Though I vowed against such long journeys before...
It’s been a while since I’ve admired a good sunset, but today that thirst was met from the window of a twenty hour bus from Buenos Aires. It was the first time that the Argentine sky truly took my breath away and a moment might actually be up there with one of my favourite evenings so far. I have found myself in the middle of the Argentinian countryside on a relatively comfortable 20 hour bus to Puerto Iguazu. I have a window seat, a chair that reclines almost into a bed, a TV playing Bridget Jones and air-conditioning. Like any countryside journey - in almost any part of the world - the farm and forest land, trees and cows could easily be placed in any country I’ve been so far. To my left the entire open sky is illuminated by a huge burnt orange setting sun, perhaps the largest I’ve seen so far. I can almost feel the heat through the bus window as everything is illuminated in the golden hour. As the night begins to creep in, the last rays of this immense sun turned bright red as the whole landscape erupted in the warm glow of dusk. To my right I welcome the sight of forests of palm trees, full of noise and life, as I edge into the sub-tropical, humid Northern area which frames the top corners of Argentina. Seven hours into my journey and it’s in place to be the best bus journey I’ve ever taken in my entire life. Whilst also serving as a reminder of the immense size of this continent, the element of comfort that I have found myself in outshines all of my England Megabus experiences and reveals perhaps another western hint to Argentina. Because flights are so expensive here, it is incredibly common to use coach services and everyone is more than happy to endure the incredibly long journeys. For 1’500 pesos (probably predicted as my most expensive bus trip because of the touristic destination) you can purchase a ticket at countless counters in the city of Buenos Aires. I’ve become incredibly efficient at packing my backpack in the last fourteen months and it took almost no time for me to wave goodbye to Buenos Aires. As the sky begins to turn a pink and purple hue, my adventure now truly begins. I am alone and my plans only stretch as far as the next 24 hours. I look forward to the language barriers, hurdles and lessons that will come my way. But first, onto Iguazu and it’s waterfalls. Although the driver is yet to take a rest, we have made several stops along the way to pick up extra passengers. At each of these stops the street vendors leap on and attempt to offer you some cheap, sweet treats. At 9pm we were also served dinner on the bus of traditional Argentine snacks and at 11pm the lights were off and everyone began to snooze. It is the first time I have endured a long distance journey and actually managed to sleep the whole way through. It was certainly time to leave Buenos Aires. Though the last three weeks have been wonderful, I was burning a hole in my wallet by surviving in the city. What is more, is that after three weeks I finally knew my way around, could jump on busses and walk in and out of suburbs with the utmost confidence of direction - I was comfortable. It is at this point that I have trained myself to recognise that comfort demands a reassessment of your trip, a shake-up. .
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The best food in Buenos Aires
What I really should say is that the heart of Buenos Aires is a place of ultimate indulgence. I am pleased to experience it, but I am also relieved that Buenos Aires is the first stop on my list and I have enough money to spend here with the knowledge that onward cities will be kinder to my bank account. I can’t deny that the inflation which sees prices hiked every year is staggering and leaves food and alcohol with a price tag that is more expensive than London (despite wages not being raised at the same rate). And yet the favourite pastime for the majority of Argentinians is eating late into the night with friends. Enter the Asado. Roughly translated as barbeque this staple plate of food is more or less a pile of tasty, succulent meat such as steak and sausages taken straight from a grill (known as a Parrilla) and is the traditional way of cooking here in Argentina. The ritual takes many forms and can be found occurring at the side of dusty streets in the Buenos Aires suburbs on plastic chairs and paper plates, right up to high end restaurants in the city. And what unites all of these asados is the universal knowledge that the quality of the meat is beyond anything you have ever experienced - and I can certainly vouch for that. Of course we embarked on a quest to find the most authentic hole in the wall food option and after an extensive search, set our hearts on ‘El Litoral Parrilla’ located in the small suburb of Balvanera. The unassuming place has the combination of an utmost local and vintage feel. In this tiny compact corner, the vintage painted signs, plastic chairs and family of elderly waiters hark back to a different era and allow for a real experience of good, hearty Argentine food. The bright orange inner walls add to the hint of a Latin American vibe amidst the backdrop to harsh kitchen lights yet the queue still lingers out of the door at all hours (a true sign of it’s quality). It was 10pm and the night was just getting started as children and parents chatted alike to the backdrop of a sizzling grill. The £5 bottle of wine was flowing and our food quickly arrived (it was basically meat stacked on even more meat). What was wonderful about this setting was that the air was warm and smelt like food, and the ambience of sharing a happy moment with friends was spread across every table in this vast maze of diners. Each dish was shared, all the wine was passed around the table and if you cast your gaze in any direction down the street you could count more than a handful further Asados occurring. The asado to share cost us 220 Pesos, which when roughly divided between two diners cost around £5 for a huge pile of grilled steak, sides, bread and of course wine. The food was as incredible as the atmosphere, yet as a queue of people waited to be seated we decided to quickly allow for the next lucky diners to take their place. It was around 11.30 before we had finished food and even thought about beginning pre-drinks (pre-boliche as they say here) before partying until daylight. It seems like I’m finally beginning to blend in with the locals here. Motorchorros and being unlucky in Argentina
It could’ve happened to anyone, anywhere. It doesn’t matter whether you’re male, female, old or young, a victim of crime is often simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. You hear such stories everyday and it does nothing more than make you question your ever dwindling faith in humanity. I’ve had friends robbed in London, jumped at knifepoint in Manchester and I will never forget the day that thieves tried to steal my mother’s bag from right outside our very home. The point being is that it happens and I was unlucky enough to become a victim in the heart of Buenos Aires. However with fourteen months of travel under my belt, I guess it was about time that something gave me a reality check. To establish the scene for you it was a gloriously warm morning as I was walked downtown from my residence in Caballito. With its beautiful buildings, elderly, families and posh cafes it is certainly a wealthy area (the Chelsea of Buenos Aires) and remarkably safe throughout the day and at night. My morning ritual involved an hour long stroll to work, buying fresh fruit along the way and listening to what I’d chosen for today’s Spotify theme as Britpop through my headphones. The traffic lights had turned to red and as I briefly waited at a crossing I pulled out my phone to check the time. In that very same moment an unassuming motorbike with two passengers, like the million other bikes in this city, neared the pavement and I took a step back to allow more distance from the busy traffic. In less than a heartbeat and with one swift movement the bike passenger had lifted my mobile out of my hand and the pair of thieves were sped off before I even had the chance to finish the Pulp song I was enjoying. My initial, inner reaction told me that it was an accident (perhaps my better nature getting the better of me altogether) yet this quickly crumbled as I watched the bike speed off, leaving my phoneless. The pedestrians around me shook their heads, muttered something in Spanish and then continued on their lives without giving me another thought as I had no other choice but to continue walking. It was as if in a dream that I considered what I had lost in that brief second such as photographs, phone contacts, banking apps, social media and the entire management of my life from my pocket. And as the reality loomed over my morning it dawned on me that the first point of call was to quickly begin cancelling everything. My plans of a blissful morning of fruit, sunshine and music had quickly turned into sheer anger and frustration. I’d acknowledged that the phone was lost forever, of course my insurance company kindly informed me that I was not covered for theft of that nature and I was told not to bother with the Latin American police who have much larger crime to be fighting. Yet I did have a mini triumph. With modern technology being so wonderfully (and scarily) advanced, I had the power to log in through my laptop and completely render the phone useless whilst also deleting its entire contents - and even leaving a message for the phone thieves, which went along the lines of ‘You S*** B*******!). My attempt to stick two fingers up at the ‘Motochorros’ as they are known. And with that, the event quickly passed and I was left with no choice but to replace the two year old phone with a new one and continue on my journey with a little less cash. It’s a difficult situation to address. I am constantly reliving the moment over and over in my mind and of course wondering how I could’ve handled the event differently. Yet despite my regrets I was lucky that they didn’t reach for my bag, lucky that they didn’t touch me and lucky they didn’t pull out a weapon of some sort. The ordeal was so quick that my account doesn't even sound that bad, and it leaves me with the thought that events of this nature certainly happen for a reason as I now tighten my security and safety for the rest of the trip. They must’ve really needed the phone more than me. They must’ve really wanted to use my Tinder more and of course they must’ve really been looking forward to getting frustrated with how the device tended to freeze every time you did anything. Buenos Aires still remains one of the safer locations on my journey and nothing will stop me from loving this city entirely. Tango Dancing in Buenos Aires
When I think of Argentina the first images that come to mind are of red wine, good steak and tango dancing. The city oozes sexuality, there is an entire different element of emotion and passion here, late night dances and romances happen alike and tango merely accentuates that atmosphere. The Argentine Tango itself originated in the late 1800’s in Buenos Aires and has been considered something like ‘a sad thought you can dance to’ where the couple dance very close to capture the feeling that the city seems to expel. Now of course being a ballroom and latin dancer myself I wasn’t going to pass up the opportunity to learn the trade in the city that it originated and leapt at the chance to experience an authentic class. Tucked away up a staircase in an unassuming building in downtown Buenos Aires exists a vast ballroom where such dances occur almost every night. With borrowed dance shoes in tow I arrived at the class at 2pm and was immediately transported back to my teenage latin class years. The floor was well polished, the wall decoration was beautiful yet crumbling at hints of age and a chandelier donned the decorated ceiling. The crowd, exclusively all above 50 years old, were pleasantly surprised to see such a young and partnerless entourage give their local dance a shot. And then the teacher began - in Spanish of course. Despite the language barrier it was relatively easy to follow the steps and practice walking and moving once again. Although years of professional training in dance, I had to throw the rule book out of the window and re-learn new techniques which are completely different to anything I have learned before (in some ways it might actually be harder for someone who has danced European tango before) but nonetheless we were provided with a basic and fun routine. Throughout the two hour session we were also encouraged to dance with a series of partners, many who spoke no English, and to move around the room to the music. I was already being shown up by my fellow dance students yet the lesson provided us with a good knowledge of the basic techniques. Before I knew it the session was over yet thanks to a captivating tango teacher we left confident that the later Milonga (actual dance evening) would be a piece of cake. Return to the same ballroom an hour later and the tempo of the evening has completely been switched up. The ballroom is now buzzing with tango dancers in dresses, heels, suits and all over the age of about 50 years old. In the bathroom ladies are slipping on their shoes, changing into their tango dresses and reapplying their perfect lipstick before heading over to take a seat on the ladies side of the room. Now this is where it gets interesting. As the lights dim the female dancers sit on the left side of the room whilst the men all gather on the right, eyeing up their potential suitors. When you make eye contact with a man he will then walk over to you and ask for a dance - which you can’t really decline. Perhaps it was a rookie error of mine to glance at any of the elderly tango men however in a room with a much older crowd we completely stood out anyway. My moment came. A man crossed the room, held out his hand and I could tell there was no going back. Before I knew it I was trying to dance Argentine Tango in Buenos Aires with a local tango dancer and my god did I embarrass myself. Being the youngest in the room by almost 30 years, all eyes were on me of course and in broken Spanish I tried hard to explain that this was my first dance and I was probably going to be terrible. Although being held really, really close my partner struggled to lead me and for 4 dances we spun around the centre of the room, stepping on each others feet and probably looking a little silly. Did I just offend Argentina with how poor my tango skills turned out to be? Probably. At the end of the four dances everyone then returns to their seats and the ritual begins again, and I guess the only way I could explain what this entire experience reminded me of was what happens when you meet a guy in a nightclub. With aching feet and after a number of other locals had asked for my hand we made a swift exit feeling both accomplished and surprised at this local tango lifestyle. When I later chatted with some twentysomething Argentinian (and may I add beautiful) guys they explained that though Tango is the national dance of their country, it is not something practiced by the younger generations who are more accustomed to electronic music. But for 100 pesos (£4) a milonga is an amazing way for an older generation to keep healthy, socialise and meet new people. In an age where you often hear about loneliness amongst older generations it is absolutely brilliant for this opportunity to be readily available, every night, for anyone to attend. So I might’ve offended some people with my questionable moves but this bizarre yet wonderful experience is the first of many dance immersions I expect will happen in Latin America. It’s a must on any visit to Buenos Aires. Malbec, Europe and Politics in Argentina
The jet lag has finally subsided and I’m now totally immersed in the reality of Buenos Aires where (when stripped of its tourist traps) is a vast bustling city of winding streets, Spanish speakers and the perfect way to ease into a magical Latin American life. Take a turn down any cobbled laneway in the warm spring sun and for a second you will be convinced that you are actually in Paris. Another turn and you’re in Italy or maybe even Greece. I say that this is a good gateway to the Latin world but the European influences are staggering in the incredible architecture, food and general cultural habits. If you wake up early enough you can often catch residents cleaning their streets outside, for $6 you can catch the extensive bus system to anywhere in the city and croissants (medillunas) are a quite common Argentine breakfast. So really I didn’t feel too far away from home at all. Naturally my next task was to thus seek out the unusual traits that drew it away from it’s European counterparts and you only need to look at the time to spot your first difference. Jeopardizing my jet lag even further was the discovery that the pace of Argentine life is incredibly slow and everything starts late - really late. At 10pm on any night of the week, the streets are full of residents eating their dinner (my main meal was served at 11.20pm a few nights ago) and even the coffee shops remain open this late too. As a result the clubs are empty until around 3am when the crowds finally start to roll in and somehow everyone can still function on such little sleep! More unusual habits began to peer out at me such as Dog walking being a career choice here and a day doesn’t go by without seeing countless people walking with up to 20 dogs in tow. You can also walk down the street with a beer in your hand, bus drivers are a little reckless and tend to speed, there is an abundance of retro cars amongst the city, it is incredibly hard to find a resident that understands English and once again I am totally lost in translation. That being said I was still too comfortable and the reality of South America felt far from hitting me. It was this Sunday that the country faced its congressional elections and as a result of the vote there was also a ban on selling alcohol and drinking alcohol throughout the whole 24 hour period (why wouldn’t people need a drink after messing with politics?!). Anyway to a great extent the tempo of the city slowed even further as people made their way to local polling stations in an orderly fashion and I didn’t even see a single protest despite a tumultuous political underbelly. It wasn’t long before we encountered some local residents who wanted to have a drink and laughed as we questioned the temporary drink restrictions. A few foreign words in Spanish at the supermercado and the shop assistant was scanning through chocolate bars and placing bottles of Malbec into a bag for us. We then climbed several flights of stairs in a nearby house, greeting their flatmates on the way through winding corridors of an old European-syle house and finally onto a stunning rooftop. We basked in the warm evening sun and drank amazing Malbec (seriously the best quality wine I’ve had in a while and half the price of anything in Australia) whilst listening to Cumbia music and Spanish conversations. Our hosts of course offered us food at around 11pm and we carried on drinking into the early or late hours. It was in this moment that I truly felt the first breath of the real Latin America. Looking across the horizon at the backs of buildings, you are stripped away from the frontal European facade. Colourful roofs, laundry, people dancing in the sun and the echoes of Latin music immediately plunged me into a sense of utter excitement. This was real. I’m in South America and it’s extraordinary. (I was listening to Steppenwolf when I was writing this)
The first thing that sprung to mind today was all the goodbyes that I have already had to say this year. It was very early in my Melbourne residence that my first friend left the country following the expiry of her visa and I can still vividly remember how sad she looked. I was reminded that my time too would come and in the blink of an eye here it is, my final entry about Australia. Though the last few weeks have been somewhat of a partying blur, it was a sobering drive to the airport today. For the last time I went past street corners, bars, homes and warehouses that have all defined a part of my Australian experience. And as I cast my gaze on these memorable places my mind quickly conjures up images of happiness and excitement so vividly in my mind. For instance, I wish you could’ve danced around my best friend's room with me. I wish you could’ve truly felt the cool breeze on your skin whilst inside my Brunswick warehouse. I wish you could’ve felt the same exhaustion throughout my hitchhiking saga and I wish you could’ve struggled through my hangovers on my behalf. The list goes on – if only you could imagine the stiflingly hot Cairns sun, the high of Splendour and Golden Plains festivals and all the days inbetween where I just got on with daily living. Of course it hasn’t all been plain sailing and like any year in any life I have laughed and cried and raged and felt all of the emotions that you have felt too. The one thing that I can be certain of is that my year in Australia has been well-lived, well-experienced and positively life changing. All of the expectations that I arrived with last October were crushed by a reality that I could’ve never drawn in my mind - and I predict that exactly the same will happen with Buenos Aires and South America beyond. And yet the world keeps on turning. As I watch the shape of the Australian terrain become nothing more than a tiny spec in my aeroplane window, I carry forward my Australian memories of both people and places, locked away in the confines of my mind like ghosts anticipating the moment when something triggers their revival. Like any chapter in any book, today I have experienced a plot twist and a change in tempo as I embark on my flight to Argentina. However like a good book, the previous chapter will leave traces and links within the forthcoming and merely add even further depth to the winding journey that I am plotting everyday. It was whilst sitting in the centre of Melbourne yesterday, admiring the warmth the summer sun and the countdown to my final week in Australia, that I was approached by a stranger.
It was of course quite a typical scenario, but one that doesn’t tend to happen much anymore. The stranger, a girl roughly around my age had asked for directions to a local cafe and I was happy to show her (as my year long residence here was enough to make me a local). After talking a moment longer and realising that we both had foreign accents, our conversation quickly leapt onto travelling. The stranger had actually arrived two days earlier from California to find a job, a home and begin her working visa here in Melbourne and oh how that scenario sounded all too painfully familiar to me - give or take 365 days. It was as if I had been looking into a mirror at the girl in front of me, completely alone in a alien city. In that moment two strangers bonded over the fears that come with arriving in a new place and we became friends through the knowledge that we had both arrived with just a backpack. We exchanged contact details and I even invited her round to my house that evening to party with my friends. It was in that moment that I realised I had come full circle through my travelling experience and as the next wave of lost, broken travellers descend on my temporary home and I slip into the position of a local adviser, I guess it signifies that it’s my time to leave. Melbourne is accomplished. It was an interesting and wonderful moment but it also reminded me of a very important lesson that I vow to stick to. That brief encounter which quickly spun into a friendship, an invite to a house party, tips on jobs and also a personal reminder of how far I’d come was the result of my new friend asking a question, and asking for directions. This, in a year where we find so much comfort in using Google Maps and our phones to guide us through life, was a refreshing and positive moment. We all need to ask more questions. Though my Spanish might not be up to scratch I promise that when I find myself as the lost foreign traveler once again (in a mere 9 days) that I will step away from my phone and look to ask the people around me for help. Who knows what unusual friendships we could all create. Marking my one year anniversary
In what seems like the blink of an eye, the one year backpacking landmark has crept upon my journey and has filled my day with a nostalgic sense of happiness amongst a million other emotions. As I think back about what I’ve experienced in arguably my most life changing year so far, I was overcome with the awareness of how quickly it had flown by. Mentioning this brevity to my closest friend back in England however I was met with a contrasting opinion. Whereas it felt to me like I had left only yesterday, she was quick to remind me how much had happened in this year both for me and for her. And this quickly struck a chord. There is an arrogance that surrounds travelling (and I admit I’m guilty of this myself) of assuming to a certain degree that not much has changed back home. Whist we galavant around the globe on a fast-paced adventure, it is easy to picture the monotonous life that you left behind and the routine that can quickly fill up a year. How awfully arrogant of me, truly. In my defence the image that we draw up in our minds of home, as if frozen in time, offers a safety net for someone lacking in the stability of a permanent residence. Providing one final link to our former years, the thought of rekindling the life you left off is comforting even though this is as far from the truth as possibly could be. Though this year has flown by, my friend reminded me how much has happened for her and how she felt that I left much longer ago. And that’s the real, painful reality. Although my journey has taken me across continents to places where I have gained much more than I ever could back in London, some of my friends journeys have led them to new careers, new homes, a marriage, some children, new tattoos, lots of dramas, break-ups, family holidays, new friends, new lessons and a life as equally as fulfilled as mine - just in different ways. The choices they made, like mine, were theirs alone and they haven’t looked back. And just like that the world that revolves around my travels felt much smaller than I had realised. As it goes today marks one year since I left London with a gut-wrenching fear of the unknown intertwined with a deep-seated urge to see what the world has to offer. Sure, I’ve traversed the globe and lived in hostels, warehouses, squats, rainforests; met people from every continent and experimented and learnt from an array of places. But today also marks a year for every other bloody person I know. In the space of this year my parents have finally started redecorating their house, bought some cat, and finally started living again after having children, my brother has experienced his first painful life changing break-up (he also shaved his head, lol) and my best friend has began to question whether her nursing career is really what she wants to continue doing. I’ve had friends publish books, go on tour with their bands, people start degrees, end degrees, move in with partners and out. So yes today marks a huge hurdle for myself and I know that I have certainly changed since I left English soil, but today I also pay homage to everyone else and how much they have achieved in one long, winding year. Though these journeys take on completely different forms, one thing I can now be certain of is that we’ve all lived. Today marks the first time that I leave a city without the intention of ever returning. Like many travellers before me and no doubt countless to come, we head for the bright city lights of Brisbane with the hope of reviving our bank balances during the eternal traveller cycle of either waiting to start our farming with eager anticipation or thankfully escaping the fields after 88 days.
I loosely fit into the second category and will be leaving Brisbane with better savings (though this is somewhat debatable) a tan, a great sense of creative boredom and a group of truly good friends from every corner of the globe. However don’t be one to assume that the past few months have not been enjoyable in Brisbane. The weather is warm, the people are pleasant and if you are lucky (like I have been) you find yourself in one of the few and far between artsy areas of town where someone like me can forge a home. On top of this a good hostel and a stable job meant I was quick to feel comfortable enough to endure some months with the help of a few bags of ‘goon’ along the way. Yet the creative boredom has been overpowering. I’ve felt stifled by the small opportunities that Brisbane has had to offer and long for the stimulation of a city that, in my opinion at least has more of a soul. In Brisbane you quickly risk falling into the trap of working and drinking your way through the year without having actually achieved or seen anything interesting and though it might be a nice city for a family it certainly wasn’t the city for me. What comes alongside my departure is the realisation that I might never see some of my fellow backpacking friends again. Yet as we all drift in various directions each on our own journey, and as I look forwards to restarting my Melbourne life just where I’d left it, I remain grateful to have played a small role in other people’s stories - as they have in mine. As you can see I leave the bright city lights in the rear view of a very early morning drive to the airport with very mixed feelings. Nonetheless as I sit here on the airport floor writing to you whilst finally accepting that the dream I had longed for (my return to Melbourne) is finally becoming a reality I am left with two very powerful thoughts. This unrivalled excitement at my Melbourne homecoming is something that I am yet to feel about London or England as a whole - but a topic that I will address perhaps at a later time. And secondly, deep in the pits of my stomach the recently dormant excitement that erupts only when waiting in a foreign airport has been reignited and the traveller itch has flooded back in full force. I count the days until I find myself in this bittersweet position once again in a mere 6 weeks. For some unknown reason the signs were all there.
Upon entering a charity shop for a brief browse the first thing that met my gaze was a $2 copy of Che Guevara's The Motorcycle Diaries - with an added personal message from a former reader who addressed me as ‘a fellow revolutionary’. At the same time, a picture from a tenuous South American friend sat at the top of my newsfeed and on my idle stroll to work I was notified that my Australian tax return was back and I’d be receiving $600. It was enough I guess, though much to my upset knowing that I’d in fact been taxed $2500 since my arrival and doubtless wouldn’t reap any benefits from my contribution to the Australian government. Though in light of it being free money it was certainly enough for something more important. Like a lightbulb illuminating over my tanned forehead, the seed was planted. Without a seconds hesitation - or before my inner adult caught onto my impulse - I had found a computer, scrolled through skyscanner, vaguely decided that the 18th October would do (because Wednesdays are the cheapest for flying remember) and booked a flight to Buenos Aires, Argentina. Unlike previous travel plans and the added anxieties that came hand in hand with booking any form of flight, I quickly watched as $800 evaporated from my account and a confirmation email quickly landed in my inbox. I panicked and shed a single tear and when my mum responded to the news with ‘you little bugger,’ my fate as a backpacker of South America was sealed - the dream bubble of that symbolic day finally burst into a reality. And just like that, at the literal click of a button I wave goodbye to the friendships, the job prospects, the routine yet expensive beers, trips to Op Shops and an entire life that I had strived so hard to build just ten months earlier. Just like that I have secured the knowledge that I probably won’t be returning to Australia and it’s unlikely that I will see half of these wonderful Aussie friends ever again and just like that my journey opens up entirely to the complete unknown. I hadn’t really thought this far ahead and with Australia always being the ultimate destination the next step on my journey had so far remained a grey zone. Yet the flight ticket in two and a half months time has triggered the countdown to adventure and the necessity to get a lot of things in order before any form of plan comes into fruition. Staring with excited eyes at a map of South America I brainstormed everything that could be on my itinerary and before I knew it I already had far too much on my bucket list. In a matter of moments my plans began to stretch months and months further than I had anticipated as I considered checking out Bolivia for the Day of the Dead and Brazil (of course) for Rio’s carnival next February. WIth this in mind however, I have always said go hard or go home and I simply don’t have the urge to go home just yet (though it will eventually come). And so my next aim is to earn $10,000 before my departure, practice my Spanish and sell the vast accumulation of clothes I have picked up along the way. In two and a half months time I will resume the status of backpacker and say goodbye to my income for a long, yet exciting while. Expect panic and stress along the way as I strive towards my next destination(s) yet I guarantee it’ll be worth the read when I write of how I climbed Machu Picchu in Peru, tried illicit substances in Colombia and probably, definitely fell in love with a Latin American local. |
Tamara DavisonNepal, China, Malaysia, Australia, Argentina. Archives
November 2017
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