Zimbabwe Falls

Victoria Falls is an odd village. It purely exists to process the many tourists that come through to admire the Victoria Falls, one of the seven worldwonders. Consequence is that it mainly consists of hotels, hostels, lodges, restaurants, souvenir shops and a supermarket where the locals do not shop. Everybody tries to sell you something, but once you get passed that point, people are actually friendly and happy to have a chat.
 The economy of Zimbabwe was in such dire straits that they had to print notes with numbers going into the trillions, so they switched to American dollars. This means that tourist prices are inflated and it makes a visit not cheap at all. Obviously this is acceptable for a few days, for the locals it is still a fight to stay above the poverty line.
Oscar, one of the guides I get talking to on several occasions, tells me he has to find clients to go on bungy jumps, to take helicopter rides or to go on zip lines. He gets paid a commission, based on a contract of two months. This means he never knows when he will or won't have a job and in low tourist season he barely earns anything. Five days a month he gets time off, so he can spend this with his family who live elsewhere (this story came with pictures). I ask another lady in a store how come she has a South African accent. She tells me she went to a private school and this is the accent of people who go to private schools. She sees no future in Zimbabwe and would love to send her children to an English boarding school, if possible. An old man at the market tells me life is no good, because the Shona have killed so many Ndebele (different tribes, most people seem to speak both languages however) and he wishes that more white men would come to open businesses. In fact, when walking around the next day to a restaurant that offers traditional dancing and singing (very touristy, but tastefully done) I get a lift from a middleaged white man, Zimbabwean, so I ask him if he owns the lodges, 'Yes, I am the general manager'. My buddy asks me how I know. White local people have got the capital to invest and run businesses and can employ the locals for a minimal wage, who just cannot close the gap between them. Zimbabwe has a longer history of tensions between white landowners/farmers and other locals demanding their land (back). I won't go into that here, but Britain played a key role into that and you would be familiar with the name Mugabe.

If you don't want to spend tons of money on the activities, there is actually little to do, once you have done your two hours visit to the magnificent waterfalls. I meet another solo-travellers, Shasa, who happens to be a fellow Dutch (Flemish) speaker and he has been here a good few days, so knows his way around. We take walks through a surrounding village (where the poverty is visible) and briefly step over to the Zambian side. He is great company and a real gentleman. This is in contrast to the people I meet in the second part of my adventure. The dreaded travelgroup...

BULGARIA

Bulgaria (Part II -Easter holiday)

To go from Bucharest to Veliko Tournovo is less than 200 km. However, the journey is taken on a rusty train, which has about five people in it (all tourists) and takes over seven hours, including long waits at the border and waiting for a locomotive to arrive from Bulgaria-you’d think they know about it by now, as this train passes every day.

It is not an unpleasant ride, however. On arrival I feel like I have landed in the middle of nowhere. Worried that I get ripped off, I ask a Bulgarian to get me a cab. The worry is baseless. This country has not been spoiled by tourists and the attitude to do so is not there. A long taxi ride often does not cost more than a few Pounds/Euros.

I am welcomed into a comfortable, modern apartment by a local young couple. They met as he, fresh from university, was teaching her at school. The next day I get my bearings, mostly thanks to another excellent free tour (obviously tipped well) and discover how quaint this small town is. This is not so much the classical town with a square and a church. This former medieval capital has been built on three hills, with a river running through it. It has a rather romantic feel to it. 

The stop after this is Plovdiv, which should just be mentioned for its name, I guess! It has a nice car free centre and the place has been cleaned up and renovated and boasts both a Roman amphitheatre and a big Mosque. I meet an elderly Israeli artist and spend some time in her studio and decide the next day to stay with her in a village outside town. There I read my book in a tree and walk to a nearby monastery in the heat, while greeting the local goats on the way. I feel rather passive and I am not used to having the option of ‘nothing to do’, but it is not that bad…

The next stop is the capital. I reconnect with someone I had met seven years ago and we spend every dinner together. It is nice to get some insights on local life. I don’t just do a local tour of the city, I also catch a ‘free food tour’, which is equally as interesting. We are taken to various stalls and restaurants where we hear about local foods and markets, and get to have tastes of various dishes. We also learn interesting facts, such as how during communism tomatoes were exchanged for ABBA records (good deal, I’d say).

Sofia feels more pleasant than Bucharest, even so, it does not quite reach the beauty of many other European cities. As a day trip I go to the Rila monastery. This is a rather long ride into the mountains to visit this splendid monastery and for a short hike in the forest.

Romania and Bulgaria might be next to each other, but both countries feel they don’t have much in common; language, alphabet, history, religion- it is all different. People look different as well. The one thing they have in common and I ask many questions about this, is that both countries were subjected to a communist regime for decades - roughly from just after WWII up to 1989/90. In both countries the overall feeling of the younger generation, born after the fall of communism, was that they have no reason to want it back. How its influence is still living on in this generation, I wonder. A lack of trust in others, I often hear, even though they open their doors to a stranger like me, they would not easily invite local strangers into their lives. Not surprising; their parents grew up in a time in which a neighbour, a friend, even a family member could have been part of the secret police and would find a reason to turn them in. I am also told that often there is a lack of communal responsibility; ‘the state should take care of it’, but this has for long not been the case any more. I could notice a difference between the younger and older generation; the younger generation wanting to find more modern comfort, while a lot of older people hold on to their old houses that once, during communism might have been assigned to them, and never changing anything to it- not moving to another place. What both countries also have in common, is that most city centres looked well taken care of, but you only need to turn a corner to find worn down, dilapidated buildings. Where both countries are going and whether it is in a positive or negative direction, depends on who I speak to. The software designing industry seems strong here. Poverty is definitely still present, but nicely kept away from tourists, with one big advantage: everything is very cheap when coming from the west. 

ROMANIA

(Part I Easter Holiday)

I had my eyes wander over the map of Europe, looking for a country I had not been to. Romania and Bulgaria were the answer.

Strangers

People tell me I am nuts, because for every trip I go online to find locals I have never met, in order to crash on their couch. I am told I will run into freaks and psychos. So let me tell you what weirdos I really meet and you can tell me what attitude I should take. My very first host in Sibiu, Romania picks me up from the airport, then takes me to his parents' place, where his mum feeds us dinner. An opportunity to see how an average middle-class family lives (small place, could have been refurbished 30 years ago, but clean and tidy, living room also serves as a bedroom, tiger print bedspread, mini plates and cups in display in a glass cupboard, some religious pictures, old television blasting). We then go to his apartment, where we talk current living conditions in Romania and he downloads a T.V.-series of my choice. Host number two in Shigisoara is a family of three, and I am offered my own bedroom. I play with the little boy and stay up far too late chatting to her about gypsies and Ceausescu. This couple makes traditional decorated wooden spoons for a living, so I get a whole look-in into that after the dinner we share. They give me the key, so I can come back any time. Host number three in Brasov is also a couple with a baby. Over the dinners we have together, they tell me the whole story of how they met and about their trips through Europe on a motorbike. All these hosts provide me with the tourist information needed and tips. This system of opening both your mind and house up to others has restored my faith in people and makes me want to be nice to other strangers. It gives me the opportunity to look differently at countries;
whilst before it was about the tourist points and perhaps how friendly the staff is somewhere, now it has become for a great deal about the people themselves. What do they tell me about growing up here? What ideas do they share? What do I learn about the culture through them?

Dracula

Romania is a pleasant surprise. Transylvania offers small towns with cobblestone streets and colourful houses. The nature does not seem to differ much from what I am used to in northern Europe, except that there are a lot of bears that can be encountered in the wild. I only meet them in an enclosed sanctuary, where abused bears, prior used for performing, are held until their death and hopefully with laws being enforced this sanctuary will die a natural death.

I obviously cannot omit mentioning Dracula, whilst traveling through Transylvania. Dracula’s Castle (Bran) does not quite live up to its expectation (I circle around it until I have the right angle for a more impressive picture), but fiction always lives best in ones imagination. I read the book (from 1897!) on my trip and especially the beginning is filled with adventure. A real pageturner, which becomes more slowpaced once the wise men deliberate for hours in order to figure out what this phenomena is and what to do about it. This book must be even more exciting not knowing about vampires! What are those two mysterious red dots in her neck?

Bram Stoker based the name on Vlad Dracul, duke of Wallachia (and not of Transylvania), who had received the order of the Dragon from the king of Hungary. The word dragon found no translation in Romanian, but the word ‘dracul’, meaning Satan, sounded mostly like it, so that is what stuck. His cruel son was then called Draculea, but his other nickname was ‘the impaler’. I will let your imagination run with what that might mean. Neither Draculea, nor Stoker have probably spent time in that castle, so I consider this a very smart marketing ploy, as it has put Transylvania on the tourist map. Otherwise the story is completely made up and impressive just for that reason; today it has pretty much become a genre in itself. The first film, Nosferatu, dates back to 1922!

No such thing as coincidence?

My mother's best friend in Holland, living two blocks away from us, is Romanian. She fled the communist regime and would always speak bitterly about her country. I was therefore surprised to find so much hospitality (not just a bed, also food and long conversations- even though would not say 'affectionate' or 'warm' per se) and the towns in Transylvania are lovely. Bucharest less so. Large grey communist buildings alternate kitschy new build and most of it could have done with some restauration/paint at least 30 years ago. It does not make me feel safe at night, even if there is no reason for that sentiment.

The most shocking and surprising thing that happens, is bumping into my mum's friend, while crossing the street. She has come here, last minute, for a weekend, to look after her parents' grave. I have not seen her in seven years. We have a drink together and she points to different places, where she has met her husband, where she used to live. I ask her if her feelings have changed, she says: “they seem nice, but I know what they are really like.” Both of them being Romanian, but being part of minorities, meant their treatment was unpleasant at the best of times.

At night I go salsa dancing, but I am too tired to show off much skill. To me, everybody looks similar- whether thin, fat, tall, short- there was just no variety, no colour. Even though there is perhaps still more to see, I decide to leave the next day…..

THE MIDDLE BIT I

On the bus to the border I meet a German guy who is heading in the same direction. This is what happens when you backpack. You meet someone who seems decent who is going to the same destination and you then share a room to save costs, eat a few meals together or go on an excursion together. It does not matter that much how profoundly you really like each other. Being on the same wavelength with your plans is enough (this one is friendly, but lacks a sense of humour). Goodbyes will follow when your itineraries demand different directions. You will then meet new travelers or unexpectedly bump into the old ones a few weeks later in a different place. Solo travelers I meet are barely a few years older (early twenties) than my school students, nice, decent people, but they take themselves quite seriously and I feel the agegap (what is it? Not yet cynical?). The somewhat older ones move around in couples and we all know three is a crowd. Most are on a six months to one year trip and after two weeks I grow a bit wary of every single conversation being: 'where are you from?' 'where are you going?' 'where have you been?' All quite self-indulgent. Everyone feeling so authentic, but aren't we all doing the same? I regularly ask the locals what they think of these odd westerners that come and stay in their places and have changed the face of towns quite a bit. The locals mainly think about the money they are making, traveling themselves is not an option, most have barely seen more than two cities in their own country.

The bus stops and no explanation is given and we see hardly any people around. We decide to get out and realise we are at the Thai border. We almost feel like we are in a  bad comedy. The border people have put out loud speakers and are in turn singing Thai karaoke into a microphone. I can barely hear the man at passport control....
The first village in Laos has a different feel than Thailand. It is calmer. It is a promising start. The next day we take the slowboat. A boat with seats taken from old busses for pretty much just tourists where after two days on the Mekong you arrive in Luang Prabang. I enjoy the beautiful views. The night we sleep in another village, which is similar to the one described above. Here we are, in a sleepy, tiny, poor village, where every evening a new group of foreigners arrive, who in the evening gather in one bar, try to get drunk, are very loud and leave the next morning. I don't quite get this concept.
I decide to leave the boat and opt for another direction. There is one ramshackle bus with not enough legspace going north, so I take it. I am aiming for Nong Khiao, as I have been told you can kayak from there in three days to Luang Prabang. Quite a few hours later, I end up sitting in a busstation of a village, while it is getting darker and darker, trying to understand whether there is a connection further on or not. Nobody speaks any foreign and vegetarian food is not available (except for some wilted leaves). The other people waiting in the station (cement with some wooden benches, an island in the mud) do seem to be OK with me, but I do not manage to get any communication going-gesturing does not get me anywhere. After a four hours wait a van shows up that then drops me off at the edge of a road, close to midnight. Pitch dark, I follow some men that get off at the same time who then all enter a house and I just keep following a dirtroad, now and then startled by dogs or loose cows. I am lucky to find one guesthouse open where I subsequently stay three nights. Here I relax. A touristy town, but due to the rainy season not so busy. I fail to find other people to form a group to go kayaking for three days, but after doing an afternoon of it in the pouring rain, I am more than happy to let go of that idea. The highpoint here is a two hour long climb up a mountain which results in stunning views. Going down takes me twice as long, due to the mud and my fear of falling.

The receptionist speaks a decent amount of English, so I make sure we have an evening together in which I can finally fire off the many questions I have about life here, He tells me he used to be a Buddhist monk; his parents could not afford his studies, so he joined a temple. Up to 21 years old he was a novice, after which he became a monk. Once he finished his studies, he left the temple and he recently got married. He tells me he still goes to temple when he has negative feelings and by concentrating on Buddha, he feels better. I ask him about other religions, he says he can talk about it, but I cannot talk about it with anyone, as the police could get to me (I look this up: proselytisation is forbidden and some protestants have been stopped from gathering and asked to renounce their religion). I generally leave other religions and politics out of the conversation, as it seems a difficult topic.

At my next stop Luang Prabang I do the tourist bits; visit a fantastic waterfall, a few temples and stroll around town. Here, I have a few more chances to chat to locals, as I go to an English class ( big brother mouse), where they are happy to practise their English on tourists. All participants are young lads ("where are the girls?" I ask. "Too shy," they tell me). It turns out that most are Hmong (one of the many minority groups in South East Asia). They are animist (believe in the spirits of their ancestors) by religion and have their own language. Because they fought against the communist during the Vietnam war, they suffered afterwards, as they had come out on the losing side (SEA is still mainly communist. Some of them emigrated to America). When I ask what they do when not studying they say "nothing" as they would not have money for it. I ask what kind of girlfriend like would like. "Chinese. Korean" I hear. As it turns out that is a different answer to the question who they want to marry "Hmong" is the answer here.

The next day I meet a 17 year's old novice monk on the bank of the river. He asks to take a picture of me, but I cannot sit too close to him. He is happy to speak English with me, an opportunity I grab with both hands. He comes from a large family, all living in a bamboo house ( consisting of one room) in a village one hour away with no asphalted roads. His father died a fee years ago (he then tells me it is different for men and women; women are not supposed to remarry). He left home three years ago and only once has had the opportunity to go back, but he did not like it, as nothing has changed. His mother pays towards his education and food is provided by the community. Every morning around 6 AM the monks walk through the streets collecting alms. I participate in this the next morning; I buy a pot of cooked sticky rice and the monks shuffle by and I deposit a handful in each of their foodbaskets until I run out. Amazing how people get up so early every day to help them get their two meals a day. As for me, I manage to get a few pretty pictures. The novice monk tells me he is now used to eating only lunch and breakfast and whenever he has distracting thoughts, he thinks of Buddha. They have strict schooling; first to learn all the prayers by heart, and to learn about Buddhism, languages and other school topics. Discipline and purity are important. Most, like this one, have joined to be able to study, but his future plans lie outside the temple. He would like to study to become a doctor. Preferably abroad. And who knows, he might be able to help his family one day.

JUST GETTING STARTED

        South East Asia somehow never appeared on my 'to travel to' list. Not that I ever doubted its beauty or interesting culture, but I felt it was a little too far removed from mine and was not sure if I could connect with its people. On all of my trips I have always met plenty of local people more than happy to show me around, host me and helping me out with my million questions about their country and personal and national history. This has always taught me so much, while enjoying good company.

For the first few weeks of this trip, this has come true. Both in Bangkok and Northern Thailand I did find people to stay with. Foreigners who do not speak the language, have no local friends and who both say that Thai people just keep to themselves. Most Thai do not speak a word of English and I can just about remember the three words I learnt: 'hello', 'thank you' and 'vegetarian'. Gestures don't seem to help much and overall there is a strong reservedness. It is a new and almost alienating experience to be somewhere where I cannot understand anything and I am not understood either...

But let's not run ahead of myself....A four day journey through Dusseldorf, Zurich and Abu Dhabi had me finally arrive in a hot and sticky Bangkok. A lot of time was spent on the underground, in between the high rise buildings, I visited my first temple there, the stunning Wat Pho (wat = temple) with a massive golden reclining Buddha. I met two older British gay men on the boat and one of them read my hand, something he does for a living. An elderly Thai Tarot reader did not appreciate that and started saying all sorts of things in her limited English, while holding a knife. Well, you can all rejoice, as I will apparently be around for a long time.

Leaving Bangkok is not as easy as it sounds. Finding a bus to get me to the busstation and actually then getting there takes over two hours in crazy traffic. I am off to the north: Chiang Mai. Not sure what to make of this place. Tourists love it, and like to chill there for weeks. To me it feels very little authentic; just travel agencies, tourist shops, hotels and so on. I meet up with someone I had gotten to know a few weeks prior in Bristol, but decide against joining her on an excursion, as it involves elephant riding. An industry in which elephants are mistreated. Instead I opt for going to an elephant sanctuary where they look after abused and sick elephants. We feed and wash them and take lots of pictures. In the evening I find my aforementioned friend and we wander over the Sunday market at night, which has a nice mix of locals and tourists. That is what I call a good day!

 The following days are spent tracking in the jungle, where we endure the rain and mud for two full days (and no, nothing dries). It is tough and I push my boundaries on a few occasions (climbing over rocks out of a cave, while the dark abyss awaits me and being pulled against the stream into a waterfall), but I enjoy it thoroughly.

Moving on to Chiang Rai to see the white temple. On every corner there is a temple and since I have already seen a bunch of them, I am not sure how this one would add anything to my experience...oh it does. A massive modern construction that totally impresses me, even though you probably cannot get more kitschy than that. This is an interesting note to leave Thailand on and to start heading for Laos.... 

Couchsurfing

  Still drowsy from the nightbus, I have a pleasant surprise, the  station serves black tea...a rarity..I am picked up by my host  Alejandro and his friend Wil, who inspite of his name does  not speak a word of English. It is funny, I can tell within five  minutes Alex is an interesting guy and we will get on. This is  about how long it normally takes to figure out the click is  there or not. They are both Zapotecs, another people that  dates back from pre-Hispanic times. They do not speak the  language however. The reason why I came today is because  I did not want to miss the Guelagetza, an annual indigenous event in which all the seven provinces of Oaxaca are represented in folkloristic dances and clothing. It has become a tourist attraction, but it is mainly the locals that love it and people stand hours and hours in line in order to get in. First we drive quite a while to get to Alex´s house. Well, ´house´might not be entirely the right word...We climb a few steps to get to a terrace with several rooms adjacent to it. Families and couples live in them: a mattrass, a plastic table with clothes piled up on it. Water needs to be hoisted up from a well, which can then be used in the little bathroom to wash or to flush the toilet. I am awake again after a quick cold wash. Where we will be staying is a few steps higher in a tree. Yes, it is a room in a tree. Couchsurfing: you never know what you are going to get...

Wil takes me to the Guelaguetza where I snap away, enjoying the colours and the Mexican ´hoompa hoompa´ music (as we call it in Dutch). In order for me to enjoy it more, people decide I need to go to the front, after first having had a taste of mezcal, the local alcoholic drink, which you will know from your margarita. It is not the first time that I notice I am treated slightly better in a subtle way. Being white and foreign I get the benefit of the doubt, whether it is when I do not have enough change or want to use the bathroom in an expensive restaurant. I can sense colonial thinking still plays a role here. Guerita (blond girl, but they call me that as well) means better education, more money and having something ´more´. Television here shows people that look more like me than the actual population.

That night I sleep like a log on the floor, in spite of the endless barking of dogs all around and am woken by the sun shining through the curtainless window. That day I want to take off to do some writing and work, but Wil reacts heavily disappointed as he has to go away for a few days and is really keen on showing me around. I give in and we go to a few villages around Oaxaca where they make all types of artisinal decorative products. Fun, but it is clear they purely live off tourism and is created for that (which right now is quiet), as an actual long lived tradition of this does not exist. I see a few women at work, they all work without a design and paint the little wooden fantasy animals in all kind of detailed patterns and just paint over it when they don´t like it. 

The next day is my day off I decide. We visit a friend of Alex who is building a beautiful restaurant and we go foodshopping. Finally! I get to cook something myself. Food is part of travelling, but it is the one experience I choose to miss out on. I am a vegetarian and do not like spicy. This leaves me with quesedillas. I cannot eat any more of those. Just when I smell tortillas on the street, which is pretty much everywhere, I want to walk away from it as fast as I can.. Anyone seems to be able to put up a stove, tables and chairs and sell food- so far almost all my guest eat out (keeping in mind that several do not have a kitchen). They are proud of their Mexican cuisine, but I have seen very little homecooked meals. The menu seems pretty much unchanged since pre-Hispanic times, as they already ate tortillas and adored corn as a divine entity.

I have so far resisted the chapulines, fried locust.

In the evening we go to the feria de mezcal, a festival to celebrate this drink. Bands play and there are innumerous stands that let us taste their drink, so my mood turns happier and happier.

Alex offers to go together to the Pueblos Mancumunados, in the mountains. We pack a tent and off we go. It is nice to get out of town and the air is so much fresher. The night in the tent is really cold, but it is bearable with all my clothes on, a borrowed winterjacket and three thick blankets. I would like to walk more, but Alex really wants to see Lila Downs, a famous singer, perform in town. I decide to leave his place, as  sleeping on the floor has become quite uncomfortable and I don´t want to outstay my welcome. (and perhaps not the worst decision, as Alex posts a video 'never fall in love with a girl who travels' after I leave). I go to my new host, who lives centrally. For a moment I think I am at the wrong address, as it takes a while before he opens the door, he then disappears to finish his shower, but I think he forgets about me, as I call him after an hour of waiting. He has a nice room, but to my not so pleasant surprise he is offering to sleep in his double bed. I am less than thrilled, but realise he is quite young and I can handle him. Besides, I have just spent several night sleeping next to someone else and indeed it turns out to be fine, he respects my space. We go off to find Alex in the queue which is at least half a mile long. It is clear they won't get in. The two of us go up to the other side, to see if we can catch anything from outside. We find an open gate at the top and get in. Downs is definitely an interesting performer. She uses indigenous influences, sings very old known songs (well,  not to me) and her own material. Cannot quite hear the lyrics well, but there is clearly more to her than just love songs. She is dressed traditionally and has dancers from the Guelaguetza join her. It is a very entertaining experience being in this big open air stadium.

All I am left with is a visit with Wil to Monte Alban, another pre-Hispanic site, Zapotec this time and a visit to an interesting museum which gives an overview of how Mexico has become what it is now. Monte Alban is the one site that cannot enthuse me, I have seen too many pre-Hispanic sites by now, and even though they are of a different people, the architecture, religious beliefs and habits seem similar. Languages would differ, but also within the groups that spoke the same language, there were local variations and they did not operate as one group.

I go on one more day long organised excursion which takes us to the biggest tree in the world, or at least that is what they claim, in Tule, a mezcal factory, another pre-Hispanic site (this one is pretty cool actually, as it has some decorative parts) and a tapestry weaver (not that I have seen any tapestry in any of the houses, just another tourist point). I meet a friendly couple from Puebla and bump into some Americans I had met on a previous excursion.

Not much of a beach bum, I still decide that I have enough time to go visit the coast here, as I have seen the Carribean one, I now need to see the Pacific one... A very uncomfortable nightbus with loud music takes me to Puerto Escondido. I arrive at six, so will have some waiting to do and head to the beach. An hour later the beach starts to fill up with fishermen returning from their 24 hours of fishing. I watch with fascination how they sell their fresh fish right from the boat; women, from restaurants probably, fill buckets with fish and weigh it on a hook attached to a portable scale. One of the fisherman tells me what a hard life it is and that they cannot even sell it for the price they want, as people just simply pay what they want to pay. Outside tourist season there is not much to sell.

I make my way to my next host, with difficulty, everytime I get a little lost when I try to find my way back. My host cannot be there himself, but I am welcomed by a Brazilian-Russian couple who stay here. It is a hostel in the making and I get to sleep on a bed with a mosquito net in the garden. It is hot. Very hot. Without moving, sweat drips down my back.The beach here is for surfers, as there are lots of waves, which makes swimming a little dangerous. I make beach walks, talk to people, read my book, go for a swim, but essentially feel bored, as the people here are actually not very interesting if you don´t spend your time talking about surfing. I decide that this is ideal to do some work and don´t leave in a hurry, but then the internet is down in the whole village and beyond, so I feel stuck. I read about four books in three days. Against my own better judgment, I decide to take a beginner´s class surfing. The teacher is not very good, as he spends most of his time yelling ´arriba, arriba´ at me and I am not warned about chaving, my whole stomach is red and burns by the end of it. Anyway, always good to have confirmed for certain what you are NOT supposed to be doing. The one excursion here is the phosphorescent lagoon. A type of microorganism lives in the water and its luminescence is activated by the movement of the water, which could be humans, fish or rain.

Back to Oaxaca to catch a bus to Puebla. Puebla is a small town with colonial buildings and has a pleasant atmosphere. Volkswagen has a major factory here. Elias takes me to his place in the centre, a large studioflat which looks like it could have been restored about 60 years ago. He wants to go to a party, but I have very little energy and only stick it out for an hour so I take a cab back. I hardly see Elias over the next days, due to a family emergency. We have one long conversation about the state of the country and the treatment of minorities. He is an anarchists, cannot stand Americans (gringos) and is part of the Zappatista movement. I explore the city on my own and on one of my wanderings I find myself on a square which houses several mariachi bands. I spend some time with them, it is basically a song-drive in. People drive by and request songs and pay accordingly.

I also meet up for dinner with the couple met at the excursion. I also invite a couchsurfer who I know will be going to the same rafting event as me. The couple is impressed with all the stories of meeting strangers and having a good time together.

I then visit Cholula, attached to Puebla. It used to be an important place in the old days. It used to have a pyramid which is considered the largest in the world. In 1519 in order to scare the Aztecs, Hernan Cortes, the main Spanish conquistador, massacred a great part of the population. To show the power of the Spanish crown and the Catholic church, he built a big church on top of the pyramid.There is little left of the pyramid, it is pretty much a big hill.

 ^{. He then continued to build about 50 more churches in Cholula. There is defintely no lack of churches in Mexico, in any remote corner you will find one. People are very devout; most people have a cross or pictures of Jesus in their house and the same can be found in public places such as busses. The conquistadores (Spanish colonisers) might not always be looked on favourably, but there is no negativity towards the Spanish, the religion and language are too strongly adopted and most people are probabaly mestiza (a mix of indigenous and Spanish). In order to make Catholicism more acceptable, the crucifixion of Jesus was emphasised (compared to human sacrifices that existed in the aborigen culture). Within indigenous groups there is still a lot of influence of original traditions mixed up with the Catholic one. For example in the north the Tarahumara wear traditional clothes and masks and dance all night during Semana Santa (Easter), where they put the emphasis on 'evil' (faces painted white, like the Spanish) and 'good'.}

      In Cholula I meet up with an American couchsurfer for lunch, who works for the peace corps, an American organisation that gives help to developing countries and in this way promoting the US (an open propaganda agenda). She takes me to a small bakery where I meet Kate, an English woman, married to a Mexican. I tell her that I have so far been relieved that Mexicans have not bothered me, as sometimes my experience with Latinos has been different. She says there is a strong Catholic ethic, where men are supposed to take out women for a long while before sex is an option. Result is however that they often will tell a girl fairly fast that they are boyfriend and girlfriend to move things on, even though they don´t mean it. Perhaps I have not felt the machismo in the streets, there does seem to be a much higher percentage of cheating and mistreating women (and women putting up with it, as they don't have the education, financial means and there are simply more men). Kate says that the men are very attached to their mothers, so every time she wants something from her husband, to avoid arguments, she asks her mother-in-law to make the request. A shortcut to get things done. 

Next stop: The capital...  

Rosita

The nightbus takes me to Palenque, in the south of Mexico- in the morning the army checked us on weapons and drugs. 

I am pretty adament on sleeping on my own, but that night a scorpion wants to share my bed with me in the youth hostel. As much of a vegetarian I am, I cannot say I shed a tear when the receptionist killed it (and yes I did sleep in that same bed). 

The two days excursion I take, turns out to be an excellent choice. It is shared with two Mexican couples, who cannot quite get my name, so Rosita it is. Most parts I am going to now are mostly visited by Mexican tourists, generally from the capital or the north (visibly a bit more affluent).

It is quite a drive to Bonampak where we are soon put on a small boat, going over a river, on which one side lies Guatemala, the other Mexico. We are let off at the Maya ruins of Yaxchilan. Yet another archeological site, yet again a new surprise, as found in the middle of the jungle with hardly any other people around. I thoroughly enjoy this visit. Our next visit is to the ruins of Bonampak, where we take a guide, which sheds some (but not a full) light on my curiosity. There are many many Maya sites, as it was a people that consisted of many different groups, that each had their own settlements-villages with their own leaders and typical hierarchy. Regularly they would fight with other Mayan groups. It was more about power than anything else, as their religion and language were often the same. However within that there were variations. Their religion was a combination of beliefs in nature and in a number of gods and included human sacrifice. 

The next day we go on a long walk in the jungle (Selva Lacandonia), finding a  deserted Maya ruin, as there are many more. Unfortunately animalwise not much more than insects and lizards, as the monkeys are too shy.

The night we stay in a cabana at a river in which we swim, which is lovely. The tours are run by the local indigenous people that live there and I am trying hard to understand how they live. The kids will join us at the table, taking breaks from their jobs as vendors of all kinds of bracelets, necklaces, drinks and food. Their Spanish was not always great, but they also do not seem too keen to answer too many questions and what I find odd is that they seem to lack the one quality I so appreciate in children: curiosity. Just get on with life without any questions. I lend them my pen and notebook to draw in, which they eagerly do, and when I ask they tell me they do not have pens at home. They live of agriculture for own consumption and the children are involved in work. Most of them seem to go to a bilingual (Maya and Spanish) school, but education has no priority. The government does seem to come up with projects, but not much is actually put into practise. Obviously the ones living in tourist areas are better off. In town I see small kids selling articles everywhere, I do not like buying from them, but sometimes I give them food - to which one lady remarks; "the government gives indigenous families money for each kid," to which I reply that it is obvious that this child is hungry. Apparently there is an alcohol problem within this culture as well. It is hard to get the right information without actually doing proper research or/and living with them. Those children are part of the streetview and actually easy to ignore as they don't seem to be suffering terribly and don't seem to have criminal tendencies. I prefer not to however.

The night I come back I decide to stay in la Panchan, a 'bohemian' part in the jungle of Palenque with restaurants and places to stay. I stay in a cheap but awful place, old mattrass, many people in one room, all concrete, incredibly loud music...No idea how, but I am so exhausted and I sleep like a log..

Time to do my own thing, I decide the next day. I hitchhike to the waterfalls of Misol-ha and Agua Azul, both very different and stunning, I slip at one point and fall straight forward with my massive backpack on (who would've thought it can be slippery with all that water...). One guy who has taken me on is a soldier, stationed in Michoacan, where currently there is a serious battle going on between drugdealers and the army. He shows me pictures of his weapons and him in a massive field of marihuana. I had already crossed this city off my list of visits...

In the city of San Cristobal I am shocked by the sudden drop of temperature; I find myself at about 2000 meters into the mountains and am not prepared for this. I am sharing a cold house with a Spanish brother and sister who I hang out with for a bit, but in some way are even less social than couples and I get fed up at just tagging along, rather than being part of the company. As I just chat away with anyone I meet, I soon make a friend on a local bus, who decides to spend the rest of an afternoon showing me around town; there are more churches than schools here. She is a lawyer and tells me they are just reforming the law, now people can testify orally in court. Mexicans work six days a week. A five day workweek is called ´semana Inglesa´ funnily enough.

Outside San Cristobal I visit the Canon del Sumidero, a breathtaking boattrip in between rockwalls, encountering crocodiles on the way (and yes they do eat humans). The trip that impresses me most, is the visit to San Juan de Chamula. At first nothing special, lots of little tourist shops, to finally reach a square with a church. The churches here are less decorated than the Italian ones. This one has a lot of life size dolls in glass cabinets, which represent the saints. On the floor there is hay and candles. People are sitting on the floor, praying out loud (not in Spanish) in an almost meditative state, sticking candles to the floor, subsequently holding and waving a chicken over it and then killing it with their hands. They have several plastic bottles around them and drink alcohol from them and some Coca Cola (the smallest, most remote village will have Coca Cola here). It is an odd and somewhat distressing sight. I know the bible often talks of animal sacrifice, but I have never seen it in modern times. It is however more likely to be a Mayan ritual mixed into Catholicism, than biblical.

I have been on the road non-stop and want to take a break, but suddenly realise that I have little time to lose, as I want to go to a folkloristic festival in Oaxaca, so I quickly sign up for the next tour: lakes near the border of Guatemala, before yet again traveling on another nightbus...

Romantic

We tend to romaticise travelling, but the truth is: my feet hurt as one blister is replaced by another, I am sweating bucketloads because of the humid heat, which also ensures I look like I just rolled out of bed on a constant bad hairday, the mosquitos have found their way to my body, my backpack is far too heavy, I have a cold thanks to the constant moving between sun and ventilated rooms and I am tired...so tired... The pay off is however worth it: I am meeting lovely people, my Spanish is improving every day, I see unique historical sites and landscapes. A good week in and I feel I have been here ages, as visited Cancun, Isla Mujeres, Playa, Tulum, Valladolid, Merida and now I am in the jungle, in Palenque. I have visited four Maya sites, which in all honesty has not given me more insight in the Mayan culture. Each site has been similar, yet different, as some places were bigger or had more bas-relief carvings or you could climb the temples and the location would make a difference too. In short: impressive. The people in the province of Yucatan still call themselves Maya and speak Maya, even though the younger generation less so. Besides language and looks, there is not much left of the Mayan culture; it has been completely replaced by Catholicism.

Another typical phenomena here are the cenotes, sinkholes that have developed due to the collapse of limestone bedrock that exposes groundwater underneath.The water is crystal clear and often they can be found in cavernes, as some are completely underground, some semi-underground and some above ground (like a lake). I have swam in three of them and besides refreshing, stunning. One was in an actual cave, and we were surrounded by stalagmites, stalagtites and bats.

I have not had to spend any time alone, as I am staying with locals; either in a hammock or on a mattrass on the floor and listening to their (life)stories. One of my favourite results of travelling, or even life, is collecting stories. I meet other lost travelling souls during the day at various sites. I also met up with an adorable couple and their three years old (I somehow seem to spend a lot of time with three years old during this trip) who I had met seven years ago on a bus in France. I have hung out with a few Dutch I have met at the temples (seperately) and two days with an American guy (as asked him how a hat looked on me and we went from there), who even offered to stay in a hotel (work was paying), a nice luxury! The Mexicans so far have been generous and there seem to be no interest in ripping tourists off, even the taxis are honest. What I noticed here is that most people seem to be overweight. A lot of the food is fried I guess, but I also realised the amounts people eat, as one mother of a host offered me breakfast at eight in the morning and it consisted of a huge piece of beef and rice. I said an apple would do the trick for me..

The coast was very touristy, even though it is low season- except for the the resorts (sun, sea & sex), but now I have moved away from the coast .  I has a bit of a different feel to it, Merida felt like a real city, while the other cities felt like there was one big road and everything built around it. Merida has a lovely, clean colonial centre, although houses look less taken care of when you move away from it, but it did not feel dangerous anywhere.

I better try to get a night´s sleep, as I need to be ready at six for my two day excursion near the Guatemalan border ..

HERE I AM...

Barely at day three and I have left my normal life completely behind. 

The plane was filled with young women with too much make up and tattooed men, looking forward to two weeks of getting plastered and the night clubs where Mexicans are not welcome. 
I was lucky to be picked up at the bus station of Cancun by Pintero, an amateur hip hopper, who showed me the parts of the city that could not have been further removed from the luxury resorts, His place consisted of one room, a few mattresses and a table, attached to it a tiny shabby bathroom. He said it was better not to hang around outside his flat in the evening. He was in the lucky position to make better money (350 vs average of 200 pounds a month) than most, thanks to his good command of English.
After a quick meal, that taught me I will be eating a lot of guacamole and corn based products with vegetables in the coming two months, he dropped me off at the harbour, where I took a boat to Isla Mujeres. This island is like many small islands I have visited: palm trees, the main street filled with souvenir shops and restaurants and beautiful, busy beaches with diving and snorkling day trips. Jacobo had waited for me. He introduced me to his girlfriend (20) and her three years old daughter (father no interest), took me out for dinner, shared his life story and then insisted I downed a few tequilla´s, while convincing the barman to play salsasongs, so we could dance to a few good tunes. This left me with some nasty blisters and still has me limping. 
His room was not much different from P´s, no kitchen, a small bathroom and no furniture. I made myself comfortable in the hammock, but J¨s drunk snoring and my excitement left me with little sleep. In the morning we visited the beach and in the afternoon his girlfriend had arranged for a scooter and showed me the island, which was highly enjoyable. In the evening I was beyond tired, but the couple convinced me to come out to a fun open air bar. I could barely stand on my feet, even though I enjoyed a few moves on the dancefloor (cumbia, salsa, raggaeton, bachata is pretty much the standard music here, so that works fine for me!). Eventually they decided to put me in a taxi, one of their friends volunteering to accompany me- which was a good thing, with the stray dogs barking and the decaying houses being similar. He however, decided to stay and chat for another two hours, hoping for more, and eventually left when he finally got the message that ´no´ actually meant no. The rest stumbled in at five; yet again a night of two hours sleep, as I got up early to join a snorkling trip to a reef and an underwater museum (statues placed under water). After these days of acclimatisation I have left the island and am now ready for the real work to start exploring Mexico´s rich history...

THE ONLY LIMIT TO OUR REALIZATION OF TOMORROW WILL BE OUR DOUBTS OF TODAY (Roosevelt)

I am home! Yes. With a bad cold, still mixing up day and night and not used to the 20-30 degrees drop in temperature. It is great to see my father and brother again (thank you for the beautiful flowers!!), sleep in the same comfortable bed, to throw toilet paper in the toilet (and not in a bin next to it), being able to bake cakes, watch loads of television, but that is really about it. There were definitely no valentine cards waiting for me and I am still not ready to confront reality. At least I have a head (and a camera) filled with beautiful memories.

A quick update on the way back: I caught my cold from the wonderful air co in the plane from Rio to Sao Paolo, there the flight was almost cancelled and we enthusiastically volunteered to stay behind, but unfortunately there was still room last minute. We had two overnight flights during which it was impossible to sleep (films watched: Running with scissors, Volver and Babel).
The day in between we spent in Washington, where we walked around for five hours to see all the presidential and war memorials. Not enough time in Washington, but it was very interesting. In general we felt a lot of the memorials were celebrating victory more than commemorating death and one sided; at the Roosevelt memorial It mentioned the bombing of Pearl Harbour, but not a word about the nuclear bomb or other non-American victims.

It was just too weird to be surrounded by snow, while the day prior we had been lying on the beach. But I guess that is modern times: one day you are at the beach in Rio, the next in the city centre of Washington and the one after that in the outskirts of Amsterdam, sleeping...

I have been thinking of how to conclude this travel blog properly. It is too early to start looking back. One way to round off my last entry here is to look back at the several questions I have been asked, which I have answered personally, but why not make it public (censored of course-sorry took the names out..),..

Most frequent questions asked were by the way:
Where are you now? And when are you coming back?

-: How is the journey? Is it what you expected it to be?
-: by the way hows the crime scene where you're at?

For some reason South-America had been a very old dream of mine.
Why exactly, I don't know. Well, I like travelling and it sounds exotic, but it is
still a culture that might be understandable, seen its European origin.
When planning the trip it still stayed an abstract idea. Sure, we planned a route, prepared ourselves for all kinds of weather and bought loads of medication.
I got warnings about drugs, violence, the men, food poisoning, scam artists, theft...
These warnings did not stop while travelling, but even though we got ill, none of that threatened us. Partly because stories are exaggerated, we were very careful and we were simply lucky.

The trip was both what we expected from it and completely different. Travelling is fun and you see so much, but it also meant feeling very tired all the time, as we never stopped. And even if we did; a nightbus would spoil that again..Every day was different, that is for sure!

At arrival in Argentina it all felt very 'normal', almost as if we were in Europe, but later we found ourselves on completely unfamiliar ground. In that sense we could divide the journey in three 'cultures':
Buenos Aires and Chile: looks and feels very European, familiar
North of Argentina, Peru and Bolivia: poorer, indigenous culture
Brazil: different language, different mixture, different culture

I am constantly asked about high points. I think answering that is both hard and simple: the local people, who showed us around, invited us in or simply told us about their life.
I also enjoyed greatly the several hikes we undertook in Chapada de Diamantinha (Brazil), the volcano in Pucon (Chile) and Torres del Paine (Chile). Then there are of course the famous tourist points, that are famous for an obvious reason: they are breathtaking: the Iguazu falls (Argentina), Machu Picchu (Peru), the glacier in El Calafate (Argentina), the salt flats of Uyuni (Bolivia), the carnival of Brazil and many more sites..

Of course I have only scratched the surface, but South-America is now a vividly existing place for me, in culture, politics and nature.
In short: what this trip did was enabling me not to have a regret later for not doing such a thing and showing me that actually anything is possible, question of doing it!

-: How do you get along with your sister? Are you together all the time or do u sometimes go out and do stuff when the other one wants to stay inside?
We were practically always together and shared every moment and illness. No, we never fought, even though it would happen that we would snap at each other for a few minutes when tired & hungry, but that was really it. Well..we had a lifetime of practice...

-: And where is base camp? London ? Amsterdam... or wherever your family is?
Home is where your backpack is...Right now it is here, in Holland, but I do hope to take it back to London. I do believe that home is where your heart is, even if it means moving in between two places (or more). It is hard, but I also consider it a luxury. I am not entirely sure where to place London at this very moment, it feels far, it is entirely up to me to create my own home there. Anyone got a job & house for me, by any chance?!

-: Been meaning to ask you how it's going not eating meat out there? Guess it's ok cause there's a fair amount of fish depending on where you are. Do you eat shellfish?
No shellfish for me. Still a vegetarian, but it was hard at times. Not even so much because the steaks looked great in Argentina, but hard because sometimes there wasn't much else (= just rice) to eat. On the boat to Belem (Brazil) I did eat some of the meat soup, as I did not want to go to sleep hungry, but I couldn't force myself beyond a few bites. Nothing wrong though with the way South-Americans treat their animals btw. Lost weight (and strength), that is for sure!

-: any prospects on a new job?
Have not started looking yet and no offers! I am looking for a job into Publishing..anyone?

-: Heard that you are going to Nahum this summer ?
I really really do want to go to Israel this summer, but it is going to depend on my job situation, as I am sure no new boss will be thrilled if I asked for 3 weeks off after a month...

I did enjoy writing this blog very much and it was a way for me to digest some of the many impressions we had. I want to thank everybody who read, reacted and wrote me over the past few months, it meant a lot to me and am looking forward to seeing you again!