters worse, we were forced to spend two hours at some remote hotel after we were finished with the bike ride. From there we were told it was a 3 to 4 hour bus ride back to La Paz. The bus ride turned out to be the most grueling challenge of the day (far worse than the “Road of Death,” ho, ho) and took over 5 hours.

During this excruciatingly long ride, our guide Aaron drank massive amounts of beer and ran his mouth about everything from his disenfranchised youth and ineffectual father to his passion for consuming large amounts of illicit substances. By the end of the ride he had finished his soliloquy about everything that is wrong with the world and went on to ask if anyone wanted to order “something special.” Eric and I exited the bus at 10:30 p.m. after nearly 15 hours at the mercy of these fools. We had visions of beating our tour guides to death and setting fire to their offices.

We spent our last day in La Paz walking around the barrio El Alto and taking in its incredible views of the city. El Alto is a fairly poor neighborhood that has sprung up on the steep, mountainous slopes around La Paz. There aren’t really sidewalks in El Alto, just staircases. Like Casco Viejo in Panama City, it is an area where the poor and working-class still inhabit residences with priceless, world-class views.

After leaving La Paz, we spent one night in the mining town Potosi, and we are now in Sucre. Tomorrow we’ll be taking a night bus to Santa Cruz, then boarding the so-called “Death Train” to the Brazilian border. I know what you’re thinking, “death road, death train, death bus–death, death, death, blah blah blah.” From the border it will be at least another day or two of travel to reach Sao Paulo. Here are some pictures of Potosi and Sucre:

I’ll leave you until next time with some quotes to ponder:

“Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much?” - Walt Whitman

“The world has known three great fools: Jesus Christ, Don Quixote, and me.” – Simon Bolivar.