marktjhung's TravelStream™ — Recent TravelPod.com entries TravelStream™ news feed for member marktjhung on TravelPod's free travel blogs service http://www.travelpod.com/syndication/rss/marktjhung en-us Copyright ©2009 TravelPod.com Sun, 22 Jun 2008 23:28:32 -0400 http://www.travelpod.com Sand gets everywhere... — Cartegena - Santa Marta: The Caribbean Coast, Colombia http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1214000640/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1214000640/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1214000640/tpod.html Sun, 22 Jun 2008 23:28:32 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Cartegena - Santa Marta: The Caribbean Coast, Colombia

Chapter I - Prawn sandwiches<i>'A few weeks ago, one of my closest friends, he lend me 20,000 pesos because I need go to Barranquilla for my music.&nbsp; I come back 1 week later to give him the money and I ask "where is he?"&nbsp; They tell me, he die last night.&nbsp; We no know why.&nbsp; This song I write for him, my friend...'As the moist, warm breeze swept off the Caribbean sea, across the tiny fishing village of Taganga, the full moon the only illumination, Rolando's voice filled the air, his head to his guitar, his body swaying and squatting, his eyes closed,&nbsp;his salt-air aged, buzzing, trembling&nbsp;guitar somehow the perfect accompaniment to his similarly trembling, fragile cantabile.&nbsp; As is so often the case, especially when travelling, unexpected&nbsp;things often turn out to be the most captivating.&nbsp; This was one of those times.&nbsp; Down the dim, rubbled backstreets of Taganga, we requested a song from an elderly man passing by with his guitar.&nbsp; Then proceeded a quite magical concert, serenading Taganga, Colombia and Cuba - his voice possessing that incredible, indescribable quality - one that captivates and enthrals, that just draws people in.&nbsp; On the side of the road, sat upon some stones in the near dark, a 'partly musty, partly rotting, partly chorizo' smell surrounded us along with his music which I don't think any of us will ever forget.&nbsp; This is what its about, perhaps?&nbsp; The unscripted delights of travel; the unlikely, eternal moments shared with those from a world a world away.&nbsp; Brilliant...&nbsp; Taganga itself is not so memorable.&nbsp;&nbsp;A tiny village set in the next bay to the far less memorable city of Santa Marta, Taganga is overun with backpackers, most of them Hebrew speaking, with most of the village's amenities existing to cater for the backpacker's needs.&nbsp; Indeed, we ticked all the required boxes - we went to Mojitonet for cocktails, we went to the Garage nightclub, we ate the best baguettes in the world from the Belgian dude's stall, we floated in the Caribbean by the average beach.&nbsp; And, indeed, most importantly, we spent more time here than one probably needs to spend here.&nbsp; Taganga, despite not being particularly memorable, is the archetypal seaside backpacker hangout where time disappears; where doing nothing all day deserves an afternoon nap; where hammocks are more common than chairs; where beer is more popular than water; where the early morning is more popular than the late.&nbsp; If not memorable, it is fun, relaxing, comforting.&nbsp; That is Taganga...Chapter II - What's it for?They make me feel uneasy.&nbsp; I've only just recognised this.&nbsp; Previously, I've been completely oblivious to it or, rather, been distracted by their grandeur, their sexiness, the spectacble.&nbsp; And, indeed, I've expressed my admiration for them previously.&nbsp; But now, my mind has started to ask questions.&nbsp; It seems that&nbsp;my mind has reached a new stage in its maturing process - kind of like when a kid's mind starts to think - 'wait a second.&nbsp; How does Santa get into the house if we don't have a chimney.'&nbsp; But as I entered the city walls, stepping into the broad expanse of the former slave market, the Plaza de los Conches, I was overcome by a bizarre, rather foreign feeling of paranoia.&nbsp; Paranoia of what?&nbsp; Well&nbsp;- a feeling of imminent bombardment.&nbsp; Clearly, my mind is just fucking stupid and completely irrational - it's patently not going to happen.&nbsp; But there's something about the existence of an enormous protective wall and, indeed, the need for a city to have an enormous protective wall.&nbsp; Ultimately, it says to me, somewhere deep inside my irrational subconscious, that someone out there, outside this brilliant ancient wall, wants to bomb the fuck out of us.&nbsp; I don't know about you, but it's making me slightly uneasy...Adding to my paranoia is the fact that it is clear why people may want to invade Cartagena.&nbsp; Inside the wall, a narrow, maze of cobblestones wind between gentle, elegant plazas, each passage lined with an array of colour, from the vibrant houses, the magnificent creeping flora and the people of this visually spectacular city.&nbsp; The historic centre, within the city walls, is certainly the jewel in Cartagena's tourist crown.&nbsp; For the record, it's certainly not the beaches...Chapter III - On my face...Floating in a volcano full of mud was making me hungry.&nbsp; I've heard that colvanos full of mud can do that to you hunger levels.&nbsp; Kinda like what pretzels do to your thirst levels.&nbsp; But as I lay in the most pissweak volcano in the history of volcanic activity, beneath the scorching heat of the northern caribbean coast sun, with mud making a valiant attempt to enter every orifice I possess, I began to contemplate the perfect breakfast.&nbsp; It was then that I was struck by a moment of genius.&nbsp; Indeed, I've heard the moments of genius often strike when one is consumed by a volcano full of mud.&nbsp; It came to me in an almost biblical manner.&nbsp; Unable to move, very enarly entirely immersed in thick, heavy, pure mud, lying on my back, a man appeared before me and began to massage my thighs - indeed the messiah - and then said something in rapid, indecipherable spanish.&nbsp; I didn't understand what he said, but there was something in what he said that made me think 'mango and beer'.&nbsp; Mango.&nbsp; And beer.&nbsp; It just so happens, and indeed this has been verified by later testing, that mango and beer is the perfect breakfast.&nbsp; Incredible.&nbsp; I write this now as a message from God - sent by his prophet - some dude who gives massages in the mud volcano outside Cartagena, the message being:&nbsp; mango and beer is the ultimate breakfast.&nbsp; I've tried it.&nbsp; I think he's right...Chapter IV - the Top 5So, to the Top 5.&nbsp; This is the end of the Second South American Odyssey of the Devil of the Death from Hell.&nbsp; And it has been fucking brilliant.&nbsp; There are always so many aspects to travel and the sights that you see.&nbsp; In particular, there are always those places which have the reputation of being amazing, come with significant expectation for being amazing, are amazing and, indeed, were always going to be amazings - sights like Machu Picchu, Iguazu, Ipanema beach.&nbsp; But then there are places and sights that catch you by surprise - places or sights that have exceeded your expectation.&nbsp; Here are the top 5 in South America on this trip:5.&nbsp; El Penol - the Stone!4.&nbsp; Salento3.&nbsp; Arequipa2.&nbsp; La Paz1.&nbsp; ValparaisoTo the USA.&nbsp; And Miami...
]]> Silicon Valley... — Medellin, Colombia http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1213500600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1213500600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1213500600/tpod.html Fri, 20 Jun 2008 09:41:53 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Medellin, Colombia

Somewhere in the Medellin night, after an indeterminate number of drinks, in a random, unidentified bar, a conversation much like the following took place:'Nup.&nbsp; No way'.'Yeah.&nbsp; I reckon.&nbsp; You can tell the difference.''Aha ha.&nbsp; I agree.&nbsp; Definite difference in shape.''Yeah.&nbsp; But there's no way that they could be'.'You reckon?&nbsp; Compare hers to hers.&nbsp; Definite extra perkiness.''I'm still not convinced.&nbsp; They're too good to be real.''Why don't you just ask her?''Huh?''What?&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; That would be funny.''Yeah.&nbsp; Go on.&nbsp; Or I will.''I don't know.&nbsp; That's pretty random.&nbsp; Imagine if someone came up to you and...''C'mon'.&nbsp; It's the only way to settle it.&nbsp; Fuck it.&nbsp; I'll do it...'Somewhere in the Medellin night, after an indeterminate number of drinks plus a few, in a random, unidentified bar, a further conversation, much like the following, took place:'What the fuck did you touch them for?''She said I could.''And so you just grabbed them?''Ha.''Yep.''Ha.''And?''Real.''Definitely?&nbsp; Did she say so?''Yep.''What did she say exactly?''They're real.&nbsp; Good hmm?''In english?''In english.''Fuck off'.'Ha.''Y'know, that's the first time I've ever touched a pair of breasts other than my own...'Conversations similar to teh above are, probably, not uncommon in Medellin.&nbsp; It is, apparently, the plastic surgery capital of the world.&nbsp; Or at least close to.&nbsp; Such a place has a significant reputation to live up to.&nbsp; However, Medellin does it with aplomb, cosmetic surgical intervention striking you anywhere you turn.&nbsp; Seriously everywhere. Indeed normal.&nbsp; If you don't have them, you're the odd one out.&nbsp; Old woman have them.&nbsp; Girls far younger than the legal drinking age have them.&nbsp; Yes, I even saw a cat that had them (this may or may not be true).&nbsp; I read somwhere, but I now don't recall where, that the prevalance of silicon in Medellin is largely due to Medellin's former status as the centre of the world cocaine trade.&nbsp; Apparently.&nbsp; Don't ask me why that means fake body parts all over the place - I guess drug lords liked them big.&nbsp; In any event, the reality remains, and it is one scary, bouncy and far too perky reality.&nbsp; Ha.The theory attributing Medellin's curvaciousness to the drug lords is, indeed, a popular theory.&nbsp; However, my own personal view is that the female of residents of Medellin are paying homage to the great Colombian artist, Fernando Botero.&nbsp; Medellin born and raised, Botero's sculpures dominate the public artistic landscape of central Medellin, his ludiscrously proportioned, voluptuous and humorous bronze figures in the Plaza Botero in particular a highlight.&nbsp; If you are not familiar with Botero's work, I can probably sum it up for you in a single word - fat.&nbsp; Not 'ph' fat.&nbsp; Just plain old 'fat'.&nbsp; LIke everything being seen through one of those crazy mirrors that makes everything look fat.&nbsp; Not 'ph' fat.&nbsp; Just plain old lazy bastard fat.&nbsp; Having viewed a reasonably large collection of his work in Bogota, it's clear to me that his work is at its most impressive in sculpture - the central focus of his work, the roundedness aka 'fat', most effective and striking when experienced in three dimensions.&nbsp; Fat.&nbsp; Not 'ph' fat.&nbsp; Just good old 'if it sits on you it's gonna hurt' fat.Speaking of which, my ass hurts.&nbsp; Too much information?&nbsp; Reflecting back on my time in the Medfeelin area, it occurred to me that the majority of my stay was spent sitting.&nbsp; I attribute this pain in my ass to all of this sitting on it.&nbsp; It's not my fault though - hear me out.&nbsp; Firstly, Medellin's zona rosa is made for sitting around on your ass, hurting it, drinking coffee or, if you don't mind a dabble, with a bit of beer, rum or tequila.&nbsp; The upside is, if you are one of those people who don't mind sitting around on your ass, adding to its general pain, having a dabble, you are at least likely to be surrounded by some of the most beautiful people that a single city has ever seen - up there with Split, Croatia (top of the Top 5).&nbsp; The leafy cafe and bar zone of Medeelin is luxurious if not cheap.&nbsp; Around the Parque Lleras, restaurants, bars and clubs fan out like the numberous shady umbrellas that sprout above, greeting the more-often-than-not surgically enhanced in the evenings with the repetitive rhythm of Reggaeton.&nbsp; Far too much sitting around here.&nbsp; My ass is not happy about it.However, following a conversation that I had with my ass last night, it seems that it is far more concerned with the amount of time that it's been sitting on a bus.&nbsp; Its point, generally, was '2 day trips and then an overnight bus?&nbsp; What the fuck?&nbsp; You're killing me...'&nbsp; Indeed, my ass was making a fair point.&nbsp; After listeng to its argument, i accepted responsibility for one of the day trips - the 6 hour return journey to Sante Fe de Antioquia, a small colonial town out of Medellin - which was probably not worth my time or subsequent pain in the ass.&nbsp; However, the other day trip I vehemently defended.&nbsp; This trip was the trip that I like to call The Trip of the Devil of the Death from Hell to 'El Penol' - 'The Stone'.&nbsp; Now, there are 2 rules in life that I have found to be undeniably true.&nbsp; The first is 'always bet on black'.&nbsp; I have Wesley Snipes to thank for that one.&nbsp; The second rule is that anything called 'The _____ (insert single word)' is always fucking cool.&nbsp; After my visit ot 'The Stone' my confidence in this rule has grown no end.&nbsp; And ever since my visit to 'The Stone', I have been unable to stop saying 'The Stone'.&nbsp; Unfortunate, isn't it?&nbsp; Rising out of the water a couple of hours from Medellin, The Stone is the highlight of an extraodinarily beautiful man-made reservoir.&nbsp; According to a middle aged Colombian-American dude that I met at The Stone (6 The Stone references for anyone who is counting), this area was dammed about 40 years ago, flooding the area and an existing town in the process.&nbsp; Legend has it that following a hot Medellin summer, the old church of that town emerges from the flooded waters as a reminder of that town.&nbsp; Cool.&nbsp; From The Stone, the reservoir spreads out and surrounds, the damming creating a hypnotic archaepeligo of tiny islands as far as the eye can capture.&nbsp; Brilliant.&nbsp; The highlight of Medellin no doubt.&nbsp; The Stone.&nbsp; The Stone.&nbsp; Say it with me.&nbsp; The Stone...So, to the Top 5.&nbsp; A big part of latin america is latino music.&nbsp; And of course, dance.&nbsp; Ground shaking reggaeton, salsa, meringue, samba, cumbia.&nbsp; But it seems that one thing the latinos are not so good at is the ballad.&nbsp; So much so that they have resorted to stealing a heap of english language ballads and spanicizing them.&nbsp; Through the streets, cafes and buses of south america, I've heard them.&nbsp; Here are the top 5:5.&nbsp; Angels - formerly Robbie Williams4.&nbsp; Everything I do, I do it for you - formerly Brian Adams3.&nbsp; Careless Whispher - formerly George Michael2.&nbsp; 2 out of 3 ain't bad - formerly Meatloaf1.&nbsp; Total eclipse of the heart - formerly Bonne TylerTo the Caribbean Coast.&nbsp; Cartagena and Santa Marta...
]]> Tinto... — Bogota - Zona Cafeteria, Colombia http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1213127700/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1213127700/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1213127700/tpod.html Tue, 10 Jun 2008 16:38:28 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Bogota - Zona Cafeteria, Colombia

Chapter 1 - Images of coffee...A.&nbsp; The CafeI´m buzzing.&nbsp; Buzzing all over.&nbsp; Like a bee on a glorious summer's day.&nbsp; Or a 70s television well past its use-by date.&nbsp; Like the fridges of student share houses all over the world, I'm buzzing.&nbsp; As I look out the window, over the lime and aqua railings, of a time warp of a cafe, bells signalling the sale of gas bottles ring and dingle, and another fresh, full cup of colombian tinto coffee appears in front of me - strong, delightfully aromatic, black like the darkest of back alleys.&nbsp; I add sugar and sip.&nbsp; And then, I buzz.&nbsp; Like the bass on a bogan's suped-up commodore.&nbsp; Like high-voltage wires warning of an impending storm.&nbsp; Through the lime and aqua door of this traditional local cafe, seven M-16 rifles suspend themselves from seven army personnel, each further armed with the biggest, shiniest black boots in the history of the world, each soldier prohibited from smiling.&nbsp; Over their camouflage hats, the clouds lower ominously - they promise rain for the Colombian coffee zone today.&nbsp; And, indeed, there will be rain for this quaint, breezy town of colours - the 'small town with long memories' - the town of Salento.&nbsp; An older man, his moustache greyer than his hair, moves from his window seat and cowers beneath his cowboy / panama hat and technicolor dream poncho and mutters the spanish equivalent of 'it looks like rain'.&nbsp; The cafe silently agrees.&nbsp; A cane walks in with Clint Eastwood, words are uttered and then the cafe fills with steam, the coffee filling the air, the seemingly constant aroma.&nbsp; THis is, of course, the coffee zone of the devil of the death from hell...B. The FieldsAt my feet, the world falls away, disappearing into a sea of verdant green lush enough to swim in.&nbsp; The smells of the zona cafeteria swill in the air, mixing, a cocktail of tropical fruit, dirt, humidity, coffee and trout on the grill.&nbsp; The air is still, the scene one of silence, the only interruption the sound of a moth the size of my head seeking permission to land.&nbsp; Hundreds of metres on, I notice the world reappear on the other side of the valley, greener than ever, more beautiful than ever.&nbsp; Tinto appears before me.&nbsp; Another one.&nbsp; That's 6 today.&nbsp; I buzz.&nbsp; Like a Nokia on vibrate only.&nbsp; Like a cown's handshake gag, I buzz...Chapter II - Needs salt...'That's not salt'.'Aha.&nbsp; It is.''No.&nbsp; Surely it couldn't be.&nbsp; It looks like marble'.'It's salt.&nbsp; Trust me'.'Nup.''If you don't believe me, taste it'.'Taste it?''Yeah.&nbsp; Lick it''Lick it?&nbsp; That rock?''Yeah''Ok.'As a general rule, tour guides shouldn't dare you to lick rocks.&nbsp; Don't you reckon?&nbsp; Or is that just me?&nbsp; Especially rocks and stuff.&nbsp; Or the ground.&nbsp; They definitely shouldn't dare you to lick the ground.&nbsp; Ok - so she may have been right - it was salt.&nbsp; And, ok.&nbsp; I probably should have listened.&nbsp; But I'm still not convinced about the daring.&nbsp; Or even a double dare&nbsp; I would definitely have preferred a physical challenge...In my defence, the Cathedral of Salt, just outside Bogota, is really quite an extraordinary sight.&nbsp; More than extraodrinary actually - unbelievable.&nbsp; It just doesn't look like salt.&nbsp; Not as I know it anyway.&nbsp; Looks more like black marble as I know it actually.&nbsp; It has a smooth, granite like finish, cold to touch.&nbsp; All the features, in my expertise, for me to consider it a rock.&nbsp; Anyway, apparently it isn't.&nbsp; Since 1992, this particular Salt Cathedral has been fooling idiots like me everywhere.&nbsp; Following concerns that the original Cathedral of Salt was structurally flawed, work commenced on the new and improved underground salt cathedral of death, commonly known as 'The Cathedral of Salt'.&nbsp; Adopting massive portions of a disused salt mine, a mind-boggling, subterranean labyrinth was constructed leading to a dim, cavernous and amazing space 100m below ground - the Cathedral of Salt.&nbsp; Incredible, less due to its construction from salt, more due to the fascinating maze of tunnels and the design of the cathedral which can only be described as sexy.&nbsp; Well, sexy enough for the cathedral to host fashion shows, concerts and function.&nbsp; A sight surely to be recommended.&nbsp; What I don't recommend, however, is licking the rocks.&nbsp; Or the ground.&nbsp; Tastes like salt...Chapter III - Caution...I've heard them all.&nbsp; More than I care to remember actually.&nbsp; They go something like this:'you're going where?''isn't it really dangerous there?''Don't they just kill everyone there?''watch out for drug.&nbsp; You know they plant them on you...?''You should get yourself a gun.''I heard a story about a guy who was there and got kidnapped and woke up without one of his kidneys...'As much as you try not to think about Colombia's not-so-sparkling reputation, it's hard not to be slightly affected by the drum of fear that has been a constant beat for a while&nbsp; So itwas with some significant negligence that we somehow strayed onto a road, in the dark of night, that we had been told not to go near.&nbsp; I blame Tamara - loveable Tam from Perth, solicitor for the State, crazy hippie.&nbsp; Indeed, I blame her.&nbsp; What we were going following Tam is one of the great mysteries of mankind, up there with the pyramids, the bermuda triangle, what happened to Steve Guttenberg and how James Spader gets the roles that he does.&nbsp; Anyway, it will not happen again...Indeed, Bogota has an unfortunate reputation which has the ability to blind people.&nbsp; But look beyond this mask, and a culturally rich city of music, art, food and coffee comes alive, names such as Garcia-Marquez and Botero synonomous with the city.&nbsp; La Candeleria, the city's historic centre, is dotted with cafes, restaurants, pastelerias, bars, jewellery shops, clothes, galleries and museums - a beautiful place for day time strolls and browsing, apparently not for night time walking.&nbsp; We have only just started to explore Bogota but, alas, our time has elapsed.&nbsp; As I leave, it is clear that Bogota has a lot more to offer.&nbsp; Perhaps another time?Chapter IV - The Top 5So, to the Top 5.&nbsp; I am willing to admit that, at times, this blog contains some exaggeration.&nbsp; Hyperbole.&nbsp; BUt this next top 5 is not an exaggeration.&nbsp; It contains none of it.&nbsp; Zero.&nbsp; Everything uttered past this point is entirely true.&nbsp; You see, I think I have found the greatest restaurant in the world.&nbsp; Not just the greatest - the most fun, the craziest, the most bizarre, the most incredible dining experience of my entire life.&nbsp; Where?&nbsp; In a small town outside Bogota of course - Chia.&nbsp; It's called - Andres Carne de Res.&nbsp; No description does it justice.&nbsp; No superlatives can properly convey it.&nbsp; One must got and experience it.&nbsp; It is a must.&nbsp; It is enormous - long and massive, apparently fitting 2000 people.&nbsp; And thousands flock on the weekend for a party which is meant to be of the devil of the death from hell.&nbsp; So what's so good about it?&nbsp; Well, here are the top 5 things that I encountered:5.&nbsp; Crazy, eclectic decoration over the entirety of this monstrous steak house.&nbsp; If it were done differently, it would be considered tacky.&nbsp; If it were done slightly differently, it would look amatuerish&nbsp; But it's not done differently.&nbsp; It's done perfectly.&nbsp; Stuff from everywhere and anywhere, all over the place.&nbsp; Bizarre but mind blowing.&nbsp; Really.&nbsp; 4.&nbsp; Official welcoming at your table - a random band, dressed as bandits, rockedup at our table, playing random local tunes,giving us a fake cake with candles, sparklers, firecrackers, hats, tiaras, crowns, bandanas, confetti cut like stars coming from the roof, just for our table.&nbsp; Bizarre.&nbsp; Unexpected.&nbsp; Brilliant.3.&nbsp; Models - random models just walk around in random gear.&nbsp; Dressed from next to nothing to a full, purple sequend suit, they strut and pose next to your table.&nbsp; Why?&nbsp; No fucking reason.&nbsp; Just because.&nbsp; Because they can.&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; Apparently, theyhave different things everyday.&nbsp; Tuesday?&nbsp; Purple dressed rabbits.&nbsp; Wednesday?&nbsp; Vampire day.&nbsp; Random&nbsp; Weird.&nbsp; Love it...2.&nbsp; Windy menus - no normal paper menus here.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; Rather, they come in a metal box, the menu on a scroll inside.&nbsp; Want to read the expensive menu?&nbsp; Wind the windy thing on the side.&nbsp; Awesome...1.&nbsp; The food - in the end, it's a steakhouse&nbsp; And all of its novelty would count for little if its food did not make the mark.&nbsp; Luckily, the food was magnificent.&nbsp; What did we have?&nbsp; Oh yes - the meat plate.&nbsp; A juicy kilo of beef, topped with perfect bacom almost melting on top, served with a selection of delicious, unidentifiable sauces.&nbsp; And then the mash?&nbsp; Oh.&nbsp; Possibly the best in the world - cheesy but not too cheesy.&nbsp; Creamy but not too rich.&nbsp; Fluffy.&nbsp; Perfectly fluffy.&nbsp; And the most ridiculous selection that a salad bar has ever seen, the pick being the marinated roast beef, olives and feta.&nbsp; Brilliant.To Medellin.&nbsp; Do it...
]]> Walking is not in my blood... — Cusco, Peru http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1212344520/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1212344520/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1212344520/tpod.html Fri, 06 Jun 2008 21:47:33 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Cusco, Peru

Chapter 1 - a prologueTravelling is often as much about the journey as it is the destination.&nbsp; But when the destination is the legendary Ican city of Machu Picchu, one of the truly marvellous wonders of this world, one could be forgiven for thinking that any journey would fall into its considerable shadow - beneath the incredible peak Wayna Picchu and the surreal ruins that lie below.&nbsp; However, I tell not about forgiveness in this tale.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; For I need not.&nbsp; No.&nbsp; For the journey that I have just undertaken pales in comparison to nothing - rather, it has been a spectcular, unique journye that must rate as one of the finset travelling experiences thus far in this short life.&nbsp; The Salkantay Trek of the Devil of the Death from Hell conquers any significant expectations that may have been placed before it; both figuratively and geographically.&nbsp; And the sheer elation of having conquered it masks the constant ache and pain of the arduous, challenging voyage.&nbsp; From the 10 below summits of Mount Salkantay to the mosqito-ridden, rapid-rushhing jungle, we have ventured with one of the finest groups of individuals ever assmelbed in the same place at the same time, perhaps only rivalled by the filming of the video for 'We are the World'.&nbsp; Mules, midgets, braids and beers; aguas calientes and not so much.&nbsp; It is a journey that had it all..Chapter 2:&nbsp; One-size fits all...I swear that's ice on my face.&nbsp; Seriously.&nbsp; Who the fuck gets ice on their face?&nbsp; I didn't even realise you could get ice on your face.&nbsp; Oow.&nbsp; Fuck.&nbsp; Peel it off, slowly.&nbsp; Slowly.&nbsp; Fuck that's cold.&nbsp; And it hurts.&nbsp; Ice on my face?&nbsp; Average.&nbsp; Oh - peel.&nbsp; Peel.&nbsp; Got it.&nbsp; Brilliant.&nbsp; Now - get rid of it.&nbsp; But, wait.&nbsp; Maybe I should save it - store it for the height of tomorrow's scorching sun.'Hmm?&nbsp; What's that...?''Nothing baby.&nbsp; Go back to sleep.'I think I was saying that all aloud.&nbsp; Ice.&nbsp; Everywhere.&nbsp; It cou hthe roof of the tent with my senseless, gloved hands.&nbsp; Fragile shards of ice snap, crash to the ground down the tended gradient.&nbsp; Fucking cold.&nbsp; I can't sleep in this.&nbsp; No one can.&nbsp; I don't care if you've got 17 layers of thermals on, 3 layers of 'alpaca' socks and some massive, puffy jacket which means that you have to walk side-ways through a door.&nbsp; You ain't getting no sleep.&nbsp; Who's idea was it to camp at 4600m above sea level anyway?&nbsp; Ridiculous.&nbsp; Well, ridiclously cold anyway.&nbsp; Is that ice on my face?&nbsp; Seriously.&nbsp; I think I can feel ice is freezing again.&nbsp; And not only on my face.&nbsp; My ears.&nbsp; On my fucking ears.&nbsp; When it's really, silly cold, you suddenly come to realise that the top of your ears exist.&nbsp; Ordinarily ignored, disscarded as a purely function part of one's anatomy - like one's appendix or thos random muscles that swimmers have - the top of one's ears come into their own when it's really fucking cold to deliver an extremely important message to your body - it's really fucking cold.&nbsp; Thanks top of my ears.&nbsp; Definitely needed confirmation of that.&nbsp; Chapter 3:&nbsp; DustAt 4600m above sea level, you can almost reach out and touch the stars.&nbsp; They surround you in their dome, which is no longer black, or even dark, but rather an enveloping, blistering field of light blemished by a rare spot of black.&nbsp; Below the mighty Salkantay and Urumqi, we stand in awe - of the sky, dirty with mystical stardust; of the daunting, glacier-dominated peaks lit softly by the moon's luminous glow; by the intense, all-pervasive cold.&nbsp; I reach out and touch - the stars are light in my light:&nbsp; soft and damp, like the air, like dust; like a pure cloud or white that you can't see through; immoveable; forever tangible.Mount Salkantay, on the other hand, is untouchable.&nbsp; It's presence necesitates that it be separated from the ordinary world.&nbsp; When not covered by the sweeping mist that often surrounds it, Mt Salkantay displays the whitest-of-the-white.&nbsp; One look at the peak of Salakantay convinces you of several things:a)&nbsp; nothing was ever smoother;b)&nbsp; that snow is the colour of original white from which all other white's were created - dyed, dirtied, tainted, trated.&nbsp; Nothing was ever purer, nor will anything ever be.&nbsp; White.&nbsp; At its highest.&nbsp; Magnificent...c)&nbsp; you've got to be one crazy fucker to climb mountains.&nbsp; Mad...Its existence makes this trek.&nbsp; For the best part of two days, it dominates the horizon, glowing white, blue, orange, red, the glacial details ypon its peak, becoming more and more incredible, more and more irresistible with every step to the 4600m pass.&nbsp; It's existence makes this trek.&nbsp; Of course.&nbsp; It is the Salkantay Trek of the Devil of the Death from Hell...Chapter 4 - Repelente por favor...Our descent into the jungle has provided me with one important realisation:&nbsp; if vampires are, indeed, real, I'm fucked.&nbsp; You see, our descent into the jungle has confirmed that I am damn tasty.&nbsp; No - not like that.&nbsp; Well, yes like that.&nbsp; But that's not what I'm talking about.&nbsp; I'm talking about blood.&nbsp; Tasty fucking blood.&nbsp; During this descent into the jungle, I have been more than delighted to be the fucking lifeblood to almost 3 million mosquitos.&nbsp; '3 million?'&nbsp; I hear you say - 'nothing to write home about.'&nbsp; Well, fair, if they were ordinary, garden variety mosquitos.&nbsp; They, of course, were not.&nbsp; Rather, they are Peruvian mosquitos of death, commonly called in Peru 'El Peruano mosquitos del muerte', which translates, roughly, to 'Peruvian mosquitos of death'.&nbsp; 'But why didn't you just use a heap of repellent?' I hear you mutter back home.&nbsp; Oh, well good question.&nbsp; The answer is irresistible.&nbsp; The answer is a thing called 'hot thermal baths'.&nbsp; Now, ordinarily, I'm a sucker for hot baths.&nbsp; Can't get enough of them.&nbsp; In fact, true but embarrassing story, I was once lured into a dark alley by a 'hot thermal bath', which then subsequently mugged me, taking everything that I had except my underwear.&nbsp; True story.&nbsp; Anyway, the point is, ordinarily, I'm a sucker of hot baths.&nbsp; So, after 4 days of trekking to the highest peaks and the deepest valleys of the scared Inca Kingdom, I stood no hope of resisting the 'hot thermal baths'.&nbsp; Cue - 3 million mossies.&nbsp; Enter stage right.&nbsp; Attack legs and arms.&nbsp; Don't forget the neck.&nbsp; Head is good too.&nbsp; If you have an opportunity, go for the eyelid.&nbsp; And maybe the top of his ear - show him it's no just for the cold.&nbsp; Do it.&nbsp; Do it...Chapter 5 - El destino...I love that the bus says 'Machu Picchu'.&nbsp; It never fails to entertain.&nbsp; The anticipation that it brings - what a surprise, especially on this return - in my own excitement&nbsp; of being here again.&nbsp; I have lauded the wonders of Machu Picchu before, in a sufficiently covetous way for me not to do it again.&nbsp; Suffice for me to say that it remains every bit as magical, wondrous, inspiring on this return.&nbsp; Indeed, a place or pure mystique.&nbsp; Indeed, a place where one could easily be convinced of the existence of the Gods.&nbsp; Chapter 6 - The Old KingdomIn the gorgeous city of Cuzco of undulating hills, refined and splended architecture, streets of cobble that massage your feet, ancient stones that dwarf giants, and ruins after ruin of the Incan dynasty, the sacred centre of the Inca empire, this is what I have eaten:- chicken soup with vegetables.&nbsp; A wonderful broth, light and bright with broccoli, carrot and snow peas.&nbsp; - (*)&nbsp;scrambled eggs on sourdough with creamy mushrooms and bacon.&nbsp; The finest mushrooms in the world.&nbsp; Creamy.- Mexican avocado salad - beautiful, ripe avocade, cut into succulent slices, rich yet light vinagrette drizzling.- (*) the biggest, juiciest rotisserie chicken ever created, crispy chips on the side and a wonderful, simple salad.- cheapest but finest hamburgers in the world.&nbsp; Lovely, fluffy bread with the most enormous chunk of meat inside.&nbsp; Cabbage - hot.&nbsp; Tomato.&nbsp; Cheese.&nbsp; Dripping sauce.&nbsp; Less than a $1?- (*) Two thick slices of sourdough, crsipt gourmet lettuce, kalamata olives, hommus, beautiful capsicum.&nbsp; Delicious.- Saltenas.&nbsp; Small parcels, baked and fills with chicken or meat.&nbsp; Put capcisum on it.&nbsp; And hot sauce.&nbsp; And eat it up.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Do it...Eating brilliant..Chapter 7 - the Top 5So, to the Top 5.&nbsp; Mules have become such a significant part of any life that I am compelled to write about them.&nbsp; Let's be honest.&nbsp; Mules are not known for being smart animals.&nbsp; In fact, they are downright stupid.&nbsp; But more than that, they have an incredible capacity to inflict death upon a person.&nbsp; What dascinates me is the number of ways in which they can do so.&nbsp; Here are the top 5 that I have envisaged (yes, in slow motion, flashing before my eyes):5.&nbsp; Death by suicidal&nbsp;mule.&nbsp; Read the last entry again.&nbsp; Do it...4.&nbsp; Mule kick - perhaps one of the most common.&nbsp; Indeed, a classic.&nbsp; Everyone knows that the mule has a great backheel - it should really be used in Peru's national football team.&nbsp; But accidently stray into the path behind the mule and get a kick to the head, to the chest.&nbsp; You're done.&nbsp; Death by mule kick.&nbsp; Ha...3.&nbsp; Mule headbutt - what people don't know about mules is that they intentionally headbutt humans.&nbsp; A lot.&nbsp; And they love to do it when the person and they are on a narrow path.&nbsp; Headbutt of the edge or headbutt into sharp cliff is not uncommon.&nbsp; Death by mule headbutt.&nbsp; No 3...2.&nbsp; Death&nbsp;by&nbsp;mule stampede.&nbsp; Perhaps the classic way to get destroyed by a mule.&nbsp; Pack of mules.&nbsp; A small path.&nbsp; 1 person.&nbsp; 1 deadly crushing...1.&nbsp; Mule spit.&nbsp; It's an interesting thing.&nbsp; Especially if you add orange juice to it.&nbsp; And chilli sauce.&nbsp; You see, put all of these things together and it forms a deadly, combustible cocktail.&nbsp; Yes - a bomb.&nbsp; Death is not uncommon to those who come across it unwittingly...To Colombia.&nbsp; Bogota.
]]> Convents, Condors and Canyons... — Arequipa, Peru http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1211589120/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1211589120/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1211589120/tpod.html Mon, 26 May 2008 17:27:43 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Arequipa, Peru

Whilst perched precariously on the edge of the sheer drop of the world´s deepest canyon, I begin wondering whether my mule had taken ints depression medication.&nbsp; Being perched precariously on the edge of a 3km sheer drop on a mule does that.&nbsp; Especially when your mule is constantly displaying its suicidal tendancies.&nbsp; My curiously as to my mule's pharmaceutical practices morphed into hallucination - my mule, reclining on the psychologists couch with a cigarette, recounting stories about its early childhood, its parentage and the teasing received due to the fact that its father was a horse, its mother a donkey.&nbsp; These hallucinations, combined with the whipping and occasional rock throwing of its owner, did not exactly fill me with confidence.&nbsp; The mule was, no doubt, potentially suicidla.&nbsp; And so, exceptionally paranoid by the prospect of 'death by riding suicidal mule', sentences such as the following would echo across the wondrous colca canyon each time my mulewould teeter closer and closer&nbsp;to the edge of the narrow winding path: 'Turn you fucking donkey, left, left... fuck!'&nbsp; 'Fuck' would reverberate across Colca Canyon - across its tiny, dusty towns clinging to the canyon's face; skimming the tranquil trickle of the annually mighty Rio Colca; interrupting the gentle breeze on which the regal condor soars.&nbsp; In the moment immediately following each outbursts of expletives, a vague feeling of guilt for interrupting the peace flows through me.&nbsp; It is, however, gone by the next corner.&nbsp; 'Fucking donkey...!'I am happy to admit that the world's deepest canyon deserves better.&nbsp; It is yet another extraordinary natural wonder that Peru has to offer.&nbsp; From the icy flow of the Colca River, its face rises dramatically, imposingly, this incredible wound in the earth's surface more than twice the depth of the Grand Canyon.&nbsp; Out of the ashes of the previous millenias' earthquakes and eruptions, the canyon has come, its solid yet crumbling walls an impossibility to conquer.&nbsp; At least for us.&nbsp; And hence, the mule.&nbsp; 'Fucking mule.&nbsp; Turn.&nbsp; Fucking turn...'Just hours from the colca calley lies the splendid white city of arequipa.&nbsp; In all directions, volcanoes surround Arequipa, two dormant and one intimidatingly active, their past eruptions literally laying tyhe foundations of this elegant city.&nbsp; The historic centre is a scene of pristine white, each colonial building made from incredible white volcanic rock.&nbsp; The Plaza de Armas, in particular, is elegant, its hypnotic arches building from the south towards the grand cathedral like a crescendo to its climax.&nbsp; Of course, the mandatory elements of any main square are here:&nbsp; shoe-shiners, snack-vendors, the fountain, the pigeons, the children, the children in the pigeons, the pigeons in the fountain, the children in the fountain.&nbsp; And then from the plaza, the white stone runs, a continuous single and double storey, north, south, east, west.&nbsp; To the north, perhaps the highlight of Arequipa hides, concealed by high walls of white.&nbsp; It is the Convent of Santa Catalina.&nbsp; Shrouded in mystery for centuries and centuries, the convent has recently become accessible to the public, revealing a wondrous, beautiful maze of rooms, streets and courtyard - a miniature city hiddens; the residing nuns sealed from the outside world, without contact, with nothing to entertain themselves except for God and, presumably, scrabble.&nbsp; And the beauty of the convent.&nbsp; The convent?&nbsp; A highlight indeed.&nbsp; Brilliant...Apparently, there are more than 5000 types of potatoes in Peru.&nbsp; What I want to know, though, is what the fuck one of them is doing in my noodles.&nbsp; Exactly.&nbsp; Noodles.&nbsp; Chinese noodles.&nbsp; You see, there's a heap of little chinese restaurants in Peru, called 'Chifas' largely thanks tyo the long history of chinese emigration to Peru.&nbsp; And chinese food seems to have become quite a part of Peruvians cuisine - chaufa or fried rice (chao fun in chinese) in particular, a favourite.&nbsp; But it seems, somewhere along the line, things got just a little bit fucked up.&nbsp; Yep - somewhere along the line, some little genius thought - 'fried noodles?&nbsp; Brilliant.&nbsp; Fried noodles with chips?&nbsp; Better'.&nbsp; As my stay in peru has continued, the more the bizarre bastardisations to chinese cuisine have become evident.&nbsp; And the quesitons have started to pile up.- why is there no meat in my wanton?&nbsp; It's just a fried triangle of nothingness.- why is my noodle soup served with bread?- why am I still looked at as a novelty in a chinese restaurant?&nbsp; A chinese guy in a chinese restaurant?&nbsp; Hilarious.Despite the bastardisatyions, its clear that I'll be back.&nbsp; Of course.&nbsp; For I can't resist chinese food, bastardised or otherwise.&nbsp; It's the smell, y'know?&nbsp; The way it lifts from the wok and out onto the street, filling the air with a familiar, stir fried delight and my mind with, more than anything, that comfort that a traveller so often needs.&nbsp; Yes - I will be back.&nbsp; Ordering noodles.&nbsp; Sin papas, por favor.I think I just got spat on.&nbsp; I swear it.&nbsp; Yep, there it is on my arm.&nbsp; Mother fucker.&nbsp;&nbsp;A big, juicy one.&nbsp; Keep walking.&nbsp; Just keep going.&nbsp; I think I'm going to vomit.&nbsp; Mother fucker.&nbsp; It's one of those unfortunate things about travelling in South America or anywhere really.&nbsp; The good old tourist scam.&nbsp; This one's well-known - one of the more disgusting - sure.&nbsp; But it goes like this.&nbsp; Someone spits on you.&nbsp; Then someone comes up to you and cleans it off.&nbsp; And, in the meantime, they attempt to take your wallet or whatever.&nbsp; Motherfuckers.&nbsp; I think I just got spat on.&nbsp; I swear it.&nbsp; Yep - there it is on my arm.&nbsp; Keep walking.&nbsp; Just keep walking...So, to the top 5.&nbsp; Part of the magic of travelling is meeting people from all over the world.&nbsp; So it was with much delight that we de-facto adopted a mid-50s crazy japanese hippy for a few days.&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; Funny shit.&nbsp; Inspired by the movie 'The Motorcycle Diaries', he said to his wife and two teenage kids, 'I'm off of South America for 4 months.&nbsp; See ya suckers.'&nbsp; Armed with little english and no spanish, this crazy Japanese dude provided much random amusement for a few days.&nbsp; Here are the top 5 moments of randomness and misunderstanding:5.&nbsp; We were thinking about going for coffee.&nbsp; We weren't sure whether&nbsp;he wanted to come as well.&nbsp; We knew he had already been earlier that morning.&nbsp; The following conversation ensued:Us:&nbsp; We are going to go for coffee.&nbsp; Do you want to come?Him:&nbsp; Yes - coffee.&nbsp; I have before.Us:&nbsp; Ok.&nbsp; But we are going now.&nbsp; Do you want to come for coffee now?Him:&nbsp; Yes - this morning.&nbsp; Very good.Us:&nbsp; (ok.&nbsp; one more try).&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; But - do you want coffee now?Him:&nbsp; Ahhh - yes.&nbsp; I have in morning.&nbsp; Yes.&nbsp; Very good.4.&nbsp; He does yoga.&nbsp; A very spiritual man.&nbsp; He was telling us about this.&nbsp; The conversation goes like this:Him:&nbsp; In the morning, I wake up early and do yoga.&nbsp; Me:&nbsp; And then you go back to bed?Him:&nbsp; Ha!&nbsp; Back to bed?&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; (starts rolling around like it is the funniest thing in the world).&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; Back to bed?&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; (Continuously intense laughter for about 3 or 4 minutes.&nbsp; Seriously).&nbsp; Back to bed?Ha.3.&nbsp; On our last day in Arequipa, we thought we tell him that we were going to Cuzco.&nbsp; This conversation:Us:&nbsp; Hey - tomorrow, we are going to Cuzco.Him:&nbsp;&nbsp; No.&nbsp; I have already.Us:&nbsp; No.&nbsp; Us.&nbsp; Tomorrow, we go to Cuzco.&nbsp; To see Machu Picchu.Him:&nbsp; No no.&nbsp; I have seen before.&nbsp; No tomorrow.Us:&nbsp; We are going.&nbsp; Us.&nbsp; Tomorrow.Him:&nbsp; I have a flute!Ha.2.&nbsp; In a bar one night and he becomes the centre of attention.&nbsp; Why?&nbsp; Because he practices some random Japanese healing pressure point thing.&nbsp; A line forms.&nbsp; He assesses some random Chilean guy, perhaps a little rounded.&nbsp; His assessment, which he tells squarely to the chilean guy?&nbsp; 'You need practice weight control'.&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; He effectively called him a fat bastard.&nbsp; Ha.1.&nbsp; Friday night.&nbsp; Quiet bar.&nbsp; Not big.&nbsp; Probably the size of an average living room, a bit bigger.&nbsp; People sitting at tables at the periphery.&nbsp; We are having a quiet conversation.&nbsp; He finishes a sentence.&nbsp; Then he's up.&nbsp; What's he doing?&nbsp; Where's he going?&nbsp; He's dancing?&nbsp; He was up.&nbsp; No indication that he was going to go anywhere.&nbsp; But in a second, he jumped up into the middle of room, dancing a strange mix of Indian and tai-chi, entertaining the crowd with his randomness.&nbsp; Ha.&nbsp; Brilliant.&nbsp; Then he just down, like nothing had happened.&nbsp; Continued the conversation like nothing had happened.Ha.&nbsp; Ha.So good.To Cuzco.&nbsp; Machu Picchu.&nbsp; And the trek of the devil of the death...
]]> Death by water... — Iguazu Falls, Argentina http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1209225180/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1209225180/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1209225180/tpod.html Sat, 17 May 2008 19:39:27 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Iguazu Falls, Argentina

Struggling with a life vest is not a good look. The very best one can hope for is to resemble one of those dudes in a blow up sumo suit. And that's the very best. Failing that, the aesthetic of the life vest falls away rapidly. Failure to successfully put on a life vest leads to several looks, such as the one where yours arms go straight up directly above your head, your face no longer visible because it is obscured by the vest. I like to call that one 'the upward diver' or 'Mum - put on my t-shirt'. Or, alternatively, if you put your head through the wrong hole at the top, the buoyant semi-circle which is meant to be behind your head ends up in front of you, completeing distorting your vision. I like to call this one the 'cyclops'. And then there's the old classic 'arm through the head hole'. Oldy but a goodie. Struggling with the life jacket of death, not entirely enjoying the ridiculous varieity of contortions I was putting on display, I began to question my need to adorn it. But mid question, I was interrupted by the beast, the sound of its power overwhleming, and I quickly strapped myself in. I would need it for my return to look the beast in the eye...It is the most brilliant 15 minutes that 60 pesos can buy. Definitely. Well, actually, perhaps except for a Boca or River game. But it's definitely the most wet that you can get for 60 pesos. Hmmm -except for swimming in a pool. Alright. Well, it's certainly the most exhilarting thing you can do at Iguazu Falls. Oh - well - perhaps except for the Bungie Jumping on the Brazilian side. Ok. Well - it is most certainly the most exciting thing you will do for 60 pesos in the Argentinean National Parque of Iguazu. Bar none. All of the above exceptions aside, the Aventura Nautica in 'the beast' is fucking brilliant. It is ithe best thing to do in the national Park. It plunges you deep into some of the most powerful waterfalls in the system, including the one I like to call 'the beast', leaving you thrilled, excited, saturated and pleading for more. It is the highlight of a waterfall system that, to be true, is overloaded with stunning spectacles. I love it...For some reason, I was somewhat fearful that Iguazu would disappoint on this return. For what reason I have abolsutely no idea. Iguazu does not disappoint. It doesn't care for disappointment. It's the kind of waterfall that would get you in a headlock and give you a crusty at the mere passing thought of being disappointed by it. In fact, it's the Mr T of waterfalls, and would then shout at - "Don't gimme no disappointment sucker" or "I pity the disappointing fool". Of course, it doesn't have to do that. Because no one is disappointed by Iguazu.Rather than being disappointing, Iguazu is entirely captivating. Before the backdrop of a beautiful blue day, butterflies dance, the swopps dart in and out of the mist and the vultures hover. Rainbows, not unusually present on a day as clear as today, come out to play, fearful of mising out on this perfect landscape. And all around, water courageously leaps to its certain death, the Garganta del Diablo or Devi's Mouth in particular, claiming billions o droplet lives per second, its ferocity unmatched. Amazing. Shocking. Intimidating. Brilliant...So, to the Top 5. Let's talk about food. Food has been brilliant. Generally speaking. But, every now and then, something in the food department goes slightly wrong. Or significantly wrong. Like people just not giving you what you ordered. Here is the Top 5 in the category I like to call 'Um - that;s not what I ordered'...5. Penchero - described to us as being a soup. Soup? That sounds good. I'll take that. In reality? Not so much soup. Rather, lump of meat. That's not what I ordered...4. Bife de Chorizo - not a true nominee for this category. Rather, should be in the category of "that's exactly what I fucking ordered". You know in Australia, when you order a steak, it comes with fries, a small salad, a bit of the side? Well, in Argentina, not so much. When you order a steak, what do you get. Slab. Meat. Plate. Ha.3. Tabla - That antipasto plate in the picture looks good. Us: hey dude - what's that plate got in it?Dude: that one. Olives, salami, cheese, mushrooms.Us: that sounds good. exactly what we feel like. A good old antipasto plate. This is what we got:- disgusting black olives out of a can. - no salami. In its place? Spam. From a can.- Cheese? Wet. Canned. Gross. Inedible.- Mushrooms. Canned. Sloppy. - hard boiled egg on the top. Ha. Where did this come from? That;s not what I ordered...2. Ensalada - fancy restaurant for the tango show. 3 course meal all included. I think I'll get the salad of the house to start with. In reality? The salad of the house turns out to be not so much of a salad, but more of a tabla. Refer to no 3. Cans are in high use here. That's not what I ordered...1. All you can chino - Walking through Foz de Iguacu, hot and a little bit sick, looking for a bit of comfort food. What do we pass but an all-you-can-eat chinese place? $3. Brilliant. Perfect. Exactly what I felt like. Walk in. Sit down. Examine the buffet. Hmmm. Is that Lasagne? And spaghetti? Beans? And lumps of steak? And where's all the chinese food. Hmmm. none eh? Ha. Killing me. That's not what I fucking ordered...To Sao Paolo - the megatropolis...
]]> It's a little... Chile. — Santiago - Valparaiso, Chile http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1208128320/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1208128320/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1208128320/tpod.html Sat, 17 May 2008 19:38:33 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Santiago - Valparaiso, Chile

I'm not saying it was wrong. I mean, really, they can do what they like. I'm all for that. in fact - good luck to them. But as we stood before the magnificent, luminous statue of the Virgin Mary high on Cerro San Cristobal above the sprawling city of Santiago de Chile, I couldn't help but feel that the manky dogs copulating at her feet detracted somewhat from the atmosphere of the otherwise spectactular view. Indeed, manky dogs possess that ability - nay - talent: to divert one's attention from a wondrous, unique aspect of the world and have you, rather, focus on the fact that you forgot to get a rabies vaccination before leaving home. The presence of manky dogs in Chile is overwhelming. Killing me. Dominating me. In fact, I have undergone a 4 day psychological battle (of the death) to regain my ability to focus on matters other than manky dogs. I am now here on the other side, barely survived...In the hangover of the manky dog battle of the devil of the death from hell, I have emerged as the most popular person in CHile. I attributre this to two factors:a) the fact that I am a Chino. Chilenos fucking love it. Whisphers from school children, fascinated by the man from the far east, no doubt with the ability to lay smackdown upon any little, stocky Chilean that got in his way. Oh - the mystique of him...b) the colo-colo shirt. I now have a colo-colo shirt. Since acquiring it, I have not removed it. In Chile, colo-colo is king. What's colo-colo you ask? Shame on you. Colo-colo is the king of football in Chile. Google it. Do it. And Chileans fucking love them.And so, just as 2 + 2 = 4, chino + colo-colo shirt = most popular person in all Chile. Hugs in the street from toothless women; old man selling nuts in the stret with a big fat high 5; even the tattooed youth of the Santiago night kindly putting away his knife - this is what comes of being a Chinese colo-colo supporter. I recommend it to everyone...The exposition to the opening movement of this trip has been sublime. Santiago, in all its polluted splendour, came with very low expectation, largely due to its past crapness. However, in the past few days, much like a big night the morning after, it has slowly revealed itself with humour and embarassment. The energetic, exciting Vega Markets volunteered itself first, propelling its photogenic delights upon us. But then Bellavista came and dominated - the vibrant facades of the artists' qurter, the distinctively cooler kids with cerveza on the sidewalk, the vibe. And then, finally, the wonderful Paula and bearded Jose, acquaintances from Perth, residents of Santiago and archetypal Chilean couple (miniature man + enormous woman) and the CHilean tourish meal of the devil of the death complete with mountain of carne, local booze, photos con cliche sombrero and ridiculous traditional dancing. Santiago, previously described in this silly blog as a hole in the ground, has been amended to a divot in the world. A good,. solid divot nonetheless...Is there a better way to spend a birthday than in the Valley of Paradise. Perhaps. And I think I discovered it. Ok - think of Valley of Paradise, except better. How better? Well, but lugging a fuckload of groceries up the enormous inclindes of the Calley of Paradise. Clearly. In a moment of weakness, I found myself carrying an old woman's groceries up a 'fuck off' mountain, overlooking the valley of paradise. Perfection. Nothing better than being a packhorse in the Valley of Paradise. They Valley of Paradise - Valparaiso in spanish - is near paradise itself. A city of 23 spectacular hills overlooking the pacific, Valparaiso layers its weatherboard houses upon each other, upon vibrant murals and street art like a spongecake of colour and brilliance. You wind and spin as Valparaiso guides you into a hypnotic trance, up, down, around until you are released at Chile's main port at the bottom - amazed, confused, fulfilled, having been bombarded by the historic beauty of this city. Is there a better way to spend a birthday than in Valparaiso. Perhaps...So, to the Top 5. Indeed, it returns. The very same top 5 that the Sydney Morning Herald recently described as 'the most unfortunate exploitation of a countdown since Molly Meldrum's day. A complete and utter waste of internet resources.' A reasonably accurate description I think. Thes past few days in Chile have been exceptionally amusing at times. The canned food antipasto plate; Chilean boys taking photos of my hot girlfriend; everyone presuming that djana speaks spanish and her just smiling; us attempting Chilean traditional dance; me being a cHino. But one source of amusement has reigned supreme. Yes: manky dogs. The think about manky dogs is that they do things that normal domesticated dogs don't do. Brilliant. Here are the top 5 things that manky dogs like to do:5. Lick themselves and other manky dogs. Not just anywhere. Yep. There...4. Piss on other manky dogs. As if they weren't sufficiently manky...3. Picking fights with cars. Ha. Standing face to face - eyes to headlights - the cars slow down attempting not to run over the dogs. The dogs, thinking that they have a fighting chance, are the antagonists, barking wildly at the oncoming car about to run them over. Ha.2. Catch the metro...1. Sex. Not just anywhere. In front of the virgin mary. Just to let her know what she's missing out on...To Mendoza, Argentina. Do it...
]]> Returning to a love... — Buenos Aires, Argentina http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1208916960/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1208916960/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1208916960/tpod.html Sat, 17 May 2008 19:38:04 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Buenos Aires, Argentina

I am extremely excited to announce that I have finally achieved my life long ambition. No - not to win a giant toy from a skilltester machine. Rather, to appear on the big screen. Not on the small screen. Not on the silver screen. Not even on the fly screen. The big screen. You know the ones. The enormous, technological wonders lighting up stadia worldwide; the ones which generaly feature some fool jumping up and down in idiotic jubilation, celebrating the fact that he is on the big screen. Well, as kick-off approched in River Plate's Copa Libertadores match against some Peruvian team; as the fanatical Los Barrachos had the entire Estadio Monumental in deafening and raucous excitement; as the red and white confetti drifted through the thick smoke of the Buenos Aires evening, I was that fool. Indeed, it ws a moment to celebrate: a chino appearing on a big screen which, at River Plate games I've noticed, is generally reserved for hot chicks. A momentous ocassion certainly worth a lifetime's wait. Unfortunately, what I must now come to terms with is the fact that my life will never again reacdh the ecstacy of that moment. Being on the big screen at a River Plate game at the legendary El Monumental? Life definingly brilliant. Ha. I have a confession: I only came to Buenos Aires for the football. This confession is one, of course, that I've never made to Djana. No. That would be ridiculous. Rather, when planning our itinerary, I cheekily coaxed her with quite incredible descriptions of this city such that anyone would think that it is the greatest city in the world - descriptions of its elegance, beauty, excitement, nightlife, couture, food. But now, having been in Buenos Aires for a week, my intentions have become reasonably clear. Thus, conversations such as the following:D: Hey - I thought you said we were going to a park?M: Yeah, I know. And we are. And what a park it is. This is the legendary La Bomboneria, home of Boca Juniors, the king of South American football, the home of Maradona, THE greatest atmosphere at any sporting arena inthe world bar none.D: Alright. This better be good.And how. FUcking incredible. Even more intense, crazy and absorbing than I remember. Admittedly, I have alwys been a fan of near-death crushings at the football, I am both relieved and glad to say that my girlfriend is as well...There have been moments in our stay when I have managed to tear myself away from football´s iron grip. Recoleta´s grand cemetary, the silly colourful and lively streets of La Boca´s Caminito and the intruiging and entertaining antique markets of San Telmo have all distracted me momentarily from the football. Indeed, so has the ridiculous amount of steak. Meat. Carne. Argentina has decent food other than steak - all at what is really a pittance - such as empanadas, pasta, super panchos. But nothing in the realm of food dominates the mind and soul of the average Argentinean, and the average visitor to Argentina, like this country's slabs of beef. It's hard not to think about it when you're here. The unmistakeable aroma of charcoal BBQ meat wafts from Buenos Aires' parillas on almost every street corner, demanding your attendion, luring you in for a closer inspection despite your already overwhelmed stomach (and then there's the all you can eat, which I won't write about again). In that moment, under the spell of beef grilling, football is swept from one's mind. Momentarily only, of course, as it cannot be kept away forever, it soon returning to partner meat - the perfect marriage in any man's mind...If there's one thing that can wrest a man's attention from meat and football, it is, of course, sex. Buenos Aires again has the answer. Is there anything in this world as sexy as the tango? Indeed, I challenge anyone to find something so. I think it unlikely. My greatest regret from my stay in Buenos Aires last time was not seeing more tango. With this regret firmly in mind, we ventured to a tango show at one of BA's oldest tango venues. My assessment? Spectaculer. Stunning. Beautiful. BUt most of all - sexy. Fucking sexy. The way the dance enhances the chemistry between the man and the woman; the seductive long steps; the pure leggy sexiness of thedance. Killing me. It is often said that tango encapsulates - is the heart and soul of - Buenos Aires. It seems true. It is almost a prevelant as meat and football. Tango oozes out of this city - through the majestic colonial buildings on Avenide 29 de Mayo; out of the moky, dimly lit bars of San Telmo; down the sidewalks of the Caminito. It is everywhere, gorgeous and sexy. Brilliant. Damn sexy brilliant...Returning to a love is special. That is all I can say. THis city is every bit as captivating as I recall the first time, it, most of all, possessing that quality that cannot be identified. I like to call that quality 'the quality of being fucking brilliant'. It is in everything that I have mentioned in this entry and more. And it manifests itself in one's want - nay need - to indulge in Buenos Aires. To entertain it. To let one be entertained by it. The food. The dance. The football. THe nightlife. The absolutely ridiculous shopping. The beauty of the parks. Its ability to pose for photos. To reopen an old argument - is it the best city in the world? My thoughts? Maybe. Definitely Top 5.So, to the Top 5. If you have read my entires on Buenos Aires (yes, this one and the previous ones), you may be under the impression that Buenos Aires is the perfect city - flawless, untouched. In fact, it's not exactly. Actually, there's quit a few things that could potentially lower one's (not my) opinion of Buenos Aires. Here are the top 5:5. 1pm is designated start time for everything. Shops. Restaurants. Some museums. Pretty much anything that you want to do. Entire morning wasted. Don't bother setting your alarm...4. Traffic of death. Cars are pretty mad. Bad for pedestrians. But fucking bad for motorcycles. The other day we saw 2 motorcycle accidents within the space of an hour. You would have thought that with that kind of danger, cyclists would wear helmets. Hmmm - not so much. Well, not on their head. Brilliant at carrying them on their elbow. Or knee...3. No yum cha. I need yum cha. Two weeks without yum cha and I am extremely near death. I need immediate, emergency dumpling injection...2. Piss at the football. The football is brilliant. Everything about it. Except perhaps, exiting the stadium through 7 flights of stairs urine. How? Don't know. Maybe bad plumbing. Maybe away supporters. But descending from the Boca stadium was an extremely unpleasant experience, the stairs being covered with an unpleasant human waste product. I will speak no more about it... Average.1. Getting change. It is fucking impossible to get change. You know - 1 peso coins. Or even 25 c coins. Even more, no one is willing to part with the change that they have. I know they have it. I can see that they have it. In some instances, it isn't even theirs - it's their employers. Anyway - fucking impossible to get change. People even refuse to provide change to the extent that they are willing to turn away business in order not to part with their change. Poor business choice it would seem to me. Killing me. In my paranoia, I have been hording my coins and am now weighed down by 4 kgs in loose change...To Iguazu! Do it...
]]> The Altitude Diaries... — La Paz - Copacabana - Lake Titicaca, Bolivia http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1211064600/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1211064600/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1211064600/tpod.html Sat, 17 May 2008 19:31:44 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
La Paz - Copacabana - Lake Titicaca, Bolivia

Chapter 1 - My new career...I'm brining them back.&nbsp; Why?&nbsp; Because they're wicked.&nbsp; Fucking cool.&nbsp; They're exactly what every kid needs to wear in the playground; what every adult should wear to work; what every retired person should wear when they travel around in a caravan.&nbsp; They're sexy and they're for everyone.&nbsp; Without exception.&nbsp; One wonders why they ever went out of fashion really.&nbsp; Or, rather, one wonders whether they were ever in fashion in the first place to go out of fashion.&nbsp; In any event, they should be perenially in fashion.&nbsp; This realisation has hit me like a Bolivan head-on-bus collision on my return to Bolivia.&nbsp; What am I talking about you ask?&nbsp; I'm talking about the&nbsp;Bowler Hat.&nbsp; Of course.&nbsp; Yes - you read correctly - the Bowler Hat.&nbsp; You know those undersized hats, spherical at its peak, a small circular brim that features a slight upward curve at the end?&nbsp; Yep, those ones.&nbsp; Those ones that are too small to sit properly on one's head so they must be worn balanced precipitously on the top?&nbsp; Yep - them.&nbsp; Yeah - the one in the Magritte painting with the apple.&nbsp; Yep.&nbsp; You see, the Bowler Hat is big in Bolivia.&nbsp; Damn big.&nbsp; Fucking big.&nbsp; Everywhere you look kinda big.&nbsp; The Bolivian women sit on th steps of Plza Murillo in all their colourful, rounded glory, chewing coca leaves, Bowler Hat sitting atop.&nbsp; A local senora, sitting aside her cart, filled with brilliant chicken and beef filled saltenas, calling out to potential customers, sporting the brilliant bowler hat.&nbsp; Random hey?&nbsp; But brilliant.&nbsp; Looks damn cool.&nbsp; Fucking cool.&nbsp; And I love it.&nbsp; I don't care what anyone says / I'm bringing them back...There's a great story behind the bowler hat phenomenon in Bolivia.&nbsp; Apparently, back in the day, an englishman woke up one morning in Bolivia&nbsp; with a fuckload of Bowler hats.&nbsp; The following thought clearly passed through his mind: 'Um... what'?&nbsp; The man, however, was pure genius, somehow managing to convince the Bolivian upper class that the bowler hat was all the rage in Europe - the height of fashion.&nbsp; And so the Bolivians, incredible, followed, incorporating the hat of death into Bolivian traditions with its own little quirks, such as the position of the hat&nbsp;indicating a woman's marital status.&nbsp; Brilliant.&nbsp; And an awesome sight.&nbsp; There's a fortune to be made in bowler hats.&nbsp; I know it.&nbsp; This is my new career.&nbsp; I'm bringing them back...Chapter 2 - Time to recover...I'm dizzy.&nbsp; So fucking dizzy my head is spinning.&nbsp; Like a whirlpool it never ends.&nbsp; I've also got a massive fucking headache.&nbsp; Huge.&nbsp; Like my brain is about to explode.&nbsp; I put down my bag and untie my shoelaces, the physical exertion of this movement having me huffing, puffing, wheezing.&nbsp; I'm fucking knackered.&nbsp; Altitude is killing me.&nbsp; I hear La Paz&nbsp;whisper 'Welcome to 4000 metres above sea level bitch' in my ear.&nbsp; I sip at my mate de coca - tea direvied from the coca plant, a natural remedy for the symptoms of altitude sickness.&nbsp; Its bitterness goes straight to the corners of my mouth, the remaining flavour resembling the leaves of a gum tree.&nbsp; I begin to hallucinate about llama feoteses, talismans to Pachamama.&nbsp;&nbsp;They stare at me with vacant eyes, their bodies sufficiently formed to resemble an actual llama.&nbsp; They freak me out as they did earlier today at the witchmarket.&nbsp; My head throbs, more intensely now as if the headache does not want to be forgotten.&nbsp; More warn bitterness of the leaves.&nbsp; It should help.&nbsp; It must.&nbsp; I feel dizzy.&nbsp; Like a whirlpool it never ends...Chapter 3 - The PeaceThe colour of the earth rises out of the valley.&nbsp; Red bricks grow from the jammed streets towards the plain of El Alto above.&nbsp; The houses cling, almost favella style, to the sharp incline, watching as the gentle city of La Paz starts another day.&nbsp; Churches dot the overwhelmingly red landscape, the taxis and collectivos scamper and hoot.&nbsp; The sun, out for the first time today, makes up for lost time, delivering blinding, burning beams down to La Paz's starved streets.&nbsp; There are greetings on the ground - to friends and strangers alke - the general friendliness of the locals always palpable.&nbsp; The city always feels welcoming.&nbsp; Wayna Potosi, on this beautifully clear day, imposes itself on the city with its crisp snow caps.&nbsp; The scene is perfect - La Paz stunning.&nbsp; It doesn't need sights - somewhat luckily as it doesn't have many to offer.&nbsp; It needs nothing more than to be and to exhibit its natural beauty.&nbsp; It is charming.&nbsp; Breaktaking in many ways...Chapter 4 - TiticacaAt 4000m above sea level, the water meets the clouds.&nbsp; They hover downward seemingly descending to touch the scared waters of Lake Titicaca - like a pilgrimageto the most holy lands.&nbsp; And then, once they near the end of their journey, they reach down to the sacred waters and drink, filling themselves with the godly body.&nbsp; The sky grows black, the stars illuminating, cueing the clowds to return the water with fury,&nbsp;in the&nbsp;morphed form of hail, snow and icy rain.&nbsp; Ice pebbles fill the streets of the small town of Copacabana, the scene one of white pointillism.&nbsp; They melt and filter back to the sacred lake.&nbsp; The pilgrimage begins again...Lake Titicaca feels mystical.&nbsp; Part of it is, no doubt, due to the romantic notions often experienced by a traveler.&nbsp; But there's something about the banks of the lake, the way it lightly laps and the clouds floating just above, looking out towards the birthplace of the sun and moon in Incan legend, the intense sound of nothing ness compounding the eeire, mystical aura of the Lago Titicaca.&nbsp; The Island of the Sun, in particular, sits ominously on the southern edge of the lake, everything quiet - the waters and the wind over its peaks, the sun gleaminng down harshly on those who dare to enter its island.&nbsp; It is the birthplace of Incan legend and, more to the point, it feels like it.&nbsp; And then at night.&nbsp; Oh the night.&nbsp; The spectacle outdoes itself.&nbsp; The Incan stars brave the chilling winds, glittering magnificently, unspoiled by civilisation, engaging in a silent, reflective conversation with the lake, obstensibly about beauty.&nbsp; This part of the world has me spellbound...Chapter 5 - The Top 5So, to the Top 5.&nbsp; As I've earlier indicated, altitude is a fucking killer.&nbsp; Like a constant hangover combined with both vertigo and motion sickness.&nbsp; And then the hallucinations.&nbsp; There have een many altitude (and coca) related hallucinations.&nbsp; Here are the top 5.5.&nbsp; In La Paz, the city as per normal, except for one minor difference:&nbsp; it has a giant land whale which lives underground and surfaces to eat humans whole.&nbsp; It is after Djana.&nbsp; I must save her...4.&nbsp; Witches have cursed one half of the bed.&nbsp; I hate it when&nbsp;they do that.&nbsp; Do not cross to the cursed side or there will be trouble - she will take my coke and my chocolate.&nbsp; This cannot happen...3.&nbsp; I have found a perfect bathroom in Bolivia.&nbsp; It is clean.&nbsp; It doesn't smell.&nbsp; It even has toilet paper.&nbsp; There are no signs of the previous persons use.&nbsp; I press a button and it flushes.&nbsp; But I am in Bolivia.&nbsp; This is clearly a grand hallucination...2.&nbsp; Sitting in a cafe with Optimus Prime, talking about the current economic downturn in the US.&nbsp; For the record, the autobots and, in particular, Bumblebee, are greatly concerned by the effects of the sub-prime collapse...1.&nbsp; I'm sitting watching a football game.&nbsp; But this is no ordinary football game.&nbsp; This is a Bolivian women's game.&nbsp; 5-a-side at the Copacabana Coliseum.&nbsp; All of the women are wearing their Bowler Hats.&nbsp; And their 3 traditional skirts that they wear everyday.&nbsp; And all of their other usual attire.&nbsp; But they are playing football.&nbsp; One rather rotund woman takes the ball with the outside of her foot, brings it down on her breast and lashes it top corner.&nbsp; Is this a hallucination or is this really happening?&nbsp; I ask Djana.&nbsp; She sees it too.&nbsp; Can this be real?To Peru.&nbsp; And the white city of Arequipa...
]]> Todo bem... — Rio de Janeiro, State of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1210450920/tpod.html http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1210450920/tpod.html#comments Travel Blogs http://www.travelpod.com/travel-blog-entries/marktjhung/4/1210450920/tpod.html Mon, 12 May 2008 01:04:22 -0400 South America of the Devil of the Death from Hell on Ice...
Rio de Janeiro, State of Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

Cascading down from the heavens, Rio's favelas flat in the night sky, gliterring like stars, demanding attention.&nbsp; Over the famous Ipanema and Copacabana beahces, they cluster and cling to the precipitous, dramatic drops of the landscape.&nbsp; By night, the mesmerising sight obscures the reality of these amazing favelas.&nbsp; By day, favelas are a different animal, transformed into an intimidating, formidable animal - a no-go zone for the majority of the population.&nbsp; The reputation of favelas is one of constant, violent crime, gun shootouts and gangland warfare, drugs, and severe poverty - all which may be true to some extent and which is perpetuated by much of the Brazilian middle class.&nbsp; For those not familiar with the concept, favelas are shanty towns essentially - illegal dwellings constructed out of anything and everything, long ignored and not recognised by the government, which have spiralled out of control in the last 20 years.&nbsp; A windnig labyrinth of small houses climb atop one anothe ad hoc, wherever a little bit of space can be found, usually on public land, each house protected after 5 years under adverse possession laws.&nbsp; Mystifylingly, the thrown together constructions, many without running water and electricity, cast a shadow over some fo the richest postcodes in Brazil, the proximinty at which the rich and the poor live purely astonishing.&nbsp; 60 tonnes of rubbish are thrown into the street each day.&nbsp; The drug lords control the streets, somewhat ironically maintining order over what could otherwise be a scene of chaos (police have little influence in a place where the black market reign supreme - such bloodshed would be needless).&nbsp; Fascinating.&nbsp; But favelas are not filled with destruction, crime and misery.&nbsp; The people of the favelas - in Rio accounting for 20% or approximately 1 million people - are what people think of when they think of Brazilians - joyous, vivacious, loving of life.&nbsp; They are Carnival - all of the major contributors to the world's greatest annual party being samba schools from favelas.&nbsp; As we walked through the streets of Rocinha, Brazil's largest favela with approximately 160,000 residents, on&nbsp;a tour, people smiled and waved whilst children played football in the the street; a beer was topped at the corner bar as some local teenage girls browsed jewellery at the store next door.&nbsp; Over the road, a man offers us some DVDs and over his shoulder, just a matter of metres away, down the cliff, a lady relaxes in her condominium pool.&nbsp; These scenes highlight one of the most fascinating and tragic aspects of Brazil - the ever-grwoing divide between rich and poor.&nbsp; But in such incredibly close proximity.&nbsp; Where else in the world are the countries poorest people - indeed some of the poorest in the world we've been told - separated literally by only a road from the elite class.&nbsp; Mansions and slums are next door neighbours in Rio, the residents of the favelas knowing all too well what they do not have.&nbsp; There is much to understand about favelas&nbsp;and so many related issues - education, politics, the cultural cycles that are maintained here - that I do not.&nbsp; But to my mind, it is the most intruiging part of this wonderful city...Favelas do not help Rio's reputation for being dangerous.&nbsp; It's dangerous.&nbsp; Damn dangerous.&nbsp; That's what everyone will tell you.&nbsp; Don't draw any attention to yourself.&nbsp; Don't do anything that will make you stnad out.&nbsp; If you do, you're fucked.&nbsp; As good as dead.&nbsp; Dog meat.&nbsp; Six feet under.&nbsp; Pushing up daisies.&nbsp; All that shit.&nbsp; That's what everyone will tell ya.&nbsp; Wander around Copacabana at night and you'll get mugged for sure.&nbsp; No doubt.&nbsp; The criminals from the favelas will come down and sweep the streets of Rio at night with raids of death, taking everything and anything, of value or otherwise.&nbsp; That's what we have heard.&nbsp; Rio comes with a steep reputation for danger.&nbsp; It would probably say that 'danger' is its middle name.&nbsp; And, although Rio far from lives up to its dangerous reputation, favelas included, there is, no doubt, a certain atmosphere that pervades on the streets of every Barro - a feeling as though you are being watched, monitored, as a potential victim of petty crime.&nbsp; It keeps you on edge to an ever greater extent than general travel in South America, and brings into question judgment call after judgment call - do we continue to ascent to the magnificent Convent of Santa Teresa with those didgy guys around?, is Botofogobeach the safest place to be right now?&nbsp; Tio can be a pretty scary place, the general atmoshpere and its reputation combining to ensure that I always carried a spare pair of underwear in my bag in case of an emergency.&nbsp; Even moeso considering how hard it is not to stand out in Rio.&nbsp; Being a chino / japanese / korea ensures constant hassle.&nbsp; But, in addition, a couple this damn good looking can't help but attract attention.&nbsp; No incident to report thankfully, but we probably need to do some washing...Rio's reputation for being dangerous is outdone only by its reputation for being utterly, magnificently beautiful.&nbsp; I've talked about it before.&nbsp; THis second visit to this spectacular city has confirmed its position, in my mind, as one of the world's most visually stunning cities.&nbsp; Its beauty is everywhere you care to look - in the overwhelmed crescents of Ipanema and Copcabana beach; in the dramatic cista from Corcovado and the Sugar Loaf; on the banks of the Lago de Freitas; in the charming, winding cobbles of Santa Teresa Hill; though the smoke of the flares in the Maracana stadium; in the crumbling disrepair and the slow rejuvination of Lapa.&nbsp; And from all of thoese points, and indeed almost everywhere in the city, Jesus observes from above, arms outstretched, forgiving all that is observed?&nbsp; Perhaps.&nbsp; This is, of course, as the movie describes it, the City of God.Rio is, no doubt, a visually immaculate city.&nbsp; But on this visit, I have been far more captivated by the myriad issues and questions behind its superficial perfection, making this city stimulating so far beyond what can be experiecned on the face of a postcard...So, to the Top 5.&nbsp; Fashion and style is a funny thing in Rio.&nbsp; Somehow, the residents of Rio have cultivated a reputation as all being beautiful, sexy and immacuately presented in every way.&nbsp; The reputation is far from the reality.&nbsp; So much so, in fact, that I feel compelled to reveal the top 5 matters of personal appearance that had me saying 'what the fuck'?5.&nbsp; Clear high heels:&nbsp; the women of Rio, in particular, are known for being feminine, spectacular and sexy.&nbsp; But what of their choice of footwear?&nbsp; On general examinationm, it appeared that high heels were extremely popular.&nbsp; But not just any heels - clear, transparent heels, often with things inside.&nbsp; Inside.&nbsp; Madness.&nbsp; Clear heels?&nbsp; Not cool.&nbsp; Especially if you are not employed in the world's oldest profession.4.&nbsp; Body hair:&nbsp; It's not called the Brazilian for nothing.&nbsp; Surely it comes from Brazil.&nbsp; Strangely enough, despite this reputation, hair removal does not seem to be practised in Berazil.&nbsp;&nbsp;Of particular note were many of the women, potentially of african descent, who had blonde body hair?&nbsp; And a lot of it?&nbsp; What the fuck?&nbsp; Bleaching or natural?&nbsp; Either way.&nbsp; Way too much.&nbsp; And way too blonde for a black woman.&nbsp; 'What the fuck'?3.&nbsp; Paunches of death:&nbsp; the man paunch is alive and well in Brazil.&nbsp; Indeed, some of the finest in the world are on display here.&nbsp; Brilliant enough, in fact, to have some of our paunchiest union leaders envious with the amount of overhang on display.&nbsp; The finest example?&nbsp; A guy working at the tram station, sitting, wearing a T-shirt with a massive smiley face on it which perfectly covered his enormous, probably deadly, paunch.&nbsp; Brilliant...2.&nbsp; Cockjocks:&nbsp; On the first day we arrived in Brazil, we went to a petshop and happened tom come across quite a few budgerigars.&nbsp; I wondered how they got them to Brazil.&nbsp; A trip to the beaches of Rio solved the mystery.&nbsp; The illegal smuggling of budgies in men's bathing suits is seemingly rampant in Rio. Everywhere you look - playing volleyball, football, swimming, jogging - the men of Rio are smuggling budgies, no doubt making some money on the side.&nbsp; Cockjocks?&nbsp; Not cool.&nbsp; Not cool at all...1.&nbsp; Cockjocks with sneakers:&nbsp; Cockjokcs are one thing.&nbsp; On the beach, having a swim, is alsmost acceptable.&nbsp; But Braziliands seem to have a philosophy that if I'm within a kilometre of a beach (which you always are in Rio), it is perfectly acceptable to wear bathers.&nbsp; And it is perfectly accetpable to wear your bathers during exercise as well.&nbsp; And so produces the finest 'what the fuck' look of Rio.&nbsp; Cockjocks with sneakers.&nbsp; Running along the beach, or down the the backstreets of Copacabana, or maybe down the main drag of Leblon, or in front of the metro at Botafogo, they are there.&nbsp; Socks pulled up.&nbsp; Shiny white runners on.&nbsp; Speedos.&nbsp; Nothing else.&nbsp; A good look.&nbsp; Not wait - a great look...To 4000m above sea elvel.&nbsp; La Paz, Bolivia...
]]>