No Love for the Bus

Imagine my pleasant surprise the other day, when I opened my laptop and the screen actually turned on. It turns out that whatever connects the screen panel to the keyboard panel is broken. Sometimes, I can open the computer to a cool 50º before the backlight cuts out. Other times, it fails to come on at all. Regardless, that means there's a functioning piece of tech behind the faulty screen. Even more luckily, I found a place to bunker down for a couple of weeks and gather myself; I am now writing this on a mixture of a monitor and a half-open laptop. Hang in there, Macbook.

Death, Taxes, and Taking the Bus

If I added up all the time I've spent on buses in the last four months or so traveling in South America, I feel confident that it adds up to almost one full week by now. It's the fate of all long-term travelers to come face-to-face with the notion of a long-haul bus trip, especially in the budget travel corners of the world like Latin America and Southeast Asia. The buses in Latin America tend to do their best to assuage the discomfort of anyone (both citizens and foreigners) sitting in a single seat for, sometimes, over 24 hours - to very little avail. Despite this, there have been some aspects of bus travel that I've come to enjoy as my rear end slowly adapts to the shape of the seats here. But anyone that claims the bus as their supreme form of transportation is either an overly-egoistic budget traveler or just a perverse liar. You only take the bus because you have to. No one loves the bus.

The primary form of transport within the majority of the nations I've visited has necessitated the use of the bus over air or train travel. Natural landscapes down here clash with any efforts toward public infrastructure like a railroad. Forget airplane travel too, as budget airlines still haven't taken hold much within or between nations down here. It's because of this lack of options, that everyone resorts to the bus. They're cheaper most of the time, and the times they're not, there isn't much of another option anyways. Buying a bus ticket is like spinning a roulette wheel. No one company is the same, and it's rare to travel on the same one more than once. That wheel dictates almost all parts of the upcoming bus journey such as whether the 13-hour overnight bus from Salta to Córdoba will have reclining seats, whether the air conditioning will be bone-chillingly too high or so non-existent that one arrives at their destination a stinking puddle of sweat, and whether one does or does not have an unshaven man, off-his-lid, yelling at you in a foreign language from the row behind.

At least I've been forced to study...

That all being said, I like to think that one of the best ways to respect a host culture is to live as closely to the average resident as possible. Naturally, as privileged travelers, this is never really possible. But taking efforts to drink the same tap water, eat the same street food, speak a few phrases of the local language, and suffer the same stop-start bus ride as the cattle farmer in the next seat over are small ways to demonstrate a level of curiosity and care toward a host culture. These experiences tend to tune my perspective a bit differently in terms of other travel "mishaps". Sure, luxuries like airline travel tend to feel less so like luxuries in the face of constant cancellations or a cross-country flight with an unnecessary layover. And yeah, those do suck. At the end of the day though, at least it's not on a bus.

It's Like Argentina, Without the Extremes

I spent a rather short stint in Uruguay recently. Eight days to be exact. That hardly warrants me generalizing the nation as a whole here, but I'm going to do so anyways. Generalizations, after all, are kind of what make the travel writing world go 'round.

Uruguay is tucked tightly between Argentina and Brazil; this geography is somewhat representative of its political history too. In the past, the nation sat in a bit of a tug-of-war between the Spanish and Portuguese colonial territories. Skipping ahead a few centuries and forgoing some dull historical details, I found modern-day Uruguay much closer to Argentina than Brazil. Just about every person walks the streets with a thermos tucked under one arm and a maté filled with yerba in the other hand. The Spanish accent/dialect is more similar between the two nations than any other in Latin America. Hell, they even both have a distinct form of barbeque (asado) not reflected really anywhere else. The only aspect that made me feel like I was in a different place was best said in the words of my Couchsurfing host the first night I stepped off my boat from Buenos Aires to Montevideo: "Uruguay is basically Argentina, without any of the extremes." And, meaning no disrespect to my Uruguayan friends, it sort of made sense. I did feel like I was in Argentina most of the time. Except I felt a bit safer. And people yelled less. The only extreme seemed to be the cost of living, which explains my eight-day stint. For the record too, I prefer the extremities of Argentina any day.

My time in Uruguay came in two chapters, both fittingly involving the coast. I say "fittingly" because 95% of the population in the country live in or around urban centers, almost all of which are located on the coast. In Piriápolis, I learned my first bit of Uruguayan culture as my friends reassured me that it was completely safe to leave my bag sitting on the beach as we walked down the coast. I was apprehensive, appropriately, as leaving your bag unattended on a beach is probably among the top five things you shouldn't do in Latin America. Alas, I had no other option due to extenuating circumstances; and to my surprise, my bag was completely intact an hour or so later.

Hiking the hills of Piriápolis

Piriápolis itself also had an entertaining history, involving the founder Francisco Piria and his love for alchemy. A wealthy businessman who studied in Italy in his early years, Piria bought the land of what is today Piriápolis and began constructing a town completely revolved around tourism. The idea was to market the town as the supreme, health destination for Argentinians traveling to Uruguay. Among his promises was an air that could bring bodily equilibrium and water that would increase longevity given one drank and bathed in it enough. Remarkably, it worked. Piria successfully attracted throes of Argentinian tourists over the years and ballooned his fortunes even further. With excess cash, he built properties across the nation, including a castle in the hills of Piriápolis and another home in the middle of the capital, Montevideo. Today, that home is a museum, donated by Piria in his last will and testament. Generous? Perhaps. The only catch is that Piria reserves the right to reclaim his property and home the day he resurrects from the dead (as a result of his alchemy naturally). Fair deal in the eyes of the city.

Further up the coast, I made my way to Cabo Polonio, a secluded fishing village cut off from the world by a lack of roads, power, and internet. At least that was what I was told by a friend in passing. As it turned out, the only way to get to the town was indeed by way of a converted box truck with stadium seats corrugated to the top taking me over sand dunes, through a national park, and along the beach. The bit about an absence of power was partially true. Once night falls in Cabo Polonio, it's best to hope for a full moon, as it's the only way to navigate the winding sand paths. Candles placed in recycled gallon jugs light some main paths, but the majority leave one up to chance and a rapidly developed night-vision. That's not to say that Cabo Polonio is entirely without power though. Each restaurant and lodging had some form of a generator or solar-powered electricity for bare "necessities".

Sunset session in Cabo Polonio

Remarkably, this small bit of light each night did little to detract from the heavy darkness of night that would fall on the town following each evening. In wanting to maintain the purity of the experience, I kept my phone flashlight sheathed on my walks home. I'm proud to say too, that not even a few clumsy spills into the marshes as a result ruined the affair. As for the bit about no internet, that part turned out to be quite wrong. As it happens, the lack of internet I had heard about from my friend regarding Cabo Polonio actually stemmed more from his choice not to buy a SIM card rather than the absence of a cell tower. While there certainly isn't anywhere in town with WiFi, if you have a SIM card, you have internet. I didn't. And I believe I was better off without it too. Sometimes a forced disconnect is the best (or only possible) one. 

Nightfall in Cabo Polonio

Things That Don't Matter When Vagabonding

When traveling out of one bag for multiple months on end, certain values tend to fade and others become stronger. For me, I've noticed significantly diminishing care in a few aspects of life that meant more back at home.

1. Fashion: This may be a bit tongue in cheek if you've seen my Instagram as of late. Yes, those are the same green, red, and blue shirts I've worn every day traveling. The Argentina jersey was a nice refresh for a bit. I wear one pair of black pants when I want to look decent, and, no matter the occasion, the choice is either rugged sandals or black tennis shoes. I like having style back home or at least thinking I do. But that value has been put to bed lately as I cycle through my bag once a week. It's become a kind of freedom, facing the reality that I just don't have any other options. So why worry about it? I've seen much worse fashion among my other road nomads too. You know who you are, guy who wears baggy, elephant pants after visiting Thailand for five days.

2. Personal Possessions: In the same vein as clothing, my personal possessions have been severely reduced since hitting the road. It's been shockingly not too hard being without the rest of the ancillary items I owned back in the U.S. It's been a cool reality check realizing that I'm not missing much in my pack. My computer (hardly functioning albeit), my workout bands, and my kindle have done wonders. Everything else in it could be thrown out and replaced in a heartbeat too. They say if you can pack a bag for a week, it can last for a lifetime. I'm starting to agree.

3. Time: This is a cliché one when traveling in Latin America, but I believe it to ring true in any corner of the globe. When traveling without much of an itinerary, if any, pressures of time should be at the bottom of the list of concerns. Time is wealth on the road, not cash. While money can always buy different levels of comfort and pay for different types of experiences, time remains the great equalizer. Time moves differently while traveling for long periods of time, indeed, and Latin America does well to compound that effect. Whether it be the arrival of a bus, a friend at a bar, or the check at the end of a meal, lessons come thick and fast down on the southern continent. The primary of this lesson is to understand that being "on time" does not exist. The bus shows up when it wants (and takes as long as it wants when you're on it). Showing up exactly at the time you're set to meet someone means you better be comfortable solo for the next 30 minutes. And if you don't see your waiter for a good while right as it's time for the check, it's not because they're avoiding you. It's just customary to finish a meal unhurried. Yeah, it's pretty inefficient coming from the States. It's got on my nerves from time to time when I first arrived down here too. Now, I've grown to like it. Besides, I don't really have anywhere to be anyways.

If you enjoyed this edition, be sure to share it with someone. My goal is to have this newsletter reach those interested in traveling in an unconventional way. And if not that, be an entertaining narrative of times on the road in South America. Either works for me.

Until next time,