Luke Edward Ollett

Author: luke

  • How Not to Send Someone to Germany

    Something I learned traveling around Europe and will never forget is the fact that it is never a good idea to stay up all night to avoid staying in a hotel or catching some early morning event like a train or a race. Well this story is a tale of a group of travelers about to leave Sweden on a 6am train who have decided to stay up all night to avoid the ludicrous exchange rate of the Swedish Krona.

    We had just been sent on a secret mission into the archipelago (large grouping of islands) near Stockholm. Our mission was a success and only marked with a few dozen mosquito bites for those in our group with blood that tastes like Malbec. We rendezvous with my cousin for dinner and plan the night’s activities. Our only restrictions were:

    • We couldn’t stay at my cousin’s house because houses there are a total of 42 square metres. You do the maths. Not possible to fit five stinking guys in there.
    • We had a mandatory train to catch at 6am and we needed to account for the unknown route to the train station itself.
    • We didn’t want to pay for a hostel as they were too expensive.

    Given this criteria, any self-respecting traveller will decide to find the biggest and best bar and rage it until morning comes. My cousin advises us as to where to go, however there is a problem. In Sweden the best places are 25 and over and I don’t think any of us were 25. Also we looked like scum after sleeping on the ground the night before. The solution was to arrive very early to the bar and establish a presence. This proved to work very well and we all immediately spent as much money as we could at the bar. This meant long island iced teas which cost about $20 at this place. The night continued and ended up being a lot of fun. My cousin left us to our own devices around 10:30 or so. Next door to this bar was another very happening bar so eventually we decide to all give that one a shot since we were spending all our money really fast at this posh place.

    It is about this time that everything started to go wrong. (I am going to avoid using real names here to protect the identities of the fallen.) Phillipo found his way onto a very comfortable bench seat and found himself falling asleep at about 2am. The bouncers would keep coming over to him and tell him to get a grip and he would wake up and sit up straight. Then slowly, while holding his beer, he would start to tip over and every time the bottle was about to spill the bouncers would catch him. Then the bouncers were preoccupied (which I will get to in a minute) and missed the leaning tower of Phillipo and he ends up spilling his beer all over the seat and remains asleep. Eventually the bouncers arrive knowing exactly what happened and cursed themselves for not kicking him out earlier. Phillipo is banished from the bar.

    So why were the bouncers preoccupied? Turns out that Mikael thought no one would notice if, while walking by the VIP section, he would just take the bottle of champagne out of the cooling container and start pounding it out of the bottle in front of the actual VIPs. Surprisingly this caused quite a commotion and there was a big hullabaloo with Mikael and the VIPs and the bouncers. In the end Mikael loses and is literally dragged out into the street.

    The rest of us realise that our numbers are depleting and we are not sure where our fallen have gone, so we end up leaving ourselves. We exit the bar at 2:30 and find Phillipo harassing some locals for a cigarette or something. Still no sign of Mikael. We walk a bit and hear some loud shouts of laughter. We find a group of youths huddled around a homeless guy laying on a bus bench. Turns out this homeless guy is Mikael and he is clutching his red carrying bag which is filled, among other things, with a passport, iPod, speakers, money, and half a brain. The youths were saying funny things to him rather loudly and he would just not move, or didn’t care.

    We wake Mikael up and go into the park with the youths to talk politics and compare cultures. Mikael falls asleep again. Eventually it is time to get to the train station. We find our way there miraculously and have to wait for 15 minutes. While waiting, Mikael falls asleep again. We take this opportunity to cover him in everything we could possibly find in our backpacks. Mainly shaving cream, a lot of moisturiser, and the pièce de résistance: we draw a swastika on his forehead, nice and big. The train arrives and we need to find our seats. Mikael gets on and sits down in the first seat he can find. We go to our seats not caring and fall asleep. We arrive in Munich and realise that Mikael is not on the train.

    Turns out that Mikael was asked by the conductors for his ticket but he could not respond coherently. The conductors didn’t like this. That, or they didn’t like the fact that this guy was sprawled over two seats covered in creams that were getting all over the seats and was sporting a giant swastika on his forehead as we were about an hour from arriving in Germany. So they kicked him off.

    In one of those Ferris Bueller-type moments, we rendezvous with Mikael on a train going to Prague when coincidentally he has the same train, the same car, and the same cabin as we did. Weird. Was it right to send someone into Germany pissed drunk with a swastika on his forehead and enough moisturiser to lubricate the Swiss army? Probably not, but it makes for a good story.

    Damn I wish I had pictures of this.

  • First Argentinian Dupes

    While traveling around Europe, our group coined the term ‘dupe’ which is basically to be tricked. Dupes happen all the time, especially in a foreign country where you do not speak the language. Thus far I have been rather lucky and I have only been duped twice. Here they are.

    Dupe #1: Shower Door Attacked Me

    I am well happy with my shower. It takes a moment for the water to heat up but I got pressure like the pee stream of a horse, the shower is large enough for all sorts of activities, and the shower head is well above my head so I do not need to duck down. To enter the shower you step over an 18-inch rise in the floor which acts as the basin for the shower. On this rise are two standard glass shower doors. I was aware that one of the doors was liable to come off its track, which it did a few times, but with caution it was not a problem. Well one day the maid had moved my toothpaste, so I had to open up the other door. Basically she broke my routine and this is what happens when you break routines. I open up the door to get the toothpaste because I like getting nice and sloppy in the shower while I brush my teeth. While I am opening the door, the thing falls out of its track and the entire weight of the glass door fell the 18 inches and landed square on my left big toe. I yelped but held in any more noise as I waited the two or three seconds for the pain to reach my brain. The pain flowed through my nerves and hit my brain like a fat couple having amazing sex. I had to stay in the shower for about 20 minutes while I let the blood flow down the drain.

    It has been almost a month now and the nail refuses to come off. It definitely hurts and causes me to wake up in the night when it gets caught on a sheet or something. When it does finally come off I plan on sending it to my friend Ken in an unmarked envelope filled with shreds of paper to hide the contents.

    Dupe #2: Bought a Bike on Mercadolibre.com

    One of my plans to work on down here in South America was something along these lines in no particular order:

    1. Befriend bike shop and get deals and sponsorships and free bike tune ups and shoot the shit with them and learn Spanish. (COMPLETED)
    2. Buy a bike to fix up and replace the track bike I had built back home that was stolen. Use this bike as main form of transportation to avoid having race bike stolen.
    3. Train hard and go on an Andean bike trip so I can continue to disgrace Xavier at cycling.
    4. Enter races and dominate the Argentine cycling scene.

    Well I went on mercadolibre.com, which is the South American eBay (in fact I think it is owned by eBay). I find this bike The bike in question that fits all my criteria. A side note here: all the bikes that people ride around here are old ladies’ mountain bikes with fat wheels, likely to accommodate for the random streets that are still cobblestone. So the bike is 600 pesos (almost $200) but I figure it has everything that I want and this is going to come home with me anyway to the States. I communicate with the guy on MSN Messenger in Spanish regarding the bike and where to meet up. I meet him in the slum part of BsAs at the train station, which is very far from me. This is on December 31st at 6pm, by the way, and fortunately I had Parv there to support me. I inspect the bike, realize that there were some things wrong but figured my trusty bike shop could fix it up for me. Make the exchange, find out that the train won’t let me on so we had to find a taxi that would let me put this damn bike in — which was not easy. So that added to the cost. Bike shop is closed The aftermath for holidays so I have to wait a week until I can drop it off. In the meantime I purchase some paint stripper and sandpaper and plan on removing all the paint so I can have it prepped for a classic Luke paint job, even though I wouldn’t have crazy neighbour Mark to do most of the work like on the last bike. More cost added. Drop the bike off at the bike shop, come back to find out that they cannot fix it because the frame has been so badly damaged that the parts just do not exist that can fit the bottom bracket. So basically I am left with a knackered bike that if fixed would be a danger to whoever rides it. My plan is to resell it or part it out, hopefully back to the same evil bastard that sold it to me. All together, I am out $200 on this expedition — another example of my love for bikes.

  • Football vs. Futbol

    Yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday. I have never been a big fan of American football. In fact I didn’t even know who was playing until a few hours before. I googled “Where to watch the Super Bowl in BsAs” and found my spot. Around 10pm I left my house anticipating a night full of English language and rabid football fans frothing at the mouth wearing that football jersey everyone told them not to bring to South America. On the way I stopped by my favourite empanada place to fill up on some cheap eats and booze before I was forced to pay American prices. The place was packed with people standing on toilets and sitting on the beer fridges which is not normal for this place. But it was normal when the TV is showing the Boca Jrs v. River Plate futbol (soccer) game. I decided to stay and mingle with the locals and drink two litres of Quilmes and watch the first half of the game which ended at 1-0 Boca. I then found my way to the Super Bowl bar and watched part of the game. The futbol game was between two of the biggest teams in the country being played at a neutral field so I thought it was a good chance to compare to the Super Bowl.

    Many of my friends back home will go into great detail about why football is an amazing game. Most of their descriptions are comprised of some sort of comparison with being on a battlefield and you have the general who is barking out orders and how hard it can be to move only a yard and all this hullabaloo. All very accurate. Football players train to do a single activity and do it very well. That activity might be running, catching, blocking, hitting, throwing, kicking, whatever. Then plays are constructed around these particular activities which are then practiced over and over again. Then in a game time situation these plays will be executed with precision and hopefully result in some gained yardage or stop the opposition moving forward. The quarterback will have a sheet of paper taped to his arm with a list of these plays since there are so many he could never remember them all. He then has a microphone/speaker in his ear which is connected to a multitude of people on the sidelines who are analysing pictures taken from a blimp, the moisture in the air, the colours of the other team’s socks, and a bunch more of other factors which dictate what play the team will try next. The team is usually comprised of 50 or more players with maybe half as many coaches and a small army of support staff to clean helmets, pass water bottles around, and so on.

    Indeed. Futbol takes on a slightly different approach. Each team consists of players who, for the most part, are able to play any position on the field and this is a necessity. Futbol rarely ever stops and the play will shift from back to front to left to right and without notice you might find yourself being a defender or with an opportunity to score a goal. A team usually has two to three coaches with some athletic trainers to do the water bottle passing. The coach can bark commands and is often compelled to look good on the sidelines but he and everyone else knows that once the game starts, the fate of the game is up to the players.

    Football is a game of fleeting opportunities that give any given player the chance to be a star or a failure. Futbol is a game that allows you to construct these opportunities. Not to say there are no fleeting moments but they are rare. Football is a game of incremental satisfaction while futbol is a game of ultimate satisfaction. This can better be explained with some examples. At the American bar last night, everyone would sit down and be quiet. Every now and then a sudden jump and roar of celebration as their team caught a pass and gained 14 yards. This celebration would be intertwined with a lot more moments of dissatisfaction as the team failed in some way. At the Argentine futbol game people would not blink for minutes at a time. You could see the people slowly rising out of their seats as if to prepare for what was about to happen but then it never would happen so they would lower back down and maybe lubricate their eyes or mouth. Then if a goal does go in, the house goes crazy and only then do they feel satisfied. There are times when players mess up and people will scoff but it isn’t the end of the game and they can recover. Football keeps you with small bursts of somewhat good things. Soccer keeps you the entire time with the construction of the goal, or the ultimate satisfaction.

    A 0-0 game in soccer is not a bad game. It is possible to be exhausted after a 0-0 game. You could have been kept in this tantric, almost-about-to-erupt state as both teams are hovering on the edge of victory but equally amazing plays are preventing them from doing that.

    The Argentines were generally not so drunk. The Americans were all drunk and slurring. The Argentines tended to pay attention to the game. The Americans were all over the place. The Argentines applauded frequently. Americans yelled. The Argentine game had no commercials. The Super Bowl is famous for its commercials and people even say they look forward to watching them. The crowd at the Argentine game was intense — it gave me the shivers just watching it as the two teams walked out.

    These two sports are very representative of the two political systems being represented by the two countries. Football gives the middle class small incentives to make themselves think that they are getting a lot when they really are not. Thus the weird scoring system. Futbol is more indicative of the very poor fighting for what they want and only every now and then they get what they want regardless of how many people might be supporting them.

    In conclusion the soccer game was much better. I ended up leaving the American bar before the game was over due to an overflow of oversized American males.

  • Ko Phangan and the Full Moon Party

    Once a month during the high tourist season, there is a giant congress of travellers on a small island on the east coast of Thailand called Ko Phangan. In the summer of 2005, along with my traveling companion Nic, I set my sights on this congress which is better known as the Full Moon Party. This tale is not only of the full moon night but also of the amazing island that is kind enough to cater to such a debauchery-filled event.

    I left Chiang Mai with a royal reception from the hostel I was staying at. Their payment for my soccer skills, which had raised their status in the community immensely, was some pastries, some soda, and a Valium pill to prepare me for my 14-hour train ride to Bangkok. Trains in Thailand are the best way to get around and are ludicrously cheap. They have as many as 50 cars and most are set up to be slept in. For next to nothing you can ride these trains without a bed which is what most of the locals do, but for an additional dollar, I might as well get a bed. There are two problems with these trains:

    1. They tend to stop a lot throughout the night and these towns are in the middle of nowhere from what I can tell and the stop length can be as long as 10 minutes. There are many stories running around that at these stops, a horde of knife-wielding children run onto the train and cause havoc and destruction while they sort through your bags and tickle your sleeping feet. This never happened to me.
    2. The beds were about 3 inches too short for me so I never really got comfortable and only with copious amounts of booze could I fall asleep for a long enough period of time to feel rested.

    Chiang Mai is in the far north of Thailand and the plan was to meet up with Nic in Bangkok before continuing to the far south of Thailand to get to Ko Phangan. I arrive in town and after some miscommunication and wandering I find Nic in some bar in the most touristy part of town. He looked like he fit right in with his giant backpack. Until this time I was traveling on my own for 3 weeks and it was good to have a companion.

    We set off to find travel to the island and eventually we get ourselves on a bus leaving that day. We bought a bottle of whisky and headed off. The whisky was called some sort of dragon whisky and it was really bad, bad enough that we didn’t really drink any. After 8 hours on the bus we get off and are not really sure what to do. There are no signs or people helping us so most of the bus just starts walking and I am pretty sure that everyone was following everyone else. Eventually we found a boat which seemed to be stacking a huge pile of backpacks on it so we all assumed that this was our boat to the island, which it was.

    On the boat most people were trying to sleep or recover. There is this sense while you travel that you are perpetually at a loss for sleep or nourishment which is probably true most of the time. The trick is to not let this get to you and just keep at it hard and consistently. A few of us persistent travellers decide to fight the feeling of sleep deprivation and make our way to the roof of the boat. Maybe a group of 8 of us circle up and become friends and talk and reminisce and philosophise and finish the really bad whisky. Although I am 100% English, my skin is rather dark and I can handle most sunny situations without regard for being burnt by the sun. However, 4 hours on the roof of a boat moving terribly slowly through some scenic waterscapes while drinking was not a good idea. Afterwards I was burnt but it was negligible. Nic however was massacred by the sun with his fresh and pasty American skin.

    We arrive on the island and decide to take a tip on a hostel which is in the complete other direction from where everyone else is going. We arrive and find the place that I am looking for whenever I travel. A beachside community of huts with hammocks out front and only white sand in between you and crystal blue water. We make ourselves comfortable, introduce ourselves to the very friendly Dutch girls next door, one of which had maybe the worst sunburn I had ever seen and I wasn’t sure I should point or just suppress my laughter when I was introduced. This hostel had all the amenities and we stayed for almost a week. You could go to the restaurant, lay down on some large couch, get whatever you wanted, charge it to your room, and do this for 5 days and we only spent a little more than $100.

    Likely the next best thing to the actual Full Moon party were the motorcycles. For $3 a day you could rent yourself a little motorcycle that could reach speeds up to 40 mph. The trick was that if you broke anything on this bike, you were going to be charged thousands of baht and you would have no idea what for, so the insurance was to not do anything dangerous. We gather up a gang of riders, drink some beers, and start zooming around this island. The roads were good for the most part towards the main city but that is not where we went. We take some dirt road and head inland trying to make our way to the other side of the island. The trail is tough and arduous and the guy who had the sunburnt girl on the back could not handle her and fell over several times. She opted to ride on my bike afterwards — good call. We make it to the other side of the island to what appeared to be another beachside hostel resort. However we get there and walk around and there was no one there. The place appeared to have had people there not too long ago but walking into some of the rooms, there were spider webs and what have you. Very eerie indeed. One of the bikes was running out of gas and to add to the mystery of this place we found a barrel of gas. However we couldn’t figure out if it was diesel or not. We convinced ourselves it wasn’t and headed off. About a mile into the jungle the bike dies and we all immediately realise that we had put diesel in it. Out of nowhere come two jungle men with a tool box. We try to communicate with them but they don’t seem to care. They inspect the bike, put gas on his hand, taste it, and he knows immediately. They spend some 30 minutes or so draining the gas, giving us more gas, sharing our smoke with the dirtiest hands I had ever seen, and then I paid them the equivalent of $5 and we were back in action. Fortunately nothing really bad happened to us in our biking adventures. However there were several people you would run into on the roads that were just covered in road rash and you would ask them what happened and they would recollect some story of them being too drunk and hitting the high side of a curb and never making it back.

    At our hostel there was some audacious Dutch guy who had a knack for always showing up while we were smoking. We called him Snoop because there was a popular movie out at the time where Snoop Dogg is basically this type of person. Karma got this guy bad though… he bragged about buying some 12 pills for the Full Moon party and was trying to sell them to everybody. That is not my cup of tea and I refused and I think everyone else did too out of sheer fact that this dude was slightly off. Two days after the party he shows up to tell us that they were really some intense tranquillisers and he took too many and passed out on the beach and was robbed and he also spent hundreds of dollars on the pills themselves. Classic story of what not to do while travelling in this sort of place.

    The night of the party arrives and we make our way into town on the bikes and plan to get them the next day since we anticipated the festivities lasting all night and morning. We arrive and start walking the beach and it was already filled with excitement. The beach was long, maybe half a mile, filled with bars facing the water. Each bar took over its part of the beach and played its own type of music. So as you walked down the beach you would be going in and out of reggae, to rap, to techno, to trance, to oldies, and much more. At one end of the beach, up on the rocks rather precariously, is the mushroom bar. You can go here to imbibe the local vegetation for $12 which I think everyone was supposed to do here. We go and have our share which didn’t seem like much at all and then walk back into town. The party is raging even more and the people are getting out of control as each minute passes. We walk down a street to find a hookah bar to wait for things to kick in. We settle down and meet these guys who are probably doing the same thing. I ask them to paint a huge neon yin-yang on my back and they oblige while letting me try their hookah which was definitely mixed with something. Nic got himself a killer dragon on his back. Just as I thought things were starting to be activated, I had an undeniable urge to take a shit. An urge that could not be ignored regardless of what country you are in.

    Tangential note here: The toilets in Thailand are of the squatting variety. Two footholds on either side and have at it. To flush you would scoop water out of a bucket next to it and then just dump it down the hole you just shat in and this was sufficient, maybe with two or three scoops. These buckets of flushing water were always filled with some interesting contraption which would gather water from the ceiling, funnel it down a spiral bamboo shoot, then fill up a beaker until boiling which would pop a balloon, allowing the water to fall in the bucket. There was rarely toilet paper and many times you just had a water hose you could squirt up your backside, sort of like a manual bidet.

    I find a toilet, likely the only one with toilet paper miraculously. I spend a good 15 minutes exerting a lot of force and energy and put it up there with one of the most difficult ones I have ever had. Afterwards however, I was a new man and ready to rock!

    After some walking I end up losing Nic and we go our separate ways to enjoy our own adventure for the night. I find a guy we met on the boat roof who is with two lovely Dutch girls. We take a seat on the porch of some house claiming it was ours and have a drink or two. Without any words being spoken, we split into two groups and me and my new companion wander onto the beach. The next few hours were filled with sweaty beach dancing, fire rope jumping, water splashing, rock climbing, sand rolling, and who knows what else. But it was amazing. I truly love dancing when you can just let everything go and do whatever your body feels like doing regardless of music or social stigma and this beach was filled with people thinking they were the inventors of many sorts of new dances. Come morning we took the bike back to the hostel at breakneck speed despite the shrieks I was hearing behind me and went for a morning sobering swim which was mainly memorable in that we were some kilometre off the shore but still only to our waist in water.

    This night stands out in my head as one of the best nights I have ever had and I am sure this entry does not give it justice. The entry in my actual travel journal is similar. Nic has the pictures and hopefully he will get me these at some point and I will update this entry to maybe justify some of this ridiculousness.

    One more note from this island… Nic at some point befriends a local island girl. Maybe they had something in the drunken hours of the night but she came back to the hut we were staying at. And then the next day she never left. She couldn’t speak English and I think she was just waiting for Nic to put a ring on her finger and be her sugar daddy for life. I think he did buy her some food at some point.

  • Uruguay Road Trip

    A short distance from Buenos Aires is the small little country of Uruguay. Widely known as the most popular vacation spot for all the Argentinos as well as an easy hop, skip, and a jump for travelers to extend their visa duration. I convinced my traveling companion, B, to join me as we embarked on what ended up being a 1500 km road trip around the south-eastern heel of the country. As usual I made no prior arrangements and was really only armed with stories and suggestions that I had heard from people I had talked to. These stories mostly consisted of “Everything is booked and you will not find anywhere to stay” and other methods of saying pretty much the same thing since it was the high season.

    B and I arrive from Iguazu into BsAs at 9am after a 19-hour bus ride. The bus was more than comfortable and supplied a seat that reclined all the way down and a stewardess-type person to bring meals every now and then. I only spilled wine on myself once which made for a pleasant aroma to waft me and B to sleep as we traversed the amazingly unexciting countryside on a double decker bus which I believe to be approaching speeds in excess of 160 km/h while we were asleep, but that doesn’t impress me as I have topped 280 km/h on my streetbike.

    We had reservations on the buquebus for 11am so we quickly go back to my house to change out of our wet clothes (from the rain and waterfalls up north) and pack for Uruguay. We go through customs, collect a few stamps in the old passport and go find that all the seats are taken up and we decide to eat our empanadas on the floor. The boat was only an hour so it wasn’t so bad except for the surprising amount of crying babies.

    Arrive in Colonia and jump on a bus to take us to Montevideo. First impressions of the landscape is that it looks just like Argentina. No wonder they like to come here. Bus takes two hours and we show up at the Tres Cruces bus station without a plan other than we needed to get some money and a place to stay as well as sort out a rental car for the week. I was designated the cash dispenser since B didn’t get paid until Friday so she would pay with her credit card whenever possible. We agreed to figure out expenses once the trip was done. While I get cash, B sorts out a hotel and rental car. Hotel is near the beach and four-star, called the Ermitage. We drop our stuff off, then get in a taxi and I instruct him to take us down the infamous rambla that meanders its way down the entire coast until we got to ciudad viejo where apparently the excitement was. It was roughly 5pm on inauguration day and we missed the major TV events and decided that it was not worth watching a limo slowly move through some streets. We eat at a parrilla where B gets quite possibly the largest fish ever after we agreed we were just going to have a snack as to not ruin dinner. We then proceed to walk the streets looking for bathing suits. We had agreed to do as the locals and wear tiny bathing suits, a thong for B and tight booty shorts for myself. We fail and end up back at the hotel, play King’s Cup with ourselves producing some interesting pictures. We miss dinner and the nightlife which I had heard was not so great in Montevideo. General consensus from everyone I talked to is that you only needed one night in Montevideo. They did have a velodrome on the map which got me very excited but I did not see it.

    The next day we pick up our rental car (Budget rental car), fill out some dubious all-Spanish forms and agree to not get insurance thinking that the American Express card would have us covered in all instances. It saved us $50 so why not — I was a good driver if not a very very fast one. The plan for the day was to drive the interior of the country and get to Punta del Diablo. We start out on the coast, Luke ignoring all of B’s claims to cut inland, and we stay on the coast for a while until we get to Piriapolis to have lunch. Beautiful city and the place where we found our bathing suits. I got the chicken, tuna, onion, tomato salad. This turns out to have exactly those ingredients and no more. It was horrible and I am sorry to B for making fun of her getting the delicious pizza and ignoring the culture. I felt quite sick for a day or two.

    We carried on straight to Diablo. The roads in Uruguay are well kept and extremely long and straight. These are the types of roads where you sit back, turn the Latin music up exceedingly loud, roll down all windows and maybe even open up the trunk, put one arm out the window doing the little wave thing as the wind travels over your hand, and gun it. Put the pedal to the plastic or whatever this little Corsa was made out of and go as fast as you can with no concern for your passenger or yourself or the little mopeds going 40 km/h across a 200 mile distance. The landscape around you is empty with large flat lands or rolling hills. You know there is water somewhere over the horizon so you feel you can never be that far off and thus reassured that should you crash and lose a limb, it wouldn’t be too long until the Uruguayan ambulances found you crawling east.

    We arrive at Diablo to find a very interesting town. The camp site out of town was overflowing. The town itself was comprised of one main road filled with long-haired hippy types selling string and pieces of wood and whatever else they could make to supply their dope or alcohol habits while living in this out of the way place. The whole town was right on this little shore that was not so pleasant as far as lounging beaches go. There were bars and restaurants and a load of houses on stilts. Some were nice, others were not. There were people everywhere and our rental car seemed to be an eyesore in a place where everybody was either walking or hitchhiking. We tried several places and everything was filled and we were told to go to Chuy or Barra de Chuy which was further up the coast. We agreed and by this time it was dark. We feign an attempt to find somewhere in Barra de Chuy and then go to Chuy. Chuy is a border town next to Brazil and it felt like it. Kinda trashy and dubious and if you went off the main road you may not be getting back. We found a 3 star hotel and dropped our stuff off. Got a bite to eat and found out that the only places of pleasure that night were in Barra de Chuy which required a cab for the 12 km. We opted to stay in and entertain ourselves.

    The next day we head to Santa Teresa for a short beach stay. We pick up some hitchhikers who tell us what beach to go to and it was lovely. B gets a ridiculous sunburn which basically modifies her movements for the rest of the trip. She put lotion on her face, arms, upper body and feet but not on her legs or back. When we finally made it to the hotel that night she was bright red and the pictures don’t give her condition justice. She bought some cream and then would put it all over her, then lay on a plastic bag on the bed. She would fall on the bed like a tree being felled in the forest. You couldn’t touch her during these three days otherwise she would scream without consideration of her surroundings. We attempted a stop at La Pedreira but the town was full up though it looked very fun and we promised to return one of the evenings. We then settle on the penthouse room in Costa Azul between La Pedreira and Paloma. The view was gorgeous even if the hotel felt like it was put together by me and my friends with no construction experience whatsoever. Our drain was clogged immediately in the bathroom so using the sink would fill up the floor. The shower had about -3 psi pressure coming out of it and the chairs on the deck were all sat on by an extremely heavy person so when I sat on them, they just split and I fell on the ground. To compensate we gave ourselves facials!

    The second night in Costa Azul was a precious night where we watched the sunset which was met with fanfare by all the spectators. We then ate at this place on the beach, made friends with the owner, gave him booze, had him pick the food and wine, and spoke Spanish the whole time. I tried to ride this girl’s horse but she didn’t trust me since I was several beers deep. The best part about this night was the fact that his meal of choice for us was squid. The night before I argued with B for ages about why she refuses to ever even try squid. She wouldn’t even give it a taste or a bite. I compared her stubbornness to being a racist and all sorts of other ignorant things. So when he brought out this meal and she liked it, my argument had come full circle. I hope B doesn’t find out that I was really friends with Ehrman and it was all planned years ago.

    One of the days in Costa Azul we went to Cabo Polonio. I had heard much about this remote destination that had no running water and electricity and required you to take a horse or 4×4 truck over the dunes to get there. We bolt down the highway singing loudly to Madonna and buy some tickets for these trucks. It was a lot like Pismo going out there I thought, except for a lot more trees. Eventually after 4 km you get to the beach and then get to the “town”. The town consists of all these randomly placed little houses, some were literally shacks while others had a DirectTV dish and a generator. There were bars and restaurants and people renting umbrellas which B so desperately needed. We wandered the shore and rocks, scouting for sea lions and other random things in the ocean. We lay on the beach for a while but the sun was intense and the wind was out of control bringing sand into every orifice and crack that was around.

    Back to the main artery of the roads for a brief moment until we take a long dirt road to get back to the coast and on the way we pick up two more hitchhikers. Hitchhikers were everywhere and I hope my actions during this trip will come full circle whenever I am in that situation. These guys said they hitchhike every day to get to work in this pretty little beach town. We get there and then have one final sprint to Punta del Este. Punta is a lot hotter than the rest of the country and known for its ludicrous all-night rave parties and super expensive tourism. We ended up in a hotel in La Barra which is a Laguna Beach-ish type place outside of the downtown of Punta del Este. The downtown is filled with huge apartment buildings and tourist stores so I was happy to be out there. We found a 4 star hotel not far from the beach which was actually really nice although I am not sure they spent too much time on noise cancellation. Food was fantastic and the sunsets were even better over the skyline of the main city. One day we attempted to do some kite surfing lessons but learned that it would be $200 for a half day and you required a full day to be up and going on the board which we were not willing to pay even though the guy was trying to convince me that I only needed two hours since I have wakeboarded and fly large kites.

    The conversations were great the whole trip and B was a great companion for traveling despite her need to be in a minimum of three-star hotels and getting sunburned the first day. Let me conclude with some pointers for those who may want to do this trip in the future:

    1. The sun is intense in this part of the world due to a rather large hole in the ozone layer. This is caused from global wind currents as well as changes to weather patterns. Bring sunblock — in the shops there you can get SPF 70.
    2. If you are not making any reservations or plans, rent a car. Had we not rented a car and were trying to take buses the whole time, we would have been quite simply, fucked. If you are not going to make reservations or rent a car, have a tent at least. The rental car for 6 days was $360 with 3 trips to the gas station (gas is called nafta in this part of the world) costing $100.
    3. Hotels were pricey as far as I am concerned but I am on a fixed budget unlike my American companion. Montevideo was $85, Chuy was $40, Costa Azul for two days in a honeymoon suite overlooking the beach was $260, Punta del Este for two days was $240. Alternatives of course are hostels and campsites which are numerous but fill up really quick during the first part of the year.
    4. Ensalada does not mean there will always be lettuce in the salad.
    5. It is expensive in Uruguay compared to Argentina. Mainly because it is the rich Argentinians going there and also the dollar is widely used so I lose my exchange rate advantage. All the ATMs will give dollars and most hotels expect it as a form of payment.
    6. If an ATM does not work for you, try it again in a new language and with different values. They will eventually work I found.
    7. Watch out for the corporate monsters who are willing to whore themselves out so they can sticker every car in Punta del Este. I mean honestly.
    8. Love life and everything in it.

  • Voluntary Tasering

    I love foosball… it can appear to be extremely haphazard and frantic to many people watching. But there are moments in a foosball game where the game has been building up slowly, no goals for ages, a few near misses, some amazing blocks and desperate acts of defence, but no goals. The players know that this cannot go on forever and the tension will be building. People can be talking to the players and they will probably respond but their mind is at the level of the little red and blue men on the field. You can be in the middle of a conversation with the girl of your dreams, Gandhi, a white shark, Buddha, your most feared enemy — it doesn’t matter — you are liable to wildly scream in their face and risk punching them as you flip out after scoring that goal you have been waiting for so long. Here is a time that happened to me…

    It was freshman year at university and Pat (I think) and I were playing foosball at the Phi Psi house. While we were playing we are listening to Tele and a sorority girl talk about her sorority’s male beauty pageant. Tele, being the stud that he is, is supposed to participate but alas he is sick and is unable to participate. They are trying to figure out who should fill in his spot. While one of these intense foosball moments I previously mentioned is going on, I suggest that I will do it. She tells me I need a talent. I consider the situation while blocking an endless onslaught from Pat on the mini soccer field. I half-jokingly say that I will get tasered (stun-gunned, whatever). The idea is well received by everybody around but I don’t care as I think I am about to score with a fantastic shot from the right back, but Pat’s goalie is up for the challenge. She says we need two people. Nuthead says he will dress up as a cow and beer bong some milk half jokingly. This idea is as valid as the previous one and suddenly everything is solved. I scream “GOAL, BOOYAH MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!” to Pat and the long string of tension has broken after wrapping itself around us for at least 20 minutes. I look up and then ask the pageant planners, “OK, so what happened?”

    So the day of the pageant rolls around and Nuthead and I need to prepare as we have done nothing until this point. The format of the pageant is in four parts: swimsuit, knowledge quiz about the sorority, formal dress, and talent portion. Nuthead had a cow outfit for some reason and there was always a beer bong around the house. Milk would be purchased right before the event. His swimsuit was something ridiculous like board shorts, a wife beater, and an inflatable ducky around his waist. His formal dress was some killer 70s/80s looking suit. My swimsuit was my roommate Geoff’s speedos which had a waist of size 24 while I am easily a 32 with huge legs due to me playing soccer 7 hours a day with a stunning tan right above the knees. My formal attire was purchased at the Salvation Army that day and ended up being pretty slick considering it was thrown together last minute. We went to Grants for Guns to purchase a taser. They were happy to give us one since we claimed it was a gift for Nuthead’s sister. We got two 9-volt batteries and we were ready.

    Right before we go to the auditorium we decide to try the taser real quick to make sure it wouldn’t kill me or something on stage. We put the batteries in, turned it on and this thing was mean! We barely touched each other with it and didn’t want to feel how it would be if you jammed it into your side. The sound is the worst part about it as it sounds like somebody is slapping a lardy thigh with a ruler 5 times a second with fury.

    We show up backstage and find our lovely “coaches” from the sorority. They tell us the answers we need to know for the knowledge quiz and then give us a bag of goodies. The best goodie in the bag by far was the Gatorade bottle with the label removed and replaced with a homemade label with pleasing pictures and encouraging words and the contents of the bottle were replaced with pure Captain Morgan’s spiced rum. Nuthead and I decide that since the pageant was soon we should drink all of the rum so that it would take effect by the time we got to the more difficult talent portion of the contest. A great idea of course.

    The social science lecture hall was absolutely packed with people overflowing out the back and people sitting on the floor. Thankfully we had a large contingent of Phi Psis claiming a good chunk of the seats in the middle left. I come to find out later that the arts department was having a very rare kegger party and our very non-artistic friends had found their way there and practiced the art of drinking so they were floating on the same level as Nuthead and I were after our special Gatorade. I gotta say I was feeling a little nervous at this point. The pageant starts and it’s all bells and whistles and lights and flash. The guys are announced and they walk out on the stage in their swimwear and take a little turn on the catwalk. Everyone else other than Nuthead and I had board shorts on from what I can remember and with heavy concentrations of muscles on the upper body. My legs looked ludicrously large in this tiny speedo (the first time I had worn one) and who knows how the package looked but I felt that I got a good reaction from the crowd.

    We are then told to sit down, without changing clothes I might add, and prepare for the knowledge portion of the pageant. The questions were things like “When was our sorority founded?” and “Who was the chapter advisor?” Nuthead and I were drunk at this point. We didn’t do well but the scoring was obviously not important as they were just arbitrarily claiming how much each question was worth.

    We then all go backstage to change into our formal attire. Not much to say for this round other than we both looked good and we both were more drunk than we were during the quiz round.

    Now for the talent portion. I think there was some buzz in the crowd as word had trickled out as to what was going to happen even though we were trying to keep it somewhat of a secret. Nuthead goes first. He walks out in a cow outfit, udders and all, with a beer bong in his hand. He then pours a half gallon of milk into the beer bong and then proceeds to drink it to completion. Amazing! Takes a bow and walks off the stage. The crowd loved it and applauded him as he gracefully found the nearest trash can and then yakked it all out, backstage. The other guys were doing things like playing the guitar, or building letters for the girls, or singing — you know, real talents. Then my turn comes. I come on the stage in my formal 70s gear lip-syncing to “I Touch Myself” and the plan was to do this for only 30 seconds or so. Of course Nuthead let me sweat and this lasted for a minute or more as I performed some weak dance moves. Finally I waved him out, he comes in his cow outfit and tasers me in the side until I fall on the ground writhing in pain. The crowd is gasping and laughing and applauding I think. Then in an effort to not lose the crowd, Nuthead comes over and stuns me again with a prolonged 3-second stun with me twitching on the ground the whole time. Then follows up with one final blast just to make sure I am done which I relay to him through some contorted facial expression that I was definitely done. The crowd now is not really sure what to say or do as they seemed to feel my pain and were not sure if I was alright. I got up, bowed, and stumbled off stage. Good thing I was drunk.

    In the end we did not win. It was all rigged and the guy who was not that exciting who built letters for the girls won. It was not important to us. However, our section of the crowd was getting a little rowdy and the outcome was the final straw. Kamran gets his hands on the taser and starts stunning anyone he can reach in his area of the crowd, strangers or not. Bodies are hurdling the chairs two at a time and girls are screaming. Kamran finally gets the taser wrestled away but only after getting a few of our friends for good measure, especially Phil. This cleared the whole auditorium and needless to say the sorority was not pleased with our actions. I think they banned us from any more events like this or at least they didn’t tell us about them.

    I had some gnarly scars on my side for about 6 months after that night but it was well worth it and a very good memory from university. I would take a tasering any day over mace, which will need to be discussed in another post.

    If anyone has any pictures or movies from this event PLEASE get in touch with me. Mine were lost in the great picture deletion of junior year.

  • Running with the Bulls

    This entry was pulled from my travel journal from Europe summer expedition 2003…

    July 12th

    For Justin, Jen, Mike, and myself, this was our first hard day of travel. An outrageously uncomfortable Ryanair flight to Pau in the south of France. Get lied to by a taxi driver who said there was no bus to the train station. Our first encounter with the impatient French while trying to buy and then change our train tickets.

    Train to San Sebastian with a bottle of wine that was heavy on the cork. Met a lovely girl named Sara who spontaneously bought a ticket the night before to go to Pamplona. Very admirable since she was on her own. Something American girls are not going to do, ever.

    San Seba by 7pm, go to meet Durden but he’s not at the place so we wander, which is always my backup plan. Eating in a restaurant with Jen and Mike. And through the bush in the window I see Durden. First truly good feeling of the trip. Two minutes after I meet him, someone calls my name. Turns out it was a random roommate of a friend back home. It was her and two friends. Believe it or not, they were in the same hostel as us. Small world.

    Author’s note: I write a blurb about spelling hostel wrong the whole time but it doesn’t make sense since I have been spelling it correctly thus far. Basically I spelled it “hostil” for ages and then would switch into “hostal” every now and then.

    Saw “…Dream inconscient Love…” on a bridge over the river looking at Notre Dame. Need to look up “inconscient.”

    Author’s Note: I have since looked up this word and it does not exist. In addition I have seen “Dream inconscient Love” in Thailand and Argentina. This fake word seems to be following me around.

    San Seba was amazing. A town where you talk to people and find out a lot of people are willing to give up everything and move there regardless of educational position or money. Topless beaches, ridiculous views, and moderate temperature. I hope to go back.

    From San Seba we bus to Pamplona listening to Mike talk on his phone for at least an hour. The Spanish countryside is amazing. To see deserts and forest and mountains is a treat when they come together.

    In Pamplona you run into people dressed only in white with a few dashes of red. The town was nothing like I expected. I imagined dirt roads and horse drawn carts. My ignorance I quickly overcame. Simply a party for a week where public drinking is encouraged and sangria is thrown about so people can share drinks through their soaked clothes. Found a convenient hostel with internet. Mike talked the guy down five euros. The second night we slept in the park. My 10 degree sleeping bag was brilliant. I was able to share with Jen and still needed my shirt off. Chris and Jeremy, who we met up with earlier, had nothing and quite rightly froze as they retreated back to their origins.

    The first night was something like this… Meet Adam. A friendly Canadian wandering about. He teaches us about the run and Pamplona and we get drunk. Maui is lost at this point. To where we don’t know nor care. Walk the bull run I will do in a few hours collecting bottles of sangria the entire way. Who was leading our sobriety-searching group? I don’t know but collectively we had an uncanny sense of being in the right place. We saw some fireworks that were amazing and only beaten by the ones we watched the next day. Absolutely ludicrous! It might have been our distance, which was closer than any show I had been to before, or it might have been that third litro of sangria. In either case the shockwaves rattled through your soul. The bursts would engulf the entire visible sky. The French had created fireworks that upon bursting, not only let out an explosion of fire, but slow-falling balloons. Unheard of!

    bull-run

    Thankfully Maui woke me and Adam up at exactly the right time of about 6:30am. Jen and Durden were comatose and slept through the reason we had gone to Pamplona. I was told the most likely to die were hungover tourists which was exactly the best description of myself. Adam had run 3 times already. The first time he had witnessed a fatal goring. The second he was beaten mercilessly by the police. The third went fine. So our plan was to run until the curve and stay on the inside. The bulls are not famous for their agility. The sound of them coming was the source of my terror. These beasts boast 2-foot-long horns and their shoulders were above my head. I was able to make the turn and seconds later see beast after beast smash into the wooden wall on the outside of the turn. As each bull recovered, one by one, they looked right at me with the coldest look imaginable. No pupils, only black pool balls for eyes. This is the time when your world could easily be thrown into an unwanted orbit. A lone bull is far worse than a group of them. But fortunately, my world continued to orbit just fine.

    The best part is the ring at the end of the run where you are watched by thousands and each one is cheering on the bull. There were maybe 200 people in the ring. In there the matadors release smaller bulls with corks on their horns. Still aggressive but only a good trampling on a slow-witted person is all they can do.

    Go back and sleep. Wake up, Maui leads us aimlessly to a closed internet café 5 miles away. Eventually leave Pamplona for Madrid via 4 hour train.

  • Tomatina!

    Six years ago traveling through Europe I heard about this event called Tomatina which was described to me as a giant tomato fight. At some point I saw some travel TV show at the Tomatina and at that point it made the list of things I had to do before I depart this Earth or at least settle down in some white picket fence house with 2.5 children and a golden retriever. In the summer of 2008 I made my pilgrimage and here is the story of how it all came to be…

    I left a very cushy apartment in Barcelona (thank you Neil) to complete the triangle I was planning on making inside the lovely country of Spain. The plan was to go to Madrid to visit long lost travel friends for the weekend. Then go to Valencia and figure out how to go to Tomatina, and then back to Barcelona just in time to catch my flight back to England.

    While in Madrid, I made my preparations. I bought a bus ticket from Madrid to Valencia. I bought a train ticket online from Valencia to Barcelona so I had my escape. I knew this event was going to destroy whatever I was wearing so I decided to get kitted up with typical Tomatina gear. This included:

    • A 2 euro pair of fake croc sandals which were bright orange and the back of my feet hung off the edge. Apparently my feet are larger than most Spaniards and they really are not that big at a size 10 (US).
    • A plain white t-shirt for a euro.
    • A pair of cargo shorts which went past my knees but had plenty of pockets and strings and shit so I thought they would be perfect for 5 euro.
    • A pair of chemist-looking goggles for 3 euro.
    • A small knife to cut the ham down for 5 euro.
    • A waterproof camera for 10 euro.

    With all this I was set and said my goodbyes and headed off to Valencia. Now the Tomatina festival itself is not in Valencia which turns out to be a very large city. So I arrive in Valencia and get off at the bus station and basically looked to my left, then to my right, and then back to my left, and didn’t have a clue as to where to go. I jumped on a bus that I thought would take me to the beach and an hour later arrived to see the Mediterranean in all its glory. The beach was huge and filled with people and thongs. I had my little backpack on me with valuables in it so I decided to just walk through the water and not go in.

    My plan was to stay up all night until 11am when the Tomatina would begin. I had no idea what to find in Bunol but I assumed like all good Europeans, they would be raging it before a large event like this. I made my way to the train station and put my bag in a locker which gave me some piece of paper with a code on it that I needed to get my bag back out. Now all I had was my crocs, shorts, shirt, goggles, knife, ATM and credit card, some 60 euros in notes, a camera, and some change. I get a large beer and wait for the last train to Bunol.

    While waiting I offer some beer to a girl next to me. We then decide we need more beer and go get two more large bottles before the train arrives. For the life of me I cannot remember this girl’s name so we will call her Janet. Janet is from Valencia and is visiting a friend who lives in Bunol and they plan to attend some Manu Chao concert in Bunol. While drinking our beers on the train we compare lives across oceans, political mindsets between people of our age, why I was traveling alone, the funny Europeans behind us, and I am sure a lot more. She invites me to tag along with her to go to the concert which I do even though it was going to cost like 40 euros.

    We go to the concert, she negotiates some deal and we each pay 30 euros. Inside there are very large beers but for 10 euros each. The music was OK but the locals seemed to love it. I got into the groove and danced their funny dance.

    After the concert we went to her friend’s place so they could change. My crocs were killing me so I used my knife to remove the rubber around my pinky toes on both sandals. Now the shoes looked even more ridiculous.

    We then go to their other friend’s store of sorts, eat, drink, and be merry until 1am. I couldn’t understand most of what was going on but the free food and booze was enough to keep me smiling and I didn’t mind being the center of some joke. We then headed off down some streets, winding around a hill or two, then all of a sudden the valley was alive with mini raves dotted up and down the woods we were in. There were rolling beer and food carts all over the place. You would walk down a path and suddenly be surrounded by some techno and then another path would take you to some trance and then another dark path would take you to some Spanish country music. Insane. The people I was with were all locals and this Janet girl had a firm grip on my hand and made sure my other hand was filled with very large beers that I never paid for because the locals knew the locals working the beer carts. Basically the night went on like this until the sun came up. I always think it is a very weird thing to be outside dancing your head off, half delirious, as you watch the light engulf the landscape.

    We head off to a coffee shop and I eat anything and drink everything I can find including leftovers from other tables. The time is approaching for the Tomatina and I am drunk/hungover. I tell Janet to take me to the pole because I am going to be the one to cut the ham down.

    Let me explain how this all works… The Tomatina has unknown origins — could be a spilled truck on the road started it, or something in honor of some saint — but the fact remains there is now a tradition. At 11am they raise a huge ham onto a 30-foot pole that has been greased all the way up and down. Not until the ham is cut down will the trucks come and unleash the tomatoes. The tomatoes will then be unleashed for one hour and then it is all over and everyone goes home or to where I don’t know.

    She takes me down some alleys, a left, a right, a left, and then all of a sudden I am thrown into a mass of people right next to the pole and they had just started trying to rip this thing down. The strategy is to wipe all the grease off first by making human pyramids. After that make more pyramids to get to the top. Problem is that everyone wants to be the one to cut the ham down and the locals are sabotaging anyone who gets even close since it should only be a local to do this. I hurl myself into the mix and start pushing and lifting and standing and climbing. It becomes clear that it is me and a core group of about 15 Aussies who are intent on getting this thing down, with other people coming in and out but mostly fearful that they might get hurt. Within minutes of me being in this chaos, I lose my credit card and ATM card and cash. The goggles are lost and were useless anyway. The crocs were instantly gone and now I was barefoot. Fuck it! The fun must continue and I will deal with this later.

    We try and try and try for over an hour to get this thing but there is not enough organisation despite my best efforts. At one point I was probably 20 feet up and felt like I could jump and hang onto the ham which I tried and then we all fell onto a huge human dog pile filled with grease and water that was being squirted on us by the surrounding buildings filled with locals. Who knows how many lost their lives in that hour. I remember being so defeated but there was nowhere to go and no water to be drunk. I was stealing bottles out of people’s hands and just drinking. Eventually they just brought the trucks out and the tomato fight began without bringing the ham down.

    After about 20 minutes you are just fed up of getting thwomped in the side of the head by random missiles. You are supposed to crush the tomato first and then throw which nobody does. I watched some pretty malevolent people just wind up and crush some poor soul from about 10 feet away and then duck down laughing. After an hour the streets are almost to your knees in red juice and people are laying on the ground swimming in it.

    My condition at the end: my left shorts leg was missing revealing most of my boxer briefs. My camera, goggles, money, cards, knife, and crocs were all missing. I had enough coins to get the train back to Valencia. The train ride back was hilarious. The train was shoulder to shoulder and everyone around me seemed to have done a much better job of cleaning off. I was smelling so bad and was sticky to the touch and my hair was plastered in some weird direction from tomatoes. People were giving me a wide berth the entire trip. I get to the Valencia train station and try to remember my combination to the locker but it is impossible to sort through the hazy memories of no sleep and raves and booze. I then, in my hilarious and smelly state, need to find the officials and convince them in my limited Spanish that my bag is in the locker and I don’t know the code and I will prove it is mine with the passport. Finally it all works and I am so happy I purchased my train ticket back to Barcelona beforehand otherwise I would have been stuck in Spain waiting for some money transfer or something.

    Back at Neil’s apartment we reminisced about the experience which they had gone to as well but with their business school classmates in a huge procession. Turns out that I was arm in arm with one of his roommates as we scooped large quantities of tomatoes and threw them in the air at the end of the event.

    Not sure what I would change next time but I obviously was a rookie during this excursion. Thank you to Janet for making that night and day work out just right. Too bad I don’t remember your name and our paths may only cross once in our lifetimes but at least it did not go to waste.

  • Olavarria Bike Race

    I show up in Buenos Aires and I am antsy for some racing action on my bicycle. I go online and look for whatever I can find and come across a very helpful website at http://www.infobiker.com.ar. I look on the calendario for whatever I can find and see that there is a race in a province of Buenos Aires in a city called Olavarria. Perfect! So I am staying in the province of Capital Federal in the state of Buenos Aires. Olavarria is in its own province in the state of Buenos Aires. This basically means that the place I had to go was 350 kilometers from where I am living. No matter, I was committed.

    First I had to make sure I was interpreting the flyer correctly. Thanks to Marcos from El Dorado fame for confirming this one for me. I figured I would be in the second race which is for everyone up until 35 years of age. I assumed the Masters classes were for our equivalent of category 1, 2, 3.

    So my race was at 6:40 pm, I needed to take a bus to get there. The bus I needed to take left at 7:30 a.m. from Retiro, the main bus station in BsAs. This was also the day that John Fincher was leaving so I knew he would want to go big the night before. I also needed to pack my bike back in the box that Pat bought me, get it to Retiro when it doesn’t fit in many taxis and cannot be brought on a bus or the subte (subway) and hope that it would be there when I arrive. I figured I would just do my usual method of finding hotels once I got there. I did no research on the city or the surrounding areas and here is what happened.

    The night before, John meets with a long time friend Gonzalo who knows the owner of a really nice restaurant in Palermo Hollywood called Freak. We basically get catered to all night for a group of 15 or more with endless sushi, appetizers, drinks, martinis, champagne, and a whole huge bottle of sake all for about $400 US. We stayed up all night and I decided that I would not sleep and get my bus at 7:30. I left John and crew at Sugar where he was in the middle of spinning his way into the bathroom or some tourist girl’s arms, who knows. I got home, packed, and then found a taxi that I forced my bike box into. With shaved body and mini backpack, we go to Retiro for 20 pesos. I get to my bus and tip the guy 5 pesos to take care of my bike as he packs it into the bus and we ship off. The bus ride is 7 hours long and I sleep for maybe 4 of those hours. When I awake I can only see the flattest landscape I have seen outside of the midwest. Vast distances of grass fields dotted with grass-fed cows that I have been getting used to eating for the last month or so. We make one stop in a town called Azul that I knew to be close and I got out to stretch and make sure my bike was not unloaded, which it wasn’t. An hour later we are in Olavarria and it is absolutely baking outside. I get a map and directions to some hotels and walk down the road dragging a giant bike box. I am telling everyone that I am a professional ciclista and I am causing quite a commotion I might add.

    I pick the first hotel called the Hotel Argentino and check in to a meager room for 68 pesos. I convince them I want a lower floor room so I don’t have to lug the box upstairs. They were very friendly and agreeable and also impressed with my origin and luggage. I put my bike together and then go for a ride to investigate the town and make sure I can find the track that the race is at. This town was extremely serious about its siesta and its mate-drinking ability. There was no one out, absolutely no one, nadie! I eventually find the track which I have to ride on a dirt road to get to, which made me a little apprehensive for worry of a popped tire right as I arrive at the race with tires at 120psi. I eat a random lunch at a gas station since that is all that was open and then head back to my hotel to catch an hour nap.

    I wake up and get dressed in my tights and head off. It is still extremely hot outside. As always I am a little early but it is evident that something is going on and people are coming out. One of my worries was that I was looking into this all wrong and would come to find out that there was no bike race at all. I paid the 2 peso admission and claimed my spot on the fence. I warmed up for a bit scoping out the other riders and I quickly noticed that most of the people here had single speed bikes with a front brake only with a free wheel. Interesting. The track is only maybe 500 meters so I guess they assumed that was all they needed, que se yo? It was their track.

    It was becoming extremely windy and the back side of the circuit was full on into the wind. Just over the dirt road you have to ride on there is a field that is being burned to make way for new crops, but also creating plenty of smoke for us cyclists to inhale as we romp around the track. First race is for the old guys older than 35. They are fast and I was impressed. During this race I made friends with some older guys who were constantly inspecting my bike and asking me all sorts of questions regarding price and stiffness. They also told me about a 60 mile race going on the next day in a nearby city that I needed to go to.

    Then my race was up. It would be for 40 minutes and there were probably 30 or more riders. A lot of machismo going on it seemed but that is just the usual Argentine spirit. The race began and a group quickly shot out in front. I waited for the peloton to organize which it never did. So I decided to take control and spent the first 5 minutes catching up to this group with no one wanting to take turns with me going into the wind. I caught them and then spent the next 5 minutes leading the pack trying to keep a fast pace to wear down any stragglers. I notice after 10 minutes my heart is near 200 bpm and I needed a break. For the next 20 minutes there were a few breaks but nothing significant and myself and about 10 others had set themselves up to be the main competition. I moved into 6th position and planned on sprinting the final lap full out. With 1.5 laps to go someone goes but I hear the bell and we are not even close to the line so I sprint to catch him, pass him, and then cross the line thinking I won but there was still one lap to go. Fuck! I did not travel for half a day to get screwed like this. On the back side I was in the lead and I didn’t want to see what was behind me. In front of me there were dozens of spectators in the track screaming “VAMOS!” “DALE!” which was most inspiring I got to say. Final stretch came, I was back out of my saddle and I was getting wobbly arms and I had never felt so exhausted. I was passed at the line and took second place by only 2 feet. I slumped in my bike and rolled around the course absolutely exhausted.

    During that final sprint which I started half a lap too early, my heart got up to 207 bpm. I challenge you to just try and tap your finger, make a sound, or do anything that fast in one minute. Absolutely amazing what the body can do. An average speed of 23 miles an hour I suppose is OK considering the ridiculous wind on one length of the track. Second place won me 40 pesos but let’s consider the cost for my love of cycling. 140 pesos for the bus, 70 pesos for the hotel, 20 pesos for race admission, 40 pesos for taxi to and from Retiro, 50 pesos for food. Total of 320 pesos or $90 US to do this race minus $15 bucks for the prize money. I love cycling.

    I stayed the rest of the night to watch the rest of the races. The next exciting race was the kids under 17 race which was pretty good. The kid who won was dropped way early but since the pack was cat-and-mousing it the whole time he caught up late in the race and took the trophy. No money for the kids. I wish I could have heard what the announcer was saying for my race — I was too busy sucking wind. Probably went something like “Naranja! Naranja! Naranja!”

    The last race was amazing. These were the pros and you could tell by their bikes, their legs, and the extreme speed they were riding. It was just absolutely amazing how fast these guys were going for 90 minutes. They could not pedal on the turns since they were angled so far over. That happened to me only once where I dragged my pedal but I was pedaling the entire time through all the curves. There were maybe 40 guys to start but anyone not in the running for the 300 peso purse just dropped out and the final sprint was only with 6 or so people.

    During this last race I made friends with this guy Luis who had a friend in the race who did not end up winning. While we talked about cycling and comparing lives in different countries, his family was giving me food and drink and were absolutely amazing. While Luis had his little girl climbing all over him while we talked I had this random little kitten just show up and climb my back and snuggle into my neck and hair. A little random — hope I didn’t get fleas. Luis invited me to his house and he showed me his bikes and we talked cycling and politics while his family rushed around me listening and rubbing my tattoo and watching me ride his ridiculously expensive bike. We ate and drank and it was an absolutely precious time that I could never repeat. One of those moments in traveling that are hard to explain to people and you can only wish that everyone in the world had these moments to be able to appreciate the good-hearted nature of almost everyone on earth. They did not have much but were willing to share all of it with me and didn’t mind that I was wearing my tights the whole time.

    The next day I tried to get to Atalaque to go to the 60 mile ride but would not arrive until way too late so I had to wait for my 5pm bus back to BsAs. I walked the ghost town looking for anything and then ate at a parrilla and had two beers. My hotel had agreed to leave my bike case there so I did not have to drag it around even though I had checked out at 11am. I went back to the hotel, a little tipsy, and asked if I could have a mate (pronounced maa-te, it’s a tea-like drink here renowned for its compartir aspects) with the girls that run the hotel. They loved me and invited me into their back room for a drink and a huge cake. We talked about the town and where they met their husbands and how I don’t like reggaeton and why they were not fat even though they had dulce de leche for lunch. This went on for hours. Eventually I asked if I could take a nap which they were happy to offer — they gave me my old room and I napped for an hour before my bus. Another experience that is hard to communicate how much something like that can mean to someone.

    Another long bus ride home and I got back. Nothing bad happened and in fact I wish I could have stayed and continued the adventure. All the portenos thought I was crazy for doing this but that is why they are portenos and think the rest of the country is a little weird. Next race, two weeks! Back to the training track.

    And all this using only Castellano!

  • Being Chased

    I seem to be having quite a few dreams recently where I am being chased either by some sort of evil force or as if I am a fugitive. Last night I had one where it seemed we were in a mountainous area which reminded me of my buddy Len’s old house at Lake Nacimiento. Pretty much the yeah-buds group was having a great party and then it all turned sour and I needed to run. I successfully got away through a hidden gap I knew about in the fence and when I got through the other side I was captured, indicating that someone had ratted me out.

    Another chase dream I had recently was a rather cool one. I was on the moon with maybe 100 other people who were all there to see this most amazing eclipse. The sun was huge in our vision and you could see so much detail of it as the earth began to eclipse this most intricate-looking sun, which was bursting with solar flares and black spots. Heat was never a problem for us. At one point during the end of the eclipse, the sun appeared to pass right through the moon right next to all the people and everyone backed up to allow it to pass, which it did — but it went straight through everything as if it never existed, and it was the most intense thing I had ever seen. The earth passed and light was restored in a mysterious way to the new moonscape, which was very reminiscent of a Brazilian favela. I then joined a large group of Asians (likely Japanese) as we jumped and leaped our way around the favela as some unknown force was chasing us. The jumping and leaping was like those French guys you see on TV who have some competition to see who can get to some crazy point in the fewest steps. There was something about barging into a fancy dress party and then we leaped into a situation where we were surrounded by our followers and then I woke up.

    Prior to this dream I had another really interesting one. It was John Finch and I, and we show up at a really posh mansion with flamingos and mini golf courses all around. As we enter, John says “prepare to make the best first impression you ever had” and we walk in. I notice a really intricate marble counter with a small city built into it. There are some people dotted around that I didn’t really recognise. And then all of a sudden I wake up (in the dream) in some lawn chair near a circus or carnival. I start walking around and I realise that I am wearing some fancy sparkly tuxedo, or something close to it, with awkward buttons in the front. This girl Tamara (I don’t know any Tamaras) comes to say hi to me but she seems agitated. We talk and then she says she has to get ready for the show and goes off into a dressing room. At this point I realise I feel a little off and keep having bouts of light-headedness. I stumble my way to the pool where there are all sorts of older people who seem to be pleased with my presence, even though I am in this ridiculous tuxedo. I crack some jokes and then I am asked why I went to bed right away. I said that I thought it was weird that I then woke up in this costume, meaning someone had to have undressed me in my sleep. Next thing I know, I am naked, riding my bike down the river bed in Costa Mesa, but I quickly realise that I am naked with all sorts of important electronic belongings like my camera, phone and something else I cannot remember. I then look back to see that I had dropped everything and it was all broken, and decide that I must have passed out or something from another bout of light-headedness — which was starting to make me think more and more that I had been drugged. I gather my belongings and then go back to the house. I get dressed, grab a sleeping bag, and think I need to find Tamara. I get off a train in front of the circus and walk through this shady little churchyard, and as I enter, a shadow comes up to me and grabs my sleeping bag and then I instantly just feel helpless and things go dark with just a shadow pulling at my sleeping bag. I refuse to let go and try to speak but nothing comes out and then I feel scratching at my chest but still refuse to let go. At this point I get worried and wake up (in the real world) and the dream was over, not to be returned to.