Well I will tell you this, right now I am confined to my room, as the cleaning ladies are here and I feel too awkward to go outside and socialise with them while they clean up our substantial mess. Especially because yesterday they found my "hidden" stash of stolen teabags from the hotel buffet. And my mini bread rolls. Saddo.
So I find myself having a wee bit of spare time on my hands, and figure it would be a good time to write down some of the Brazil trip experiences.
It started off with a lovely walk down the giant hill to the bus stop with my 1000kg bag on my back. I legged it into town and got into a cab with a fantastic cab driver, we had a wee chat about the merits of Brazil, its hot, it’s not Chile, that sort of thing. We even shared a sort of joke, although im not really sure what we were laughing about, on account of a fact that I didn’t actually understand what he said. However, I managed to bluff my way through and we got to the airport. After a total joke of a flight to Santiago (less than a hour), I chose the taxi driver who looked least like he wanted to kill me and steal my things (oh the dangers of the big city), and headed off to meet Paul. We reached the hotel, a little place located down rapist alley, and I made my way inside. After some over excited hellos, we me delighted to hear not only a New Zealand accent, but a Waikato one at that, Paul and I decided to head off in search of some beer and food. The first three bars we went past were packed to the gills with men. We found one that looked like a possible hit and went in. Less than a second after our arrival, some bloke with a few too many piscos in him jumped up and enthusiastically kicked over a couple of chairs swearing and shouting in Espanol. Although we weren’t sure that we were the reason for this crazed outburst, we decided it was safer to leave the wee man to it and search for our goods else where.
After about 2 hours of sleep, we got up at 3.30am and headed off to the airport. After check in, we decided to get a feed for our troubles, and made tracks to the steak house. I’ve always been under the impression that theres never too early a time for a hamburger, but apparently 4am in the morning is going too far, even for this seasoned junk food eater.
After touchdown in Sao Paulo we had 3 hours to kill, so we loitered around the Mcflurry section of McDonalds a good while. We then went to find our boarding room, where we spent another good few hours. The highlight of this time was 3 old SAm men, one of which being slightly more than rotund, sporting a cowboy hat and a boy scouts scarf. It was he who bust out at the eleventh hour a wee harmonica, and proceeded to play a jaunty tune that had Paulie and I in hysterics, and also lifted our waning spirits. After this event came “the great exodus”, as it seems that our entire plane had been seated in the the wrong boarding lounge. A right debacle took place not long after, as the whole plane load of passengers lifted their weary bums and descended to the correct boarding room. We were then crammed onto a bus, packed in like battery hens, cheek to cheek with the person next to you (in my case it was some woman’s face cheek next to my arse cheek), and once we were off loaded onto the plane we were on our way to Florianopolis. I burst an eardrum on the decent into Flopa, which wasn’t ideal, and also made me feel like an old person “What? You’ve got to speak into my good ear”. Hopefully the damage is not permanent, I guess only time and the number of people who have to repeat what they say to me will be able to tell me that.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Slow walkers, where do you get off? (Often nowhere because you are to slow to reach your destination).
Evening blog followers...
My rapid demise from a taxpaying, university educated, seasoned traveller to a dole bludging, unemployed teacher who is forced to lead a life of socialising, eating and watching copious amounts of dvds, has all and all made for a rather uninteresting lifestyle and certainly not one worth honouring with a blog. However, i'm doing it anyway baaaaby!
Although I thought my trials and tribulations would be solved upon return to the land of the free/English speaking, it seems that Chile was a mere prelude to the pains to come, and this week I feel the focus needs to lie upon the S.W's- Slow Walkers as they are more commonly known.
So there you are, in Westfield Chartwell, and all you want to do is make a purchase- (Insert purchase here), and then potentially head down to the foodcourt for a tantalising meal of some variety.
You head off in search of your destination, when suddenly BAM! You are stopped dead in your tracks by any number of people (and you only need about two for this to be put into effect), who are unwittingly hogging the entire walkway. The number of times that I have nearly done a "fall on top of and crush" combo because I have misjudged the speed (or "slow" as I like to call it) of these walkers is getting to the point of insanity. One of these days I'm going to wake up with a medical bill for some granny who I bodyslammed while simply trying to make my way down to Glassons for a 2 for $15 deal on the singlets rack.
Case and point in this here example- The other day at Chartys, I was involved in an escalator pile up. An escalator pile up you ask? Whats that? I'll tell you what. A simple escalator ride gone wrong is what it is, and all due to the slow paced mover at the drop off who is NOT keeping up their end of the good citizen bargain and is taking the escalator and life in general at 500metres per hour. Anyhow, the situation got messy, with myself and a number of other good citizens having to do the glide and spring- basically performed by firmly placing one foot on the solid floor at the end of the escalator and using this foot to propel yourself into a spring to either the left or right, to avoid a lethal pile up with the Honourable Good Sir Slow Walker who is still meandering off dead ahead. I'm glad to say in this Escalator Pile Up, or EPU as I call them, was only a narrow miss- I managed to perform the glide and spring with only centimetres to spare- God forbid if the Slow Walker had been wearing a woolly jumper.
This blog rant or brant, as it here forth shall be known by, is almost over, only before I go, know this. Before you go judging me and thinking that I am only targeting old or physically disabled people here with the slow walking conundrum, its necessary you know that I have seen people of every social class, ethnicity, religion, age, sex and physical ability commit this offence.
Remember, its not where you walk, its HOW you walk.
Hope you enjoy the first of the new-age posts, feedback would be a joy, even if its only to tell me you don't like it (haters, back off).
LOVE AINS xox
My rapid demise from a taxpaying, university educated, seasoned traveller to a dole bludging, unemployed teacher who is forced to lead a life of socialising, eating and watching copious amounts of dvds, has all and all made for a rather uninteresting lifestyle and certainly not one worth honouring with a blog. However, i'm doing it anyway baaaaby!
Although I thought my trials and tribulations would be solved upon return to the land of the free/English speaking, it seems that Chile was a mere prelude to the pains to come, and this week I feel the focus needs to lie upon the S.W's- Slow Walkers as they are more commonly known.
So there you are, in Westfield Chartwell, and all you want to do is make a purchase- (Insert purchase here), and then potentially head down to the foodcourt for a tantalising meal of some variety.
You head off in search of your destination, when suddenly BAM! You are stopped dead in your tracks by any number of people (and you only need about two for this to be put into effect), who are unwittingly hogging the entire walkway. The number of times that I have nearly done a "fall on top of and crush" combo because I have misjudged the speed (or "slow" as I like to call it) of these walkers is getting to the point of insanity. One of these days I'm going to wake up with a medical bill for some granny who I bodyslammed while simply trying to make my way down to Glassons for a 2 for $15 deal on the singlets rack.
Case and point in this here example- The other day at Chartys, I was involved in an escalator pile up. An escalator pile up you ask? Whats that? I'll tell you what. A simple escalator ride gone wrong is what it is, and all due to the slow paced mover at the drop off who is NOT keeping up their end of the good citizen bargain and is taking the escalator and life in general at 500metres per hour. Anyhow, the situation got messy, with myself and a number of other good citizens having to do the glide and spring- basically performed by firmly placing one foot on the solid floor at the end of the escalator and using this foot to propel yourself into a spring to either the left or right, to avoid a lethal pile up with the Honourable Good Sir Slow Walker who is still meandering off dead ahead. I'm glad to say in this Escalator Pile Up, or EPU as I call them, was only a narrow miss- I managed to perform the glide and spring with only centimetres to spare- God forbid if the Slow Walker had been wearing a woolly jumper.
This blog rant or brant, as it here forth shall be known by, is almost over, only before I go, know this. Before you go judging me and thinking that I am only targeting old or physically disabled people here with the slow walking conundrum, its necessary you know that I have seen people of every social class, ethnicity, religion, age, sex and physical ability commit this offence.
Remember, its not where you walk, its HOW you walk.
Hope you enjoy the first of the new-age posts, feedback would be a joy, even if its only to tell me you don't like it (haters, back off).
LOVE AINS xox
Tuesday, December 21, 2010
Letters to Beth- A solo journey to Pucòn.
So apparently- in a fairly deranged state I might add- I started writing Bethany Pawson a letter once while I was on a bus on the way to Pucòn, in Chile, around the date of early September. Here-in lies the letter, plus any elaborations/ interesting details I had forgotten to add at the time.
Oh. Em. Gee.
Bethic, I had to write a special edition letter to you, stating the hilariously awkward events preceeding my even leaving my home city on the way to my Pucòn minibreak.
After having a sweet convo with my favourite local Entel (phone company) man, I jumped on a random bus into the city. Now heres Chile for you, the local city buses don't take you directly to the intercity bus station, infact they don't even take you to the street its on, they take you to a one way back road about 2 streets over. Awkwardly enough, I didn't even know where this street was, I'd never been there before but was keen to give it a shot. So here I am, bussing along, minding my own, when suddenly I wildly panic and think that I've over shot my mark and am waay past the termy drop off. So all of a dither I flap my hands at the bus driver and get off the bus, only to find myself in a dodgy area lacking in people but full of crumbiling plaster bungalows and a sea of beige apartment buildings.
I loiter, looking like a damn fool, for approx 3 minutes, while trying to figure out which way I should go,- maybe that beige building looks familiar, have I seen that crumbling bungalow before?? Eventually- after realising, no, that wasn't where I needed to be, I spied a man wheeling a trolley suitcase down the road and took off after him in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the land of milk and honey, or in anycase, the bus station. Keep in mind I had only a half hour until the last bus of the day left, and I had no idea of how far I was from the station. While I speed-walked, I entertained a fantasy about what I would do if I missed my bus. I decided there was no way I was to go home with egg on my face and a story of "I couldn't find the bus station and therefore am not going away for the weekend", so in the event of the worst case scenario coming true, I was to find a hostel in Concepciòn, and hole up there for the weekend. "yes" I thought to myself "Who would know? I'll buy a postcard with a picture of Pucòn on it, no one will know I haven't actually been..."
After a good 7 minutes of light jogging, I decided to go in for the kill and summoned all my courage, (and all my Spanish), and blurted out to a passing stranger "DISCULPE!, eeeer, es esta Callao? Nessecita el bus terminal por favor!" The woman looked shocked, I wasn't sure if it was due to my obvious lack of orientaion, or my poor spanish, or my sweaty brow, but it was clear that within seconds she had taken this poor wretch on as her own, and I was as good as in with a personal guide. She lead me on to some other street, and as we walked we talked, it even turned out that she knew enough English to ask me my name and where I was from, too which I was hesitant in replying to, least she got the idea all New Zealanders had such poor internal GPS situations as I do. She got me onto another bus, and then gave the driver instructions on when to release me from the bus, while strictly stating that in no way was I to get off earlier than the stop I was destined for. She then bid me farewell, and I could only stammer a classic "Gracias" at her kindess.
I finally reached my bus, and here you would think it was time to relax no? Well Beth, you couldn't be more wrong. Firstly some old guy, who was pretending (?) not to understand my Spanish, was sitting in my seat and wouldn't get out, so I had to go and sit somewhere else. For the remainder of that 4 hour leg I had to play hot potatoe everytime a new person got on the bus and claimed their rightful seat, while everyone else on the bus stared at me in contempt, the foolish gringa who doesn't sit in her allocated seat.
A wrong stop and a taxi later, I get on my connecting bus to Pucòn, where I put on some music to help wile away the hours before I reach my destination. A slow, haunting tune comes through my headphones, and the opening strains of "The deliverence song" from the Prince of Eygpt grace my ears. I'm not sure if you have seen the film, but it has a fantastic soundtrack, and I for one get very into my music...anyway, I found myself growing weepy at the saddening situation of Moses' mother, the fact that she had to give away her child like that, "wow" I thought as my eyes quietly filled with tears "I feel like now I can understand a mothers pain, to give up your child like that, why it would be awful!" I mangaged to keep my hormonal emotion under wraps, and thought I was away laughing, when suddenly "When you Believe" (from the same soundtrack), bursts through my buds, and I'm again swept away in an emotional river of tears as I think of the joy that the Isrelites must have felt at their long awaited freedom. When destination was reached, I slunk off the bus, still feeling quite ashamed at my hysterical outbursts of heartful emotion. I headed for the hostel I had booked, only to find that there was no way into this Fort Knox style wooden lodge. I fumed and despared at the gate, desperately trying to ring the number that Hostelbookers had given me for contacting this hostel. After about 5 minutes of standing awkwardly on a dusty sidestreet, an old man came up to me, said the equalvalent of "need help?" in Spanish, and then reached through the gate to open it, kiddie-lock style from the other side. I don't know if he had often seen other travellers struggle with the maximum security like fortress, or if he was just taking pity on a poor blonde girl who was obviously at her wits end, but it was a final kindness that Iwas truely grateful for.
Anyway Bethy, I must be off, I've made some English speaking buddies so I'm going to go and make my 80 cent pasta and talk to them about the pros and cons of South America. Can't wait to come home and tell you more about my trip!
Love
Ainsley xo
Oh. Em. Gee.
Bethic, I had to write a special edition letter to you, stating the hilariously awkward events preceeding my even leaving my home city on the way to my Pucòn minibreak.
After having a sweet convo with my favourite local Entel (phone company) man, I jumped on a random bus into the city. Now heres Chile for you, the local city buses don't take you directly to the intercity bus station, infact they don't even take you to the street its on, they take you to a one way back road about 2 streets over. Awkwardly enough, I didn't even know where this street was, I'd never been there before but was keen to give it a shot. So here I am, bussing along, minding my own, when suddenly I wildly panic and think that I've over shot my mark and am waay past the termy drop off. So all of a dither I flap my hands at the bus driver and get off the bus, only to find myself in a dodgy area lacking in people but full of crumbiling plaster bungalows and a sea of beige apartment buildings.
I loiter, looking like a damn fool, for approx 3 minutes, while trying to figure out which way I should go,- maybe that beige building looks familiar, have I seen that crumbling bungalow before?? Eventually- after realising, no, that wasn't where I needed to be, I spied a man wheeling a trolley suitcase down the road and took off after him in a direction that I hoped would lead me to the land of milk and honey, or in anycase, the bus station. Keep in mind I had only a half hour until the last bus of the day left, and I had no idea of how far I was from the station. While I speed-walked, I entertained a fantasy about what I would do if I missed my bus. I decided there was no way I was to go home with egg on my face and a story of "I couldn't find the bus station and therefore am not going away for the weekend", so in the event of the worst case scenario coming true, I was to find a hostel in Concepciòn, and hole up there for the weekend. "yes" I thought to myself "Who would know? I'll buy a postcard with a picture of Pucòn on it, no one will know I haven't actually been..."
After a good 7 minutes of light jogging, I decided to go in for the kill and summoned all my courage, (and all my Spanish), and blurted out to a passing stranger "DISCULPE!, eeeer, es esta Callao? Nessecita el bus terminal por favor!" The woman looked shocked, I wasn't sure if it was due to my obvious lack of orientaion, or my poor spanish, or my sweaty brow, but it was clear that within seconds she had taken this poor wretch on as her own, and I was as good as in with a personal guide. She lead me on to some other street, and as we walked we talked, it even turned out that she knew enough English to ask me my name and where I was from, too which I was hesitant in replying to, least she got the idea all New Zealanders had such poor internal GPS situations as I do. She got me onto another bus, and then gave the driver instructions on when to release me from the bus, while strictly stating that in no way was I to get off earlier than the stop I was destined for. She then bid me farewell, and I could only stammer a classic "Gracias" at her kindess.
I finally reached my bus, and here you would think it was time to relax no? Well Beth, you couldn't be more wrong. Firstly some old guy, who was pretending (?) not to understand my Spanish, was sitting in my seat and wouldn't get out, so I had to go and sit somewhere else. For the remainder of that 4 hour leg I had to play hot potatoe everytime a new person got on the bus and claimed their rightful seat, while everyone else on the bus stared at me in contempt, the foolish gringa who doesn't sit in her allocated seat.
A wrong stop and a taxi later, I get on my connecting bus to Pucòn, where I put on some music to help wile away the hours before I reach my destination. A slow, haunting tune comes through my headphones, and the opening strains of "The deliverence song" from the Prince of Eygpt grace my ears. I'm not sure if you have seen the film, but it has a fantastic soundtrack, and I for one get very into my music...anyway, I found myself growing weepy at the saddening situation of Moses' mother, the fact that she had to give away her child like that, "wow" I thought as my eyes quietly filled with tears "I feel like now I can understand a mothers pain, to give up your child like that, why it would be awful!" I mangaged to keep my hormonal emotion under wraps, and thought I was away laughing, when suddenly "When you Believe" (from the same soundtrack), bursts through my buds, and I'm again swept away in an emotional river of tears as I think of the joy that the Isrelites must have felt at their long awaited freedom. When destination was reached, I slunk off the bus, still feeling quite ashamed at my hysterical outbursts of heartful emotion. I headed for the hostel I had booked, only to find that there was no way into this Fort Knox style wooden lodge. I fumed and despared at the gate, desperately trying to ring the number that Hostelbookers had given me for contacting this hostel. After about 5 minutes of standing awkwardly on a dusty sidestreet, an old man came up to me, said the equalvalent of "need help?" in Spanish, and then reached through the gate to open it, kiddie-lock style from the other side. I don't know if he had often seen other travellers struggle with the maximum security like fortress, or if he was just taking pity on a poor blonde girl who was obviously at her wits end, but it was a final kindness that Iwas truely grateful for.
Anyway Bethy, I must be off, I've made some English speaking buddies so I'm going to go and make my 80 cent pasta and talk to them about the pros and cons of South America. Can't wait to come home and tell you more about my trip!
Love
Ainsley xo
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