Entering Ecuador

My birthday with Limenos

After a super fun birthday in Lima, where I drank tequila like I was turning twenty-one and not twenty-nine, and danced salsa on a makeshift dance floor, I set out for Ecuador.  Instead of crossing the border at the coast as I’d planned on doing before  my bag was stolen, I chose a different route, a crossing which The Lonely Planet called “wonderfully remote.”

Sounded nice.  Splurging on a coche-cami seat instead of the usual semi-cama for the first part of the journey (18 hours Lima to Jaen, Peru), I was ready to move forward, get over the robbery, the lost items.

The first leg of the journey led me to the second, which took me in a shared car (colectivo) to San Ignacio, where I waited for another colectivo to fill up before going to La Balsa, that “wonderfully remote” border between Peru and Ecudaor.

After waiting for nearly an hour and a half–the cars will not leave until they are full of passengers, which means two in the front, besides the driver, and three in the backseat–I counted my Peruvian Soles and decided to offer to pay for a second passenger just so we could just go already!

It worked.  So well in fact that when the driver stopped to pick up a lone woman by the side of the road, he forced her to squeeze into the backseat among three other full-sized adults.  I chuckled to myself, realizing that he intended on getting the full fare for two passengers from me, thereby leaving me to continue the ride alone in the front seat.  He was a clever one (and greedy too), that’s for sure, for certainly if he’d had the woman sit up front, I’d have argued that I didn’t need to pay for two people after all.

At the border, which turned out to be remote but not at all wonderful, I trudged through mud in my flip-flops to get my passport stamped in Peru.

What I walked through to leave Peru legally

Crossing the border into Ecuador, I received an odd look from the border official, a grunt, which I believe was his way of asking me how long I intended to stay in Ecuador, and, finally, an entry stamp.

After waiting an hour for the next means of transportation to arrive, I hopped aboard the ranchera in the photo below.

Two hours on a dirt road in this vehicle=what the hell did I sign up for?

We arrived in Zumba, where really I should have spent the night.  Instead, hell-bent on getting to Vilcabamba, that charming oasis that promised relaxation, massages, hours by a pool, a breakfast with real coffee, horse-back riding, and sleep in a real bed, I bought another bus ticket and held my personal belongings close.

At 3:30 in the morning, I was woken by the bus guy and put out at the side of the road.  There were no taxis in sight and all I had was a memory of an email from the owner of the hosteria I’d booked:

Hostel owner: “Well, Stacey, there are no taxis after 9:30 PM, but you can walk–it’s only 35 minutes–we’re on the main road, can’t miss us!”

So uphill I trudged, my headlamp lighting the way.  I stopped at the first hostel I encountered and jumped the fence when no one answered my persistent bell-ringing.  The sleepy and annoyed (and rightfully so) owner said he had no beds and directed me further uphill to Hosteria Izhcayluma.

Up I went.  And up some more.  I stopped to pee on the side of the road at one point and considered the possibility of camping out by the side of the road until first light.

But I kept on.  Smart girl I am.  Yeah, sure, arriving in the dead of night with no map or clear understanding of where I was going.

When I saw this sign, I nearly cried tears of elation.  “You can do it, girl,” I told myself.

And, “You got this, Stace.  Just a little more.  C’mon.”

And so it was, a few minutes later, that I found myself fast asleep in a hammock because there was no one in the inn when I arrived.

My (free) bed

Backpackers Have Guilty Pleasures Too

It must have been the three overnight bus rides and the twelve hour all-day Bolivian bus ride that led me into the Puerto Iguazu spa requesting a massage.  Frankly, my body hurt so badly that I didn’t care how much it cost.

While I generally don’t do a great deal of walking with my big backpack, which now puts up a fight every time I go to zip it up and move on to the next destination, there are times when I’m weighed down by my things, all of which are bursting with demasiado cosas, for twenty of thirty minutes as I look for a hostel or choose to walk to the bus terminal instead of springing for a taxi.

The hour-long, seventy Argentinian peso massage was worth the break from the backpacker scene, despite the fact that the same amount of money could pay for two nights in a hostel with free Internet and desayuno included.

About a week later, I found myself in Cordoba with badly chipped toenail polish (my last pedicure was in Lima in mid-August) asking around at various peliquerias, “Cuanto sale por una pedicuria?”  When one woman quoted a price I deemed too high even for a backpacker in search of gratifying her guilty pleasures, I moved on, determined to find a place that matched the prices stated by the local girls of Argentina whom I’d asked.  Soon, I had myself an appointment for a pedicure and a decision to make about colors.

Last week, I cashed in on a very special gift from my friend Denise and her family.  On the day that I was scheduled to fly to Sao Paolo, Brazil and commence my 9-12 month journey around South America, I opened my email one last time before saying goodbye to my Brooklyn apartment to find a Travelocity virtual gift card to be used at any number of hotels around the world.

Somehow, I managed to wait a full five months before taking advantage of this extremely generous gift and checking into my fancy hotel room in Mendoza, Argentina.

I wonder what the hotel staff thought when I showed up looking not like their typical clientele to be sure with my dusty backpacks, wearing faded navy blue shorts and flip-flops, appearing, no doubt, slightly dissheveled after the twenty minute walk in the intense sun of the morning, stating that I had a reservation.  Although I’d claimed that I wasn’t going to leave the solace and luxury of my very own hotel room complete with private bathroom containing fresh towels, tiny soaps and shampoos, I changed my mind once I saw the lounge chairs surrounding the pool outside and peeked into the spa and noticed the hot tub.

And, of course, how could I not desert the king-sized bed for a little while in the morning before my check-out to partake in the breakfast buffet included in my stay at Tower Suites.  After getting used to the typical Argentine breakfast of pan y marmelata y cafe con leche, I was like a heartbroken woman who’d recently decided that food would be her comfort in the dark days following a painful breakup.  Watching as other guests took meager portions of the bountiful spread offered, I began with medialunas and cafe con leche, returning for cereal with milk, another pastry, toast with dulce de leche, and then finally making a sandwich with the ham and cheese and butter on offer.  I stealthily pocketed a yoghurt for later and a couple of packets of butter to spread on the crackers I always have on hand.

I boarded my next overnight bus believing that the massages in Argentina rivaled those in China (where, at $10 USD, I’d indulged frequently last January during my stay), pleased with my red toenails and smooth feet, and refreshed following hours of alternating between channel-surfing and dozing from my post on the fluffy pillows, curious about the guilty pleasures of other frugal travelers.  I’m listening, er, reading…

Minor scrapes and bruises

Although Marcelo had arranged for a car to take me to the bus station, where I was confident I could pick up my pre-purchased ticket and board the correct bus to Arraial do Cabo, a beach town a few hours from Rio de Janeiro, when the driver arrived, he expected to be told where to go.

“Omnibus…” I said.  Then, “Estacion?”  He seemed to understand omnibus (bus), but instead of driving along, he pointed to the right hand lane where the city buses were lining up and making stops.  Clearly, he hadn’t understood.  In a panic and not wanting to miss my bus–for how to explain in extremely limited Portuguese that I ought to be able to use my ticket for a later bus–I furiously whipped out the few pages on Portuguese phrases I’d torn from Lonely Planet and tried again to explain where I needed to go.  Smart driver, he stopped outside of a hotel and found someone who spoke English to assist us, and we were on our way.

My bus station experience was simple, and I boarded the correct bus at the right time.  I had a dorm bed booked in Arraial do Cabo, and I was anxious to find my way to the hostel from the station in Arraial do Cabo as I knew it was only about a ten minute walk.

Unfortunately, I stepped off the bus too soon, and because things are not clearly marked in Brazil, I didn’t see any signs indicating that I was actually in Cabo Frio and not Arraial do Cabo.

Several friendly cab drivers, despite their not speaking English, informed me of my mistake.  One man, Luiz, spoke English however, and when he started to tell me that I’d have to pay another R$26 to take a bus to my desired destination, I felt my eyes well up and my throat tighten.  I knew I was close to where I wanted to be and couldn’t justify spending the same money for a twenty minute ride as I’d just paid for nearly three hours on the bus.  And, besides, I’d asked the bus driver, “Arraial do Cabo?” when I’d gotten off the bus, and I could swear he’d nodded.  I should get the ride for free, I thought indignantly.

Indignation led to frustrated tears and Luiz asked me in clear English why I was crying.

Why was I crying?  I wasn’t scared.  I trusted the cab drivers.  People were trying to help me.  The first two men had found the only English speaking driver to talk to me, and now this kind man was offering to save me the trouble of purchasing another bus ticket or attempting to find my way on a local city bus.

But, I was displeased with myself.  All I’d wanted to do was make an independent move, find my way, get it done.  On my own.  If I couldn’t get to where I needed to be this time without any hassle or snags–a short trip compared to the ones in my future–how was I ever going to make it to around South America by myself?

Wiping my face, telling Luiz I was just tired, and inwardly blaming my (over)reaction on hormones, I talked Luiz into taking me directly to the hostel for R$15 instead of the R$25 he’d suggested.  He agreed, and twenty minutes later I was taking a hot shower and minding the not-so-small red ants who occupied the space with me.

In the end, I made it to where I wanted to be, and I also learned a valuable lesson (one of many more to come, I’m sure):  just because everyone else is getting off the bus, it doesn’t mean it’s the last stop or my stop!