Gatwick Airport: Lazybones

Yes, you read that right. The blog that nobody asked for in the first place, and that nobody pined for in its absence, is back. Though this will be one of my shorter blog posts as a half-hearted re-introduction of Hidden Gabe, it still needs to be said that I have been tragically lazy in recent months, in a manner that is unbecoming of an aspiring journalist.

The days of my weird and wonderful round-the-world trip are long behind us, and I have reluctantly hurtled myself back into the menial trivialities of life in the frighteningly middle-class terraced-house corridors of East Dulwich, I have been ‘travelling’ in a somewhat less explicit manner since then. For instance, I took a trip to Spain in June. It was undeniably a trip that was jam-packed, however it was mostly jam-packed with red-wine-laden family card games, and silently creeping further and further towards a melanoma diagnosis. And who wants to read scheduled updates about how many Catalan words I can mispronounce per day? I sure as hell wouldn’t, even if I had written them myself.

Then there was the Georgia trip. Now that was legitimately too busy and full of insanity for me to even pause for a moment. From winning over a grand on the Europa League final, to necking four glasses of wine with our own taxi drivers halfway along a poorly-maintained mountain road in Kazbegi, to helping clear a highway of debris from a truck that had recently disintegrated after tipping over on a sharp turn, Georgia was fast, furious, and fantastic. Hence, I just didn’t want to miss anything by taking time out to write paragraph after paragraph detailing every single event of the day. I just wanted to live it, not analyse it. Yes, that is as wanky as I have ever sounded on this blog.

And so, in 45 minutes I will be boarding a flight to Kiev, Ukraine. I will be spending 16 days touring the country with my companions Jake and Elliot (who are not on the same flight as me which is a pain), and really at this point I can only speculate on what’s to come. And I’m not going to do that because people don’t want to read blogs that tackle subjects that can only be written about by guessing. Oh wait, I forgot about Brexit.

Expect more soon.

Gabe

 

Delhi: The End

Ladies and Gentlemen, if you have reached this point you’ve done pretty well in all honesty. This will likely be my last post from the road. I’ll almost certainly do a post-trip roundup either once I’m home, or while I’m flying back, but as for reporting from the ground in faraway lands, this is the end.

I almost certainly should have written more this week than I have done, but there are two reasons why I’ve been silent. First off, I’ve been doing literally nothing all day every day for the past week. I’m not sure if you’ve seen (it made some national news), but parts of India have hit 43, 44 and even 45 degrees Celsius. The country is in the grip of a pretty brutal heatwave that has killed over 100 people as of the publication of this post, and Delhi is one of the city to have been hit the hardest. Thus, it’s almost impossible to actually do anything – stepping outside in the day to that heat/smog combo is absolutely unbearable (and dangerous), and stepping out at night is a one way ticket to either lodging yourself in the grill of an erratically swerving tuk-tuk or getting your pockets knifed open by little Artful Dodger street urchins. So I’ve done literally nothing that’s worth reporting. This is also compounded by the fact that exploring Delhi is pretty comfortably at the absolute bottom of my wish list at the moment. And that ties into the other reason I haven’t written anything in a while; I hate it here.

Earlier in the week I had maybe one of the worst experiences of my entire life, and it frustrated and upset me so much that I simply didn’t feel like writing. If not simply for the fact that a blog post at that point would’ve manifested as a seething library of pure hatred, it also struck me that I would probably offend some people in the process. So I decided to wait out my anger and write this post when I had calmed down a little. However, that hasn’t happened, so strap yourselves in for some choice words about my experience in what is, without doubt, my least favourite of all the destinations I’ve ever been to. And yes, I do mean not just on this trip, but ever. This is a sparkling compendium of a list that is splattered with such worldly fecal matter as the awfully soulless Liechtenstein, the offensively jingoistic Nagasaki, the painfully boring Helsinki and the timewarp bomb site of Blackpool. India – or at least the fairly sizeable chunk of it that I’ve seen – has got them all beat. And here’s why:

It gives me absolutely nothing. It may sound entitled or arrogant to say, but literally every country, city, town or village I’ve been to, probably in my entire life, has something to offer me for the effort and money I put into it. I make it to a major capital city, I’ll be greeted by amazing sights, beautiful streets and a great atmosphere. Likewise if I head up into say, the Alps or the Andes – I get amazing vistas combined with stunning, cozy little villages where you can relax and feel at home. India has neither of these.

Let’s start with the cities. I’ve been to three. It’s not that many, admittedly, but I feel I have a right to comment on the state of Indian cities simply because if you’ve been to three major cities in any country, you can safely say you have at least a bit of experience of cities in that country. I dunno, maybe that’s a very small-country Eurocentric angle to take. However, another reason is that – while every single person who ever swooped through this godforsaken city will tell you that Delhi is little more than a stain on the surface of humanity – they’ll also tell you that Jaipur is infinitely more beautiful, and that Agra has an enormous list of amazing historical places to visit. But that’s the thing – it’s all just as crap as the last place. Doesn’t matter which city I’m in – when it comes to India I cannot bring myself to like it, or even acknowledge why others like it, to be honest.

Really, it seems to be an issue with me more than the country itself. Every dreadlock-clad, harem-panted moron from Chertsey I’ve met on this whirlwind adventure of shit has done little other than gush over how awesome this nation is. How its spirituality makes you question your beliefs. How its smiling natives make you question the point of your material wealth. And while we’re at it, listen, you might be doing yoga and know the names of a couple more Hindu gods than the average Brit. You might have changed your name from Peter to Lakshmana and have sworn off alcohol, but that does not mean that I should strive to do the same. You know why I have such faith in my material wealth? Because it affects literally every aspect of my existence. I find it extremely patronising that people think otherwise – sure the little kid in the sidestreets of Agra may grin and wave at the backpack-wearing Westerners walking past their house, but that smile doesn’t hide anything. It doesn’t mean they’re not living in a country with extremely limited access to clean water, or with massive illiteracy rates, or with a population of well over a billion yet also with a life expectancy of 66 – a full 16 years lower than the UK.

That’s one way in which India has influenced my way of thinking; it makes me realise how lucky I am that I had the opportunities I did by being born in the fully developed world. Yes there are obviously very rich people in India, but an insanely large percentage of people – for a nation this large – live well below the poverty line. It makes me realise how much I cherish that exact material wealth that many others choose to reject once they set foot at Indira Gandhi Airport. It’s that wealth that stops me from getting typhoid when I try to drink tap water. It allows me to communicate with other people all over the world at the touch of a button. It allows me access to healthcare services that don’t involve slipping in puddles of blood on the waiting room floor. It allows me to not have to walk past mountains and mountains of garbage at the side of every street. It allows me to have a quiet night in my house in London with a bottle of red wine and Match of the Day. It allows me to even be here – it allows me to come to India and to see what it’s like with my own eyes, and that is the reason I don’t have to unequivocally praise it. Maybe that’s the greatest facet of my material wealth – it offers me a generous and vast arena of travel, from which I can form my own opinions, not just regurgitate the desperate, pseudo-spiritual self-righteous nonsense you pedal in the belief that you’ve broken the glass ceiling of Western society, and ‘seen beyond’ whatever it is about it that you inexplicably chose to turn your back on.

I had so much hope coming to India. It’s one of the world’s largest and greatest societies. Thousands of years old, filled with amazing food, drink, culture and history. I was willing to give it a huge go, even though I knew it might be a bit of hassle. And it’s just disappointed me so so much. For instance, I just went outside to get some dinner, and what happened was just kind of… India in a microcosm, summed up perfectly. First off, it was 11pm and still absolutely agonisingly hot. I made it to the main street and a man on a motorbike came flying down the pavement and almost hit me. Then a tuk-tuk drove into the back of a bus and smashed its own windscreen all over the street, and just kept driving. I got to the corner I needed to turn round, and from somewhere came the most intense smell I’ve ever experienced. India’s full of nasty smells, but this was a whole new ball game – it was like a rotten egg that had been dipped in sulphur and then excavated from a rotting corpse’s digestive tract. It’s the first time a smell has literally made me gag in the street – it was unreal. I turned the corner and the street was covered in unpopped popcorn. I mean literally thousands and thousands of corn kernels. All over the street. And people were just walking and driving through it all.

Random stuff as unexpected and strange as that would be endearing anywhere else, but here’s it’s just another weird annoyance. I barely broke stride before getting accosted by a bunch of children tugging and my shirt and asking for money. Sorry, I don’t have any. They tug again and give it the big puppy-dog eyes. No, I’m sorry. Then again they pull at my clothing and stand in front of me, looking all sad. F*ck off kids, I’m not interested. How many times do I have to say no before you get the picture? Go collect money for your cartel from someone else. And lo! Once they realised I wasn’t giving them anything, they ran off to a nearby restaurant, sat at an outdoor table with a bunch of men they obviously knew and started eating with them. Oh yeah you really needed my money, didn’t you? What a load of bullshit.

I got to the square with the food stalls, approached one of the vendors and asked for a bottle of water. Usually they’re about 20 rupees (20p). He said 100. I just looked at him like ‘how much of a mug do you take me for?’. Without me saying any more, he said ‘OK 70’. So not only did he know I knew he was ripping me off, but he then attempted to ‘be fair’ by offering me a price still way higher than the going rate. I said ’20’. He said ’50’. I said ’20’. He said ’50’. I said ’20’. He said ’45’. I said ’20’. He said ’30’. I said ’20’. He said ‘OK 20’. He handed me the bottle and it was warm. I’m not talking room temperature – this bottle was actually giving off heat, like a hot water bottle. Which I guess, in a sense, is what it was. I handed it back to him and told him where to go. Trying to rip me off and then can’t even be bothered to give me a cold bottle. The stall across the way then gave me one for 20 straight off the bat, and it was freezing cold. That’s all I ask man, just because I don’t look like you doesn’t mean you have to try to steal my money.

That one ten-minute trip was just so filled with stress, filth and unnecessary arguing that it just makes me wonder what anyone gets out of this place. In fact, that’s the exact thought I had around a week ago, so I booked a trip up to the Himalayas, to get away from what the Himalayan people call the ‘Lowlands’ of India – basically all of India that isn’t mountains. However, my experience up there was something I thought I would never ever want to write or even talk about, so utterly terrifying was it. But hey, it makes for a good story I guess, as it affords me a platform to describe the effects of – and bring awareness to the dangers of – AMS: Acute Mountain Sickness.

On Wednesday, I took a brief 55 minute flight to Leh, in the Ladakh region of Jammu & Kashmir, in the extreme north of India. This isn’t the India you see on TV – it’s mountaintop monasteries punctuating a vast, barren desert, surrounded by gigantic jagged mountains and populated by locals that are far closer to the people of Tibet in ethnic makeup and culture than the people of Lowland India. Leh is somewhere I’ve wanted to go for many years. It’d be silent, reflective and a gateway to some of the most spectacular scenery that the entire planet can offer. But it didn’t work out like that in the slightest. 

As every guide book or travel website will tell you, Leh is pretty high. It’s not super crazy insane high, but for a major town it’s pretty high. It’s 3,500m (11,500ft) above sea level. That’s toward the top end of many ski resorts. Above 2,500m the body starts to behave a little differently due to there being less oxygen in the atmosphere. You’ll barely even feel it around that altitude, however. It’s once you push the 3,000m barrier that you’ll actually notice your body having a little bitchfit. Basically, when you go skiing, or when you go to Leh via the road that was closed when I went there, you acclimatise. You gradually deplete your body’s oxygen levels by slowly bringing yourself up to altitude, meaning your body adjusts like the fader on one of those fancy alarm clocks that’s supposed to make waking up super calm. I had to fly there. Delhi is at 100m above sea level, so as a result I jumped 3,400m in just over 50 minutes. Travel articles suggest that you don’t fly if you don’t have to, but if it’s your only option, you just chill in bed feeling a little sleepy and funny for 24-48 hours (depending on who you ask) and you’ll be alright. However, they also make it clear that even if you’re a healthy, fairly slender 24 year-old like me, that does not remove you from the blast zone of the bomb of randomness that is severe altitude sickness. While most people have the ‘feeling a little funny then feeling fine’ progression of symptoms when they quickly ascend, there are some people to whom that doesn’t quite happen. And they get hit by AMS. I’m one of those people.

I arrived at Leh airport at 8am on Wednesday morning. I stepped out into the absolutely freezing oxygen-depleted atmosphere and felt strangely refreshed. It had been so hot in Delhi that this was a welcome change. Being a worrier I spent my time at the baggage belt breathing deeply to try to adjust myself to the surroundings. I felt fine, but then as I turned and walked toward the exit, I suddenly got a little wave of cloudiness, like I’d had a shot of weak alcohol. I thought it was quite funny that I could actually feel the altitude, as I kind of assumed much of it would be bullshit. I hopped in a taxi with a strange man who kept bowing his head in a nervous tick every five seconds, including when going round blind corners and when navigating junctions. I held on for dear life as we drove through Leh to what can only really be described as my disappointment. Sure, the scenery was nice, but the town itself had the same old shitty, run down buildings everywhere, the same piles of rubbish and the same hoards of mangy stray dogs roaming the streets as the Lowlands. I sighed, realising I hadn’t quite ‘escaped’ some of the things I disliked so much about India, but thought I’d be happy if I pushed on, got through these difficult two days of acclimatisation, then got out into the Himalayas to see the local sights, such as the amazing Nubra Valley, Tso Moriri Lake, and the world’s highest paved road, the latter two of which are close to 5,000m in altitude.

I arrived at the only affordable hostel in Leh – the Leh Ecology Hostel – and holy shit what a surprise that was. A large glass-fronted yet extremely old building way outside the town centre, on the side of a hill, overlooking the city, was where I would be staying for the next twelve days. I arrived to total silence, but it was below zero outside and I desperately needed to start my resting, so I approached the house next to the hostel and knocked on the door. Out stepped a little Ladakhi man in his pyjamas, who proceeded to give me a tour of the hostel. There were no heaters. There was no tap water. There was no hot water. There were no toilets. There were no normal plug sockets. There was (almost) no wifi. What the hell had I done. As I completed the tour, my earlier grin having slowly morphed into an emotionally pained grimace, I was led to my room – a wooden box with two twin beds, a lightbulb and nothing else. As he was about to leave, I turned to him and said ‘… Am I the only guest?’, to which he heartily laughed, proclaimed ‘Yes!’, and left, leaving me in an empty building in the Himalayas, 10km from the nearest shops, with no way of charging my phone or contacting the outside world. I got into bed and fell asleep.

I remember having an exceptionally vivid dream where I was drowning, and struggling to breathe, when suddenly, boom. I woke up, jolted upright in bed and realised I wasn’t actually breathing in real life. Its fine, I know sleep apnea occurs at this elevation, I just wasn’t expecting it. I attempted to drift back off to sleep, and after a long struggle of my brain vs my lungs, I managed it. Being affected by 3,500m altitude is extremely normal – it affects 70-80% of people who ascend too quickly to that height. It’s usually a mild headache, a little bit of breathlessness and feeling sleepy. And I knew this. So when I woke up three hours later feeling like I had a bear trap around my chest and a giant air pocket in my brain, I immediately got up out of bed in panic, at which point I then stumbled, banged my head against the wall and had to stand there breathing heavily for five minutes. I went outside to ask the hostel guy for some water, and he took me into the kitchen, where he uncovered a bowl from under a towel filled with boiled tap water that had a layer of strange minerals on the surface. He gave me a glass of it and it was so fresh from this botched pasteurisation that it was still incredibly hot. So when the guide books say drink litres and litres of water, I felt I was falling a little short with a 250ml glass of boiling scumwater.

I headed back to the room, where my laptop and both phones decided to run out of battery. I sat and stared at the wall, when suddenly a strange little shape appeared in my vision. It was like when you stare at the sun or another bright object and it burns into your retina. A strange sort of deformed star appeared in the middle of my vision and wouldn’t go away. Turns out this is the precursor to a retinal hemorrhage, where the blood vessels at the back of your eye expand and put pressure on your optic nerve before rupturing and bleeding into the back of your eye. I just kind of rode it out and fell asleep again, this little imaginary star shape permeating my dreams. Then, problems.

I woke up in the middle of the night and felt like death. I could barely see anything, felt like I was going to vomit, and had a headache that would’ve killed a small cat. It was absolutely insane. By this point I had been there for 20 hours – there is no way my conditioning should’ve been getting worse by this point. I was on a mountain in the Himalayas, alone and freezing cold, genuinely worried that something terrible was going to happen. I had spent a day and a night in a spinning room, trying not to throw up, cut off from the outside world and not being able to see or do anything without either bumping into the wall or collapsing like a wheezing Type II diabetic. It was the worst 24 hours of my life, hands down. So I woke up the hostel guy and asked him to order me a taxi for 6am to head to the airport and buy a ticket for the first flight back out of there. I did not care if it was going to get better if I persevered – right now the £30 to get straight back down from this hellhole was comfortably worth it. Again, I tried to sleep, and somehow managed it in between strange fits of not breathing and feeling like there was a knife in my head.

I headed downstairs to wait for the taxi when the hostel guy appeared. He asked how I was, at which point I said ‘I’m actually feeling terrible. I feel much worse’. Now for my entire time here, this guy had been extremely cavalier about AMS. Everything I said, he’d just go ‘Ahh it’s OK/It’ll be fine/It’s nothing’, but at this point, even he couldn’t help but freak out. His eyes widened, he put his hand on my shoulder and said ‘This is not good. You should feel better by now, not worse. Are you going to the hospital?’. No dude, I’m going to the airport and getting the f*ck outta here. We parted ways and he went back to bed. I knew the taxi would pull up on the other side of the gate into the hostel, so I went to open it. It was locked. The wall surrounding the gate was one of those makeshift bullshit anti-trespasser row of pieces of jagged glass. I was stuck. Still very much unable to walk 10ft without getting out of breath, so what did I do?

I felt too bad about waking up the hostel guy again, so I found a small gap in the glass and – with my giant heavy suitcase in tow – scaled the wall. Feeling like Edmund Hillary scaling Everest, I perched on the top and dropped my bags over the other side just as the taxi arrived. Then I made the mistake of not lowering myself down, but instead just casually jumping down. Something had seemingly gone very wrong with my nervous system in my time here, so I hit the ground only for my knees to give way and I crumpled into a heap in the path of the oncoming taxi. My reaction times were so shit that I couldn’t actually stop my face from hitting the ground. This part of the world is an exceptionally dry desert, so as I impacted the ground, a giant plume of dust kicked up like an atomic mushroom cloud and floated off over the town. Through the headlight-lit dust, the taxi driver came running towards me and helped me up, and with two hands around my shoulders he walked me – looking like a terrorist attack survivor – toward his car, bits of rock and dust falling off my face and clothing as I continued to breathe like a fat person was sat on me. He piled my stuff into the taxi and sped off down to the airport. After the slowest security procedure and some of the most unfriendly staff I’ve ever experienced, I got on the plane and it pressurised. Holy shit I could actually feel the pressure in my head and lungs dissipate in a matter of seconds. Suddenly I could see and breathe normally. I grabbed a coffee, relaxed and headed back to Delhi.

I love mountains. I always have done. I love the Alps, the Andes and everything in between. So I had been buzzing about seeing the Himalayas, and throughout this whole ordeal there were gigantic mountains and some of the most dramatic scenery I’ve ever seen, and I just did not give a shit. That’s how bad the whole ordeal was.

So now I’m in Delhi, the shittest city on Earth. But lo! It’s still in the throes of a giant heatwave, so going outside is not really an option, and also I’m waiting for my round the world flight guy back in London to sort me out with a ticket out of here, so I can’t leave Delhi in case one comes through. If he doesn’t manage to find a free seat, I’m stuck here until the 28th. And in all honesty I’d rather shoot myself in the foot.

Gabe

International Airspace: Commoners

Japan is somewhere I have always, always wanted to go. Its location, its culture and its landscape have all played major roles in making me wish I could visit the Land of the Rising Sun since I was about ten years old. It always seemed so mysterious, intense and, most importantly, it looked like it would be so much fun. I know people who have been to Japan before – all of them unanimously praising this strange, demanding little group of islands in the Far East. And, more so than anywhere else I’ve been on this trip, I had people telling me how incredibly envious they were of my Japan jaunt.

And they’ve a right to be envious. It was quite an experience, and really has been the two most intense weeks probably of my entire life. But – and I’m sure you knew a ‘but’ was coming – I have to admit, I’m very glad to be leaving. I saw some amazing things in Japan. I rode the bullet train the entire length of Honshu, I climbed a mountain on an island in the East China Sea and I visited the sites of the only two nuclear weapons to have been used on civilians. I went to a karaoke booth, a pachinko arcade, a sumo arena and a million Shinto shrines. And, as I’m sure you’re aware, I love travelling, but this is the first in my life where I’ve really hit a limit. And I mean a serious, immovable brick wall of a limit.

In my first blog post from Japan I very briefly touched upon the concept of culture shock. Culture shock is something that I have obviously always believed in, and I thought I had felt it at various points in my life before. But after just two weeks in Japan, I now know how incorrect I was; I now know what culture shock really is. Japan is really hard work. And I don’t mean simply on a physical level, nor do I mean it’s simply a bit of a head-f*ck. I mean it emotionally.

No matter what walk of life you come from, no matter how much patience for other cultures you have or how much luxury you can afford to holiday in, I have a very brief PSA: Do not come to Japan alone unless you are very comfortable with your own company. This is not me attempting to exaggerate for humourous purposes either. That is a genuine warning. I’ve travelled on my own before. I’ve been to Canada, the US, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Hungary, Finland, Serbia, Uruguay, Argentina, Chile, Easter Island, French Polynesia, New Zealand and Australia totally alone in the past few years, and every time they’ve been great fun. I’m very happy to spend time on my own, and I find socialising in hostels and bars pretty easy; in all the places I’ve visited, it’s been easy to strike a balance between meeting locals, meeting other travellers, and sightseeing alone if you need a little break. Japan, however, is not like that. First, let’s look at meeting locals. Actually rather than discussing it in depth, I can say two words to sum up your chances of that happening; good luck. Barely anybody speaks English, and those who do speak an incredibly limited amount. Moreover – and I’m sorry but it’s true – the cultural and social differences, for me personally, were just too vast. If I ever did come across a Japanese native my age who spoke a little bit of English, the conversation would stutter and die over and over again as we tried to find things we could both talk about. I think both of us would expect the other to have a frame of reference closer to our own, but in reality the UK and Japan are just worlds apart in so many ways.

Then, there’s meeting other travellers. I met some people in my Tokyo hostel just fine, cos it’s Tokyo and there are foreigners everywhere; you’re bound to meet at least a couple of people to grab a drink with, even if you do have to dodge the hoards of solo middle-aged white men who have decided that a youth hostel in Japan is the place they want to spend their remaining days before inevitably offing themselves. There were some great nights in Tokyo, wandering around until dawn, but in most other places (save one night in Hiroshima), the kind of people you’d actually want to hang around with were few and far between.

There’s a word that the Japanese use, ‘Gaijin’, meaning a westerner who comes to Japan. While it literally translates as ‘outside person’, in reality it’s often used in a pejorative manner; it’s used to describe people who come to Japan that are socially awkward or ‘weird’ in some other way. During my stay in Japan, jumping from city to city and hostel to hostel, I met maybe eight people – max – who were not ‘Gaijin’ in the truly negative sense of the word. The number of lisping, leery, lanky losers I met across the entire country was astounding. They’d turn up alone to Japan, just like I had done, but then either refused to socialise, or attempted to but just been too weird to hang out with. Don’t get me wrong, I can take a bit of weirdness as long as there’s some humour or self-awareness, but these people had no redeeming features. I felt for the ones who were so scared of socialising that they couldn’t get a sentence out without stumbling over every other word and sweating all over their crusty anime shirts. It’s good to chat to them sometimes because they can reveal themselves to be nice people underneath that awkward exterior.

But then there are the ones who you just wish would disappear. In Nagasaki, I checked into a hostel to a totally empty room. Awesome, I can make as much noise in the morning as I want (I had a 7am start the next day), and don’t have to wear my headphones for my music. Then, at 11:30pm, when I was in bed, a guy probably in his mid-30s with two lazy eyes came storming into the room and turned the light on. Nice entrance mate. I said ‘Hi’, to be polite, and he said, with a bizarre lisp, ‘Hi. Where are you from?’. A half asleep dude, in his underwear, in bed, with the light off – is really the guy you’re gonna go to for a chat right now? ‘England’. ‘Me too! Whereabouts?’. I told him I was originally from Brighton, but had lived in London for a few years. ‘Oh I’m from London too (I didn’t say I was from London) but I moved away. Where do you live? How expensive is it?’. Jesus man give me a chance. ‘I live in Dulwich’, ‘I don’t know where that is’. You’re a Londoner and you don’t know where Dulwich is? He continued ‘It’s just too expensive these days. It’s so nasty too, filled with foreigners, that’s why I moved to Slough.’

Ohhhhhhhh how I laughed internally. Though I didn’t crack a smile, it felt like I was about to have ten hernias at once; the veins in my head probably looked like the outside of Pompidou Centre. Sure, you can believe Slough is superior despite John Betjeman’s famous poem about how shit it is, but don’t call where I live ‘nasty’, just in the same way I didn’t laugh in your face when you talked about how great Slough is.

The conversation died and I turned over to sleep, only for him to suddenly continue; ‘Why are you here?’. I mean there are certainly better ways of asking that question, but I told him I was on a round the world trip, and that I’d done South America before here. ‘Oh I did South America too! What did you think of the girls there?’, he asked. ‘I dunno man, they’re just girls’. He replied ’Yeah but they were so easy. Everywhere I went they were so easy. So beautiful and so easy’. From the way this guy spoke, I could tell he was the kid people would give a dead leg for fun on the way to class, or a firm punch on the upper arm – there was no way this guy was drowning in girls in the manner he attested to. I also found it a little odd that he kept talking about how easy they were; that’s not a universal ‘guy-thing’ that’s gonna get me to respond. It just makes you sound insecure and fairly misogynistic. If anything, I’m gonna tell you to shut up because I’m trying to sleep, I’m not going to suddenly become Finchy from The Office and start making up bullshit stories about hundreds of Hispanic girls throwing themselves at me. I don’t travel for that kind of wannabe-macho crap. And anyway, I’m not exactly Ryan Gosling, but if that wasn’t happening to me, it sure as shit wasn’t happening to Captain Crosseyed over here. I told him I wasn’t really looking for that, and he responded with ‘Yeah but they’re Argentinian! All you have to do is talk. They love the English’. I think someone needs to go read a history book. The final nail in the coffin, the straw that broke the socially-inept camel’s back, was this quote from out of nowhere; ‘I love travelling in Japan because people aren’t common’. Huh? Not common? There are people everywhere, you meet them all the time. I had no idea what he meant, so I asked, and he said ‘Like common people. A lot of people can’t afford to come here so you don’t have to meet any common people’. Holy f*cking shit. My jaw on the floor, I sat there in total silence, staring dead at him, waiting for him to find a way to redeem himself after such an abhorrent comment. Yet, despite my reaction of horrified incredulity, he just paused for another 30 seconds before almost silently stuttering out ‘… y’know like chavs’. I got out of bed, switched the light off and went to sleep without another word.

Yesterday I made a gigantic balls up. My train from Nagasaki all the way back to Tokyo was booked for 14:20, arriving at 22:40. I got to the station early and asked if I could change to the 13:20 train instead, and I could, so now I was due in at 22:10. At my first of three interchanges, however, I had a 50 minute wait for my Shinkansen, so I got on an earlier one – I have unlimited rail travel so it doesn’t matter how I get around, right? Turns out the Shinkansen has a number of varieties, two of which are not covered by the JR Pass, including the Nozomi service. I accidentally got on a Nozomi bound for Tokyo, but after the first stop the conductor told me I couldn’t be on this train. I played the stupid foreigner card and he told me to get off at the next station. Ah well, I’ll just wait for my original train. I have no idea which station I was at, but after waiting around for 20 minutes, I stood and stared as my original Shinkanen – the one I was booked on – went zooming past at 200mph. Oh dear. I ran downstairs to check the timetable, and took my jacket off as it was so hot, at which point I realised I had also left my brand new hoodie on the original Nozomi train.

I threw my jacket back on, ran to the ticket office and asked what they could do about it. Turns out they could phone the individual trains. Awesome! But what happened next was such a comedy of errors on both sides that I was left with my head in my hands for most of the conversation. I told them I had left my black hoodie on the train. They thought I wanted to know when the next train was. I told them again what had happened. They thought I meant just a hood (I wouldn’t even know what this means). I corrected them. They thought I meant my jacket, and pointed at the jacket I was currently wearing, saying ‘but you’re wearing your jacket now’. I told them thanks for the astute observation, but that it was a black hoodie I was looking for, using wild hand gestures. They finally understood and asked where I was sitting. I told them I was in carriage #1, which I was. They asked which seat. I hadn’t checked this, but was in the very front row of the carriage, in the window seat to the far right, so said ‘1-D’, which logically makes sense, like on a plane. The little woman behind the counter phoned the train and had a long conversation. I stood and waited, feeling like I was watching my life draining away. She hung up and told me it wasn’t there. I said it literally had to be there. She asked again which carriage I was in. I said #1. She assured me that that’s what she had told the conductor on the train, saying ‘I told him to look in the first carriage’. I told her no, I meant carriage #1; the train had just reversed at Hakata terminal when I got on, so was running backwards, with carriage #1 at the very back of the train. She looked shocked, apologised profusely, and phoned again. I could see now that the next train I could get on was in 12 minutes, and I was quickly running out of time here. Again, she hung up and told me they couldn’t find it. I told them that was literally impossible as I was telling her exactly where it was. She deliberated for a minute before asking if the seat number was definitely right, getting out a little diagram of the seating plan. I pointed at the seat I was sat at, saying ‘1-D, right down at the front on the right’. She told me no, the seat I was pointing at was seat 18-A. I asked her how on Earth that could be right. She said that the train has reversed, so the seats have reversed numbers as well as the carriage, and the letters A to D have been mirrored to reflect travelling backwards. Thinking this was literally the most illogical, needlessly complicated system to ever have been used in a seat-numbering system, I put my hands on my knees in a sort of existential despair, and told her that yes, under that ridiculous system, I guess that must have been my seat. She phoned again, this time with an exceptionally long conversation. I looked around to see that I now had 4 minutes until my train. She hung up and asked me what colour it was. I told them, again, that it was black. She phoned again and hung up after two words, telling me that yes, they had found the hoodie. Did she really need to hang up in order to ask me what colour it was? Two minutes until the train now. I thanked her profusely and asked where I should pick it up. She didn’t understand me. I asked where I should collect it, making a symbol of ‘collecting’ with my hands, though I’m not sure what it must’ve looked like to her. She did understand me though, but then drew a total blank with her English, flapping her hands up and down. She obviously knew what she wanted to say but didn’t know the English for it. She said it in Japanese and I just looked at her with a face of panic and confusion. My train was now pulling into the station. One minute until it left. I shrugged at her, and she scrambled to get her phone out of her pocket. She opened Google Translate and frantically typed away. 30 seconds left. She turned it around to show me; ‘Osaka Station Lost & Found’. I shouted ‘Doumo arigato gozai maaaaaaas’ and went sprinting down the station concourse and up the escalator. I made it across the platform but the door shut on my suitcase as I was pushing it into the train in front of me. I wasn’t taking this bullshit so I just forced the door back open with my foot as a guard down the platform cried out in horror of my conduct. The doors closed behind me and I collapsed to the floor of the carriage, sitting there until I could catch my breath. I made it.

I got to Osaka after a few more train changes, short of breath and a little drunk after taking the edge off with a couple of Asahis. I had a full half-hour to make my connection, this’d be fine. I looked up at a sign reading ‘Lost & Found’, with an arrow pointing up, meaning forward. I walked forward and about 100m further down I saw another one, so continued walking. I walked for around five minutes until I had reached literally the end of the station. I walked outside for some reason in the hope it may be there, and was greeted by a bunch of taxi drivers shouting for my business. I ran back inside and headed back to where I had come from, where I saw another sign for lost property with a ‘down’ arrow next to it, facing the other direction. Turns out an ‘up’ arrow in Japan means behind you. So I frantically scrambled across the concourse with my now wheel-less suitcase until I found a small door with ‘Lost and Find’ written on it. I slid it open to reveal a guy sat behind a tiny desk, who immediately stood to attention.

“Black hoodie?” I said, hopefully. His response, in apologetic Japanese, indicated that this conversation may be rather difficult as he spoke no English. I made the same hoodie gesture as before and he asked where it was. I said it should be here. He gestured that he had no idea, but before I could reply he ran off and grabbed a colleague who could speak limited English. “Where you hoodie?” he said, to which I frustratedly replied “Here! It should be here!”. They both made a simultaneously inquisitive hoodie gesture to check that I was definitely on the same wavelength. They told me no and there was nothing they could do. I told them the other guys said it was here, to which they told me it might be in Tokyo. I said I don’t have time to collect it in Tokyo. They said they’d send it to me. I told them I was leaving Japan the following day. They told me they couldn’t ship internationally. I told them I knew that as there was a giant sign behind them stating that exact clause. They said “Hoodie?” one more time, to which I said “Yes! A hoodie! In Osaka! It will be here!” to which the guy suddenly went “Ah!”, and disappeared for a second into a side door before returning with my hoodie in hand.

I mean seriously guys, what the Christ. You had it all along and I’ve been stood here for 15 minutes with you telling me it’s in Tokyo?! Jesus. I thanked them and again found myself sprinting for the train, making it with around 30 seconds to spare this time. Phew.

I’m in Singapore now, so will report more from here maybe tomorrow, but for now, that’s the Japan portion of my trip done and dusted. I am so exhausted it’s not even true. While it was experience I will never ever forget, it’ll also always be one that I would heed many words of warning to others before attempting. It’s hard work.

Gabe

Auckland: Robert J. Oppenburger

 

At this point, I have no idea where I’m going to end up next. The last few days have been one theatre after another for confusing, manically-driven impulses, culminating in me not actually being in Auckland as I write this. That city, in the northern reaches of the North Island, is now a distant memory from the quaint-yet-spectacular South Island city of Queenstown, where I am now. Well, I say city, but on paper it’s merely a glorified village; a population of 19,000 sits on the shore of Lake Wakatipi, wedged clumsily between dramatic pine-forested mountains. However, my 48-hour stay in Auckland was pretty eventful, so I thought I should honour the city with its own blog post.

Air Tahiti Nui flight TN101 from Pape’ete to Auckland (the designation of which I only remember because I had to recount it to New Zealand customs officers about twenty times) was an interesting experience to say the least. A large Airbus jet, fit for maybe 300 passengers, took off in glorious sunshine with about 30 people on board, after which I promptly fell asleep across the middle four chairs while watching (or attempting to watch) a French-made documentary about Belgian singer Jacques Brel, which featured no English subtitles. I’m not entirely sure what my aim was here, but at least my inability to understand a single word worked as an effective sleeping aid.

I woke up to the smell of egg in the air. I sat up, seatbelt buckle stuck to the side of my face, and looked to the left to see a small sleeping Chinese lady, mouth open and fork in hand, slumped over a half-eaten omelette. I looked to the right and saw a guy also with a finished food tray (and five empty cans of beer. At 8:30am). NO! I HAD MISSED BREAKFAST.

I stood up and shuffled down the aisle in bare feet to the back of the plane and asked the steward if I could had some breakfast as I had missed it. He laughed with his colleague and handed me a two-inch diameter tuna sandwich triangle. I asked what he was doing. He looked at me like I was a bellend. I said ‘Petit dejeuner?’. He realised what I meant and handed me a tray of food that felt suspiciously light. I went back to my seat and peeled back the foil on the plate to reveal… an empty plate. Had they forgotten to put the omelette in there? Was this some form of Tahitian practical joke? I stood up and went back to the steward and showed him the empty plate. He looked at me and said ‘That was fast’.

Then, New Zealand. We touched down. I had returned to the English-speaking world. I don’t care how bad it sounds, but God damn it felt good. And not only that, but it was New Zealand, a country I have always had a deep desire to visit. The first country to give women the vote. The land of Edmund Hillary, the first man to climb Everest. The home of my boy Winston Reid (yet everyone here inexplicably thinks the West Ham 1962-63 away kit I’m so eager to show off is actually an Aston Villa shirt. Get the f*ck outta here).

Arriving in Auckland, I couldn’t help but notice two things. One is how incredibly clean everything was. Auckland is a very clinical, pristine city (or at least in the centre); all buildings are glass fronted, the boringly-named Queens Street is constantly being pored over by street cleaners, and there are bins literally every two metres. How nice.

The second thing I noticed didn’t hit me until I opened my phone. Using the fairly insane level of readily-available free wifi on the street and on buses (yeah have some of that, Tahiti), I opened HostelWorld and HostelBookers to discover that no hostels in the entire city had any free rooms for the entire week. Oh shit. Ok, not to panic, I guess I can just stay in a cheap hotel. But no, no availability there either. So what the hell do I do? I’ll tell you what I did; in a moment of frenzied panic, I booked myself into a King Bed Suite on the top floor of a 5-star hotel overlooking the city. Hell yeah bitches.

After five weeks of tents, hostels and even airports, to finally end up in a luxury hotel felt rewarding to say the least. After using as much of the sauna and steamroom as my body could physically handle, I lazily wobbled my way to the nearest supermarket, grabbed a bottle of local sauvignon blanc and a giant bag of crisps, got into my gown and slippers, revelled for a bit in my small moment of luxury and then brought the tone down horribly by watching Oren Moverman’s 2009 film The Messenger, in which Woody Harrelson plays a Casualty Notifications Unit officer in the US Army. That was grim to say the least.

After waking up and suddenly deciding I need to see the South Island while I’m here, I then booked a flight and a bus tour for the following day, and you know what that means? Cheapest flight = worst time of day = sleeping at the airport again. What a contrast from the night before.

So I headed out to the Britomart Bus Station (the hell is with that name?) at midnight to catch my bus back to Auckland Airport. And you know what I was greeted with? A totally transformed city. It was like the last days of Rome. Like Auckland was about to be ransacked by invading forces. Paramedics attending to passed out girls in the gutter, three-or-four-way makeout sessions on street corners and a ratio of male shirtlessness and lame-as-f*ck macho behaviour of 1:1. On my way to the McDonald’s (I needed overnight sustenance), I was stopped by a group of what looked like club promoters. I could see a table of free drinks in plastic cups behind them. Feeling like I maybe needed to take the edge off the evening, I approached the table to realise that they were all medics handing out free water. Why on Earth they thought a guy walking to the bus station wit h an inordinate amount of luggage was so drunk he needed to rehydrate I don’t know, but I accepted their delicious liquid and entered McDonald’s.

This particular McDonald’s had an interesting quirk; self-service screens with which you could design your own burger (at massively inflated cost). I started to design mine when a little Chinese man tapped me on the shoulder and pointed at his screen. He had designed a burger but for some reason he needed help. I said ‘press here’, pointing at the ‘Complete Order’ button, but he stopped me hurriedly. I said ‘What?’. He replied ‘No like’. Despite my bus coming soon and being surrounded by drunk Aucklanders in at 12:30am, I looked through the contents of his burger; brioche bun, lettuce, tomato, cheese, burger, pickle. Seemed like a fairly standard burger. But before I could say anything he destroyed his creation with gusto by slamming the ‘Reset’ button. I was like ‘Ok then… what do you want?’. Without saying anything, he turned back to the screen to start again. He skipped the bun, then added a burger patty. Ok, pretty minimalist. Then he added an egg. Personally not my choice but whatever floats your boat. Then he added another. I thought personally he’d be all egged out by the end of this faux-burger. Then he added another. And another. And another. Then looked at me.

‘Five eggs? Are you sure that’s right? Seems like a lot of egg to me, man’. He paused, lifted his finger slowly while maintaining eye contact, and slammed the reset button again with no regard for the burger’s feelings. To paraphrase Robert J. Oppenheimer, ‘now he has become death, destroyer of burgers’. He was Robert J. Oppenburger. I sighed, told him I couldn’t wait for his indulgent eggburger fantasies and quickly left to catch my bus.

God almighty I’ve just realised I have so much stuff to write about but don’t have the time right now. Expect another post within 24 hours!

Gabe

Buenos Aires: Duality

Part I: The Airing of Grievances (A Festivus Miracle)

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‘Nah it’s ok guys remember we don’t believe in subtlety’

I failed. I attempted to reconcile my differences with the insanity of Buenos Aires, and I returned from Montevideo to discover that much to my surprise, I’m still yet to be convinced. I have to admit, this is also bad timing as I am currently on a plane to Santiago, Chile, watching Buenos Aires fade into the horizon for probably the last time ever. Last night, walking through the city at midnight while drunk on Fernet again, and realising I was about to leave the city, I confusingly felt both sad and happy at the same time. I’m fully aware this may come across as fairly insulting, so I apologise to any Porteños (Buenos Aires residents) who may be reading, but I’m not going to sugar-coat it; I was happy because I was leaving, and sad because I was happy. This is not how I envisaged the first stop of my trip ending – cutting Buenos Aires short so I can get out, and spending much of the time I had designated for the city taking refuge in a totally different country across the River Plate. Then again, as I’ve made clear before, it’s difficult to equate this sort of experience to the kind you’d get on, say, a five-day city break to Scandinavia. On circumnavigational journeys of this magnitude, I’ve realised that, as much as it may upset you, you have to take a bullet every once in a while, and that not every city is for everyone. You have to chop and change as you go, adding time in some places, removing some elsewhere. It’s an ugly side of travelling, but one that I think, in a way, feels more authentic. You don’t travel to be in permanent, stress-free paradise. You quit your job (or get made redundant, whoops), you give up your room and you say goodbye to your home country because you want something bigger than that. Not some soul-searching, faux-spiritual nonsense, but just… an experience. Something different. If you set out expecting only great moments with great food, great sights and great people, travelling is not for you.

However, on a similar note to my initial one, what arguably frustrates me more than my inability to appreciate Buenos Aires is the number of foreigners who bullshit themselves into believing the city is an unending masterpiece; God’s gift to urbanisation. Obviously I’m not being a total cynic, and I am fully aware that many people truly and genuinely love Buenos Aires, and really find their ‘spiritual home’ for lack of a less wanky term. There are people who wholeheartedly embrace its impressive bohemian arts scene, its gastronomic diversity, its intense energy and its weird hobos who ask you for a sip of your beer on the street. Then there are those infuriatingly naive people who praise literally every single thing about the city, as if it has no poverty, as if it has a perfect infrastructure, that it’s somehow ‘better’ than anywhere in Europe. On that note, I’m not saying it’s worse than anywhere in Europe, as it’s impossible to compare continents like that unless you’re an idiot, and on that subsequent note, I have actually had one person suggest that Buenos Aires is ‘better than anywhere in the Western World’ (what is it if it’s not Western?), and I’ve even heard people bother to rave about the flavour of the goddamn tap water, which is widely regarded as tasting like shit. What is interesting about these people, however, is that as soon as I mention to them that I’m not so sure I’m BA’s biggest fan, they’ll start to question their own love of it.

I’m not being a killjoy on purpose; it’s very easy to spot when someone is bullshitting about this kind of thing, simply for the fact that they gravely overcompensate for any doubts they have by going completely overboard with sycophancy. Even the most hardened, loyal, born-and-raised Buenos Aires residents I met were quick to complain about a myriad of aspects of the city, be they economical, administrative, infrastructural or otherwise. I feel like more travelers than meet the eye objectively know there are many great things about this city, but will not admit that subjectively there are other things that need improvement. No matter who you are or where you’re from, you cannot claim that Buenos Aires is a perfect utopia (if simply for the fact that no city is a perfect utopia), yet people do it anyway. I love London, but there are a million things I also dislike about it.

Which brings me to another point – you cannot compare Buenos Aires to London on a superficial level at all. Whenever I commented on the intensity of Buenos Aires to other travelers, they’d say ‘but you live in London! How can you complain about Buenos Aires?’. London is literally half a world away from Buenos Aires. If, in your eyes, two cities can be considered similar simply because their population is above ten million, you need to re-evaluate the way in which you absorb different cultures. Perhaps in terms of statistics, or in the way the pointless Human Development Index looks at it, the two cities may have more in common than I think, but from a subjective, personal viewpoint – literally the only way it is possible for me to experience both cities – they are totally, totally different. It has literally never been 40°C in London. London does not have choripan, London does not have two-litre bottles of beer for £1, London does not have the SuperClasico, London does not have neighbourhoods where locals have said ‘don’t go there because you will get mugged’, London does not have beautiful Spanish colonial-era architecture. And do you know what else? It might seem pretty damn obvious but London is not a Spanish-speaking city. As an Englishman, me turning up expecting that I could just swoop into their culture like a Tetris piece falling into place would indicate a more insulting level of disrespectful ignorance than suggesting that Buenos Aires is a challenging travel destination in the first place. Going from one big city to another doesn’t mean shit – no two great cities are the same – and it blows my mind that many people seem to think they are.

 

Part II: Screaming Midget

Now that’s over, I can finally comment on the what’s happened since I wrote the first part of this post. While that was one the plane, I now find myself in Santiago, having waited at the bus stop for two hours, during which my bus was half an hour late. In the complete chaos of San Borja Bus Terminal, it’s easy to get completely freaked out when your bus randomly doesn’t turn up on time. There are no departure boards, no staff to speak to, and – most infuriatingly – about 50 gates for buses to arrive at, and you have absolutely no idea which one yours will appear at. You have to be vigilant, you have to attempt to ask other people what’s going on, and most importantly, you have to be patient. I’ve since discovered that it’s horrible being patient.

We set off on the 7 hour bus journey north to La Serena about 3 minutes ago, but we’re currently stopped at a corner shop about 200 yards from the bus terminal, and all three drivers (three drivers?) have jumped out, and gone and bought beer.

Sitting on the plane earlier, my phone and laptop both died and I had time to reflect on the past couple of days, while a video played overhead of what I can only assume was some sort of Brazilian package holiday advert but involved people manically riding round a city in a golf cart looking like Jack Nicklaus on meth. The end of my time in Uruguay and my subsequent return to Buenos Aires was filled with some rather strange moments, and, of course, strange people. My ferry from Uruguay was delayed by four hours for seemingly no reason, so the crowd of waiting passengers at the ferry terminal in Colonia was getting agitated at both the delay and the lack of information about the delay. After an hour or so, the crowd started whistling, booing and hissing at intermittent intervals, at which point the Colonia Express staff obviously realised they needed to send in the big guns.

With his high-pitched shriek parting the crowd like the Red Sea, a 5ft tall bald man with a shirt, tie and microphone came bursting into the room in some sort of last-ditch attempt at crowd control. Within a few seconds of talking he realised his Madonna-esque head-mounted microphone was broken, and instead of trying to fix it or replace it, just started screaming everything he needed to say. Like an insane, shiny-headed troll in the corner, he (I think) told everyone in an increasingly hoarse voice that there was no more information yet. The crowd closed in on him, shouting in Spanish and waving their tickets, and I pushed to the front to ask if he spoke English. “YES!” he said, so I asked what was going on, and he responded by shouting YEEEES!. I gave up and sat back down until another staff member appeared. Due to the sheer number of boats leaving that afternoon, I started to worry I would miss mine, so I approached this other staff member with my boarding pass, and before I could even ask if she spoke English, she saw it and said something very pointedly (while also pointing at the waiting area) in Spanish. I again asked her if she spoke English, to which she just said a bunch more stuff in Spanish. I then attempted to ask her in Spanish if anyone spoke English, to which she yet again gave me a barrage of Spanish. Finally, I told her in very clear Spanish that didn’t understand – for the fourth time, another aggressive reply I didn’t understand, so I just totally lost my shit and very forcefully said Why are you doing this?! I don’t know what the f*** you’re saying!” at her. The response, predictably, was just more Spanish. I walked away.

A special shoutout for Weird Person of the Week goes to Bruno the taxi driver. After my ferry arrived at a port in Buenos Aires that A) I wasn’t expecting, and B) is under a motorway in a sketchy neighbourhood with no transport links or cash machines, I walked for twenty minutes with all my luggage to the gentrified Puerta del Madero, at which point I promptly collapsed into the first taxi to come my way. Enter Bruno; a large 30-something Porteno wearing a full Argentina kit (including shorts and socks). Usually when you get into a taxi in a foreign country and the driver speaks absolutely no English, your best bet is either to attempt to speak in their language, or to remain silent. Old Bruno here, however, was a man of gumption. He promptly got out his enormous Samsung Galaxy and opened the Google Translate app. He pressed the microphone button and spoke into it, asking me where I was going. I told him the corner of Avenida Rivadavia and Libertad. He said OK, then picked up the phone and said something into it. He handed it back to me, and a little computerised American voice said ‘Do you like football?’. I replied into the phone ‘Yes, I like it very much, and Carlos Tevez is my hero’. After a little robotic Spanish man’s voice translated it back to Bruno, he said ‘OH! Manchester United?!’. I said ‘No, West Ham United!’. He knew his stuff; ‘Ah that was Tevez’s first team in England, he helped save them from relegation’. Obviously at this point he hadn’t suddenly become proficient in English; he was still talking through the translator like we were aliens attempting to communicate in some cheap sci-fi film. I arranged a lift to the airport the next morning with him, as his rates were a lot lower than the airport shuttle companies, and we departed ways at my hostel. The following night, after stumbling home drunk, I got into bed for a reasonably early night, ready for a 7am wake-up call. Then, in the darkness, my phone vibrated. It was Bruno asking me when I wanted to be picked up. I had already told him 8am, so I told him again, at which point there was a long pause. He then accidentally sent me a kissing emoji, then apologised in Spanish and laughed, then I laughed to make it less awkward. I fell asleep, only to feel the buzz of my phone again about an hour later. It was Bruno again. I unlocked my phone to reveal that he had sent me a low-resolution photo of Carlos Tevez playing for West Ham. In the middle of the night.

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The next morning I climbed into Bruno’s taxi van, at which point I noticed he had upgraded his Argentina kit and was now wearing football boots too. I pointed at them and said ‘porque?’. He got out the old translator app and translated ‘Oh I’m sorry about these, I was playing football yesterday’. Does he not know how to undress for bed? Did he wear boots to sleep? As the questions compiled in my head, Bruno handed me the phone to start a conversation. I started talking about my travels. If you’ve ever used the audio translate function on Google Translate, then you’ll be familiar with its often erroneous output. We talked about my travels, at which point I inadvertently told him I was going to ‘Easter Island, Bench Polynesia and Jelly Bean Zealand’, and during a conversation about music Bruno accidentally told me that he ‘loves Lenny Kravitz but sometimes he has too many bananas’ at which point I quickly moved the conversation-by-proxy on for fear that perhaps that last statement wasn’t an accident.

Arriving at the hopeless Ezeiza Airport, I told Bruno I had no change, so he let me run inside to the cash machine. First one I come to? Empty. Second? Empty. Third? Same again. There’s an unusual thing that happens in Buenos Aires, and to an extent the rest of Argentina; inflation obviously causes a drop in the value of money, and the Argentinian economy is on its knees at the moment, running at a rate of 40% inflation per year. As a result, more people need more money to buy stuff, and the cash machines are refilled every day except weekends. Thus, Friday evenings see long queues for cash machines all over the city, as people get out enough to last them the weekend. I had arrived at the airport too early for any of the machines to have been refilled. I tried fifteen different machines. All empty. I left Bruno outside like a lemon, and once I finally got my hands on some cash (McDonald’s does cashback?), I ran outside, superfluous McMuffin in hand, for Bruno to tell me that we had overstayed the short-stay parking limit. Which was true; he wasn’t trying to con me, so I paid up, said goodbye to my strange taxi man, went back inside, checked in, and sulked with my McMuffin until my plane took off.

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A mixture of fear and shame

And finally, a shoutout to Ines, who was my partner-in-crime as we trawled the city looking for a piano for me to play. Sitting at lunch in a specialist cheese restaurant, drinking some of the worst wine to ever have graced my oesophagus, we decided that I should play piano. I don’t really know why, but as soon as the idea was put forward, I suddenly craved it, and we went on a mission to bars, cafes and tango clubs trying to find a piano they’d allow me to use. We then stumbled into a music shop around the corner from my hostel, at which point the guy hooked up a £5,000 electric piano and just… allowed me to sit there and play it. For a long time too. Obviously afterwards we had to give the spiel about how we’d think about it, like I was only pretending to look like a traveler and was secretly Mr Deeds about to piss £5k into the wind.

I’m currently still on this coach, somewhere north of Santiago and the scenery is very impressive. It’s like central Spain (think Spaghetti Westerns) but on steroids. The mountains are bigger, the landscape harsher and the sun more relentless. I just attempted to use the bathroom and I’m not entirely convinced you wouldn’t die if you stayed in there long enough – the door is almost impossible to open (including from the inside), it’s considerably hotter than a sauna, and is sat right on top of the engine, meaning I opened the door to – and I’m not joking – a thick cloud of exhaust smoke. In order to get as much circulation in so they don’t accidentally kill a passenger each journey, the staff had snapped part of the hinge of the bathroom window off to allow it to open further than originally designed, and wedged a full two-litre bottle of water between the glass and the frame, hanging out over the motorway. If that thing dislodges itself, someone behind us is either going to get a faceful of delicious bathroom water or a terrible brain injury.

They’ve just put on a Chilean dub of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles with a broken soundcard. Michelangelo sounds like he’s about to consume the souls of Raphael, Donatello and Leonardo. Only six hours to go now.

Gabe

The Night Before

Hello, I’m Gabriel, and welcome to my new blog, Hidden Gabe. I could say that, for a moment, that title made perfect sense. I now feel just as confused as you are.

For those of you who don’t know me, I’m 24 years old, I live in London and I just quit my job to take a rather big trip. However, most of you reading this I assume will know me, so to cut to the chase; here we go – tomorrow morning at 10:25am I will be boarding a flight to Madrid, then a second flight to Santiago, then a third to Buenos Aires. Might as well get this out of the way early; I have to travel for almost 40 hours to get to my first destination BUT it’s also the start of what I hope will be an epic journey, navigating the entire circumference of the globe and including around 15 countries over 7 months. If there was ever a time to start another one of my idiosyncratic, rambling blogs that focus more on menial bullshit than the larger, more interesting picture, now is that time.

2015 was a pretty terrible year. Not in any tragic or actually terrible way, but in a sense that not much good really happened. So, I decided I would make sure 2016 would be better, and I would start by fleeing to Argentina like Adolf Eichmann, then on to Chile, Easter Island (YES I know it’s part of Chile), French Polynesia, New Zealand, Australia, Japan, Singapore, India, and then back to the UK. That should sort me right out. So in a way I’m ‘hiding’ from London, hence the title? I’m clutching at my own straws here, if you’ll pardon the unsettling nature of such a phrase.

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My finest travel moment to date. I hope to surpass it this year. Iceland, April 2014.

What do I expect from this trip? I have no idea. I’ve travelled alone before, but not at any great length, and always to places I’ve wanted to go for a long time. While there are places on my list this time that I have been dying to go to for many years (I’m looking at you, Japan), I will admit that some are just victims of circumstance; stepping stones that got in my way. So I expect the unexpected in all honesty. My mind is a little all over the place at the moment as I sit here buried under my laptop and ten cables, sorting out all my music and various other electronic companions that will no doubt cause me endless grief on my journey, but hopefully the next seven months will be filled with a little more insight than this rambling introductory blog entry.

I’ve had more people than I can count say ‘good luck’ to me in the past few days, but I feel like I should be the one saying it to all of you who are about to spend your precious time reading these blog entries.

Godspeed, and see you tomorrow for the first leg. I’ll say it agin; here we go.

Gabe