Hey stupid, my testosterone levels are at 159

• Today I peed on a cactus on top of a pre-inca Pucara, or fortress. Some might say that’s a little disrespectful, but I say I’m reconnecting with the ancient natives in the only way I know how. Think about how many people have probably peed on that cactus before me…
• This was a serious thought I had today while walking to the Pucara: “Oops, I Did it Again is definitely my favourite era of Britney Spears.” Seriously, go watch that music video again and tell me it’s not awesome.
• My girlfriend left for england for two months yesterday. I wont see her till June. In a way I’m relieved because now when I’m home I wont have to choose between catching up with her or Lost season 6.
• My camera was stolen in Iguassu Falls. I had some really sweet photos from the falls and I’m super bummed I lost them all. I bought a bunch of disposable cameras the other day so at least I’ll have something from the end of my trip.
• Except for a small group of people (you know who you are), I like the Toronto Blue Jays more than you.
• Canada in Portuguese means Nothing There. Ca Nada. A British guy told me this so I told him my joke about Britons. yeah, the one about cheerios…
• The funny thing about backpacking is you love it as long as there aren’t other people like you around. The moment there are more tourists than locals, something is triggered in your brain and you’re just filled with spite and hate. Now I know what you’re thinking, “…But Colin, you’re just a crotchety old man, deal with it.” Trust me when I say every backpacker feels this way, and loves telling other backpackers about it.
• The other funny thing about backpacking is that it’s incredibly self-defeating. You constantly hear “Oh, you need to go to Columbia, its incredible! Just make sure you go in the next 3 or 4 years. After that itll just be another tourist trap like Peru.” The act of going there just fuels the descent into trapdom. I’ve already had people tell me Venezuela is the next Columbia – and Columbia is still considered cool!  Eventually well have to start backpacking the moon; maybe if we figure out how to breathe under water we can trek through Atlantis.

I got back to my hostel, packed and checked my email then went for a walk. Nothing big, just down the street until I found a nice front step to sit on. The step was some kind of smooth white stone, two or three blocks away from the hostel. Its edges were chipped. The door it led to was wooden and hadn’t been painted in years. It had that dead, grey feeling that only comes with time and neglect. It looked boarded up but I could hear voices inside. I sat, inspecting the door and writing when two girls came and entered quickly. It would’ve been awkward had they taken any longer. I sat and wrote some more. The voices died down and I sat and wrote some more. Eventually it got cold and late so I walked back to my hostel. The door was open and 2 people were sitting on the front step smoking. They leaned out so I could squeeze past them and I nodded hey, thanks as I went in. I went to my room and did my best to fall asleep. It wasnt easy but I managed.

I woke up the next day just in time for the hostels complimentary breakfast. I drank a cup of coffee and then checked out. I walked north along Calle Gabotto, my big rucksack on my back and my small day pack on my front. The morning was warm and bright just like you expect every day in South America to be. After a few blocks I saw a parked cab with his windows down. I stopped and said “Amigo, You… uh..” I pointed at myself then at his cab, towards Avenida 18 de Julio  then back at the taxi. He said something in Spanish and pointed to the open door behind me. I left to find another cab. I walked to the next intersection, just in time to flag down at taxi speeding along.  I got in and said “Terminal de Omnibus. Bus Terminal.” Como?  “Trayze Crusez?” I said holding up 3 fingers. Ah Treis Cruces, si. He flipped on the metre and we sped away. 

We got to the terminal and the metre read 35. The driver pulled out a laminated chart full of numbers and their corresponding prices. Treinte-cinqo, treinte-cinqo he mumbled trying to find it. Ah, treinte-cinqo. Setenta-nueve pesos por favor.  About 4 dollars and something cents. The exchange in Uruguay is something like 19 to 1; I don’t really crunch the numbers too hard until I’m spending 400 or more pesos at a time.  I paid the man and went into the air conditioned terminal. I found the right bus company and waited in line. A minute or two past and it was my turn. I got up to the window and said “Holla, Que tiempo la bus a Punta Del Diablo?” Quatro. “Y La Paloma?” Dose. ”Y Atlantida?” No hoy – not today. I looked at my watch, it was 10. I looked back at the woman and back at my watch. “La Paloma por favor.” Punta Del Diablo is nicer, but La Paloma was quicker and left sooner.  With my ticket in hand but no breakfast in my belly, I went to the terminal restaurant, La Moustaza. I ordered the Desayuno Americano. Breakfast in South America consists solely of croissants and or buns and coffee and I gave it up pretty quickly. I try to order the Desayuno Americano – American Breakfast – as much as possible. It’s this goofy take on scrambled eggs and bacon; it’s never like back home but I like it better. I need to figure out what they do so wrong because its great.

It was 11:45 so I paid and went to the platform. The bus ride was short and I slept most of the way; maybe that’s why it felt so short. I had 2 seats to myself. After a couple hours the bus stopped for a while and some people got off. I didn’t know where we were but  I rolled the dice it wasnt La Paloma.  There were still people on the bus and La Paloma would be the end of the line. I looked out the window and on the banner hanging off the street light we had parked beside was the word “Darcy” followed by some more Spanish stuff. “Hey, that’s my girlfriend” I thought. I smiled. It was a stupid coincidence and our whole relationship is more or less  one stupid coincidence after another. Thats life, I guess, its funny like that. 

We started rolling again and soon we were in La Paloma. The bus station was big and cool and at the edge of town along a forest. The tourist office was inside; I spoke with the kid running it and asked where are the hostels, where are the beaches? His English was as small as my Spanish so we got along splendidly. I stayed at a hostel a few metres from the beach. The kid told me it was the most expensive, about $20CAD, but it was close to the beach so fuck it. The kid was  my age maybe but could’ve easily been younger. It’s weird speaking with kids around my age. It reminds me of how lucky and how weird I am. When I dwell on it I want to go home; I think I should be home with my mom waking me up in the morning because I slept through my alarm and was late for school again. Instead I’m 6000 miles away in La Paloma, Uruguay. So it goes, Kurt Vonnegut used to say.

It was a 20 minute walk from the station to the hostel. I checked in and walked across the street to see the beach, to look out on the Atlantic. Looking out on the ocean is a funny thing for me. In Concepcion, Chile I looked out onto the Pacific and imagined China was just over the horizon; In Ushuaia, Argentina it was Antartica; and in Uruguay it was Africa, just out of sight and just out of reach. Maybe just over the horizon some kid was doing the same thing I was. Maybe he left home for the same reasons and looking for the same things. Maybe he’s even got a girl back there too. He could be having the time of his life or he could be miserable as shit. I don’t know.  Who knows? Who can say that they ever know -  I dont know.

What I saw was a young boy who roughly 600 years ago curled up in a little ball  in a cave on top of a nearby mountain as part of a sacrifice to some god. The Incans  sealed him up and that was that.  Such is life,  so it goes.  I tried to wrap my head around the fact that 600 years ago this icicled body was a living, breathing person, a few years younger than myself. I tried to grasp that his frozen corpse used to party and sing in the shower and make out with his girlfriend and laugh at the stupid shit that only made him laugh – or at least the ancient equivalent of all that stuff. I tried to but I couldn’t. I looked at him from all the possible angles; I squinted to try to see his eyes, shaded by his hands up against his face; I even leaned forward over the railing, my face almost against the glass, trying to get as close as possible as if that would help any. It didn’t. I tried to see that soul extinguished, but I couldn’t. It looked like any other  dopey museum facsimile.

Apparently the Incans believed they were sending him to be with his ancestors, not just to his icy grave. I’m sure that  must have been a great feeling for the kid; at least he froze to death happy, ya know? I’ve read that one of the Incan emperors captured by the Spanish converted to Christianity a few hours before his execution.  If I make it to heaven I wanna hang out with that guy.  Something tells me he´s not who Mitch Alblom had in mind when he wrote that little book of his. (Yes, I know he’s not talking about specific people, and no I havent read the book, the Wikipedia synopsis I just read  makes it sound even worse than I imagined though.) Wow, I hate Mitch Alblom.

The other day I rented a bike and rode along the coast to find a nice beach to lie on. When I checked into my hostel the girl gave me a map of city. I asked her were the best beaches were, I pointed to the one closest to us, only a few blocks away and asked if it was good. “No, that beach is the most ugliest,” she said “the best beaches are further… east.” I thought she meant further east in Montevideo but it turns out she meant further east in Uruguay. The beach I stopped at was murky and dirty. Bottle caps and receipts were scattered in the sand. You had to sit where high tide had been to find a clean spot. On either side of me though I was alone for a few hundred metres, I liked that. I took off my shirt and shorts and waded into the Rio Plata in my boxers. I got just past  knee deep and stopped. The water was cold and brown. I went back to my stuff and layed down in the wet sand using my bag as a pillow. I covered my face with my shirt, put my hands behind my head and did my best to fall asleep. I couldn’t though. An hour passed and I was hungry. I gathered my things and rode down the street to a restaurant on the beach. Another hour passed. I paid and started riding home. I didn’t realize how far I had ridden until I climbed up a hill and the city unfolded out before me. “Fuck me,” I cursed  as I passed a “Bienvinidos a Montevideo” sign. I was in Scarborough and I needed to get back to Mississauga. A few hours later I slowly pedaled up to my hostel.  I showered, watched soccer and took a well deserved siesta.

Later that night I went out for something to eat. I found a small bookstore cafe. The waitress and I think owner was a tall woman about 50 or 60. She came from the back of the store to the front. The woman moved slowly because of a limp in her right leg. I wanted to pick her up and carry her, not for my sake but for hers. Time strikes with such shattering force down here. It leaves you broken, aged in the worst way. They didn’t have any food so I just had a coke. I read my book and drank my coke and when I finished I walked down the street to an arcade. It was empty and old, everything from at least 10 years ago. I played pinball mostly. With my last token I went to the Street Fighter machine. I got really into it; I may or may not have called Chun Li a C-word when she kicked my ass .  I was frustrated and still hadn’t eaten.  I left and started seriously looking for a restaurant. Most of the places were closed for the holiday; it seemed the only ones open had the word Pizzeria in the name. I settled on some street meat. Chorizo on a bun. The guy said something in Spanish and pointed to all these toppings and sauces I´d never seen before. He had about 10 or 12 and I picked the ones that looked the least like diarrhea.

I ate the sausage and walked back to the hostel. I went into a bookstore to look for any english books.  They were right by the front, all 8 of them. The only one that stood out was called You Are Always Alone. It was an autobiography of the mayor of Budapest during the 50´s. He was twice democratically elected and both times overthrown by the  Communist revolutionaries. They jailed and tortured him and that’s when I stopped reading the inside jacket.  Your life has to be pretty rough to name your autobiography You Are Always Alone.

Im in Plaza de Mayo right now, sitting in front of a fountain turned off, looking out onto the Pink Palace. The plaza is full of pigeons and garbage, signs and banners from the national holiday cum riot the other day. The birds are fearless and plump. A woman across the fountain from me, laughing with her daugther, has caught one in her hands. Earlier I saw some tourists taking pictures of pigeons landing on their outstretched hands, grabbing at bread crumbs. Pigeons.

An old man sits down beside me carrying a plastic bag. Out of it he pulls an envelope and from it dumps 3 thick metal circles into his hand. They look like how I imagine pacemakers to be. He inspects them carefully and satisfied, puts them back in the envelope, and the envelope into his shirt pocket. Sitting upright he folds his hands and looks forward, the Pink Palace in the distance. A pigeon in front of me shits then stretches his wings as if he´s yawning. I look back at the man and hes wiping a tear from his cheek; he closes his eyes to dam up the tears then mouths a short prayer or something. My stomach drops and my eyes well up a wet of their own. I look back at the birds. A pigeon walks on top of the fountain´s spout and as if he steppped on a switch, water starts gushing out. I look back over to the old man and our eyes meet. I smile and say “Holla.” Holla he smiles back then says something more in spanish. “Lo siento, my solo hablo ingles.” Im sorry, I only speak english. He says “Ahh” and repeats what he said just slower. “Lo siento, no comprendo.”

I look away, over at the couple making out to my left. The girl opens her eyes and looks at me. I squirm and feel bad for the guy.

The old man says “My name, is, Tom. Thomas.”

“Tom,” I say “my name is Colin.” We shake hands. The breeze is spraying water from the fountain onto us and the couple. Tom says something and points to the banners around us. They say things like “Memoria Sin Olvido,” “Federacion de Veterannos de Guerra” and “Prohibido Olvido.” He points to them and smiles. He asks me something about Buenos Aires and I stupidly say “Buenos Aires es muy bien” He laughs warmly and says “Good.” He gets up to leave and we shake hands again.

I guess Buenos Aires does have time for yesterday.  She just chooses to remember in her streets and plazas rather than stuffy museums. I came to Plaza de Mayo because I wanted to see the Madres de Plaza de Mayo, a group of woman who march daily through the plaza asking the government for information about their children abducted during the dictatorship in the 70´s.  It was a dark period of  time, the scars from which you can still see today. Maybe Tom bears some of those scars or maybe not. I dont know and its a shame I couldnt find out.

By the way, Olvido, according to Google Translator, means obvlivion, omission, forgetfulness or absentmindedness.

1. Use the Buddy System! When possible try to have at least one other person coming from or going in your direction; Cars are more likely to run over one person than they are two. There´s strength in numbers. If possible try to link up with a hot girl or an old woman, or an old, hot woman. i figure these people are the least likely to get run over.

2. Pick and choose your battles. Just like Kenny Rogers says: You gotta know when to hold em and know when to fold em. Know when to walk away, and know when to run.  You might think he´s singing about gambling, but really its Jaywalking. Sometimes that bus is just too close and speeding too fast. Dont risk it with a simple walk, sometimes you just gotta run.

Thats it. Apply those two techniques to your jaywalking repetoire and I guarantee youll get to the other side safe and friggin´ sound.

I call this recipe Chileno Hashbrowns, not because theyre hashbrown, but because its just easier to call them that when someone asks me what Im making. In reality its just a bunch of potatoes and onions fried up in a pan. I put this together a few weeks ago camping beside the Cerreterra Austral highway, a few miles south of Coyhaique, Chile. Like most things I can cook, it is stupidly simple.

Required Ingredients

• 4 -5 potatoes, or enough that when you throw em in the pan your eyes pop out and you think “how the fuck am i gonna eat all this.”
• 1 medium onion
• 2-3 green onions
• 2-3 eggs, depending on how hungry you are.
• ketchup, lots [ketchup down here doesnt come in bottles, but in small plastic containers similar to that of capri sun, weird eh?]
• salt, the more the merrier

Steps

1. Chop up your potatoes and onions (small and evenly) and throw into a pan.
2. Beat the eggs like you would if you were scrambling them, pour into pan and swish around until they cover most, if not all, of the potatoes.
3. Cook until youre too hungry not to eat. Remove from heat and douse with ketchup and salt. if youre a man youll eat it straight from the pan.

To be honest, this isnt really that great but its cheap and fills you up. This cost me 13 pesos tonight, or, according to my awful division with a horribly outdated exchange rate, about 3.50 canadian. buwhayno. Besides, on the road the best meals you eat are the ones where theres so much food that even when youre halfway through it still looks like you havent started. This is one of the meals.

I check out of my hostel and go down to the beach. I take off my shirt and lay out on the sand, staring into the Atlantic. An hour passes. I walk to the bus terminal and see the most beautiful pregnant woman Ive ever seen. I didnt think pregnant women could be so hot. My friend Alo explained to me that Agrentine women are very jealous  “because.. uh well, Argentine men are very dangerous.” I smell like sand and sweat right now. Im probably not very dangerous. Im 100 percent OK with that.

I want to settle down in Buenos Aires. 2, maybe 3 weeks. Then Uruguay, maybe up the coast into Brazil. I want to walk into an English language newspaper demanding a job. I want to ask if I can help in Alo´s garage. Maybe Ill take some Spanish classes.

I have Simple Plan stuck in my head right now. Welcome To My Life – the one where theyre blocking traffic on that bridge in Montreal. Its awesome. Somewhere out there, Simple Plan is some kids favourite band. Theyve managed to capture everything hes feeling and put it into song. Its basic and juvenile but good for them and good for that kid.

One of the drivers on the bus to Buenos Aires is a large old man. His grey hair is slicked back and wavey. He keeps a pink plastic comb in his shirt pocket. On his forearm is scarred tally marks  – 5 – pale, against his tanned latino skin. He takes my ticket and says “Welcome aboard.” This sure is a funny country. The bus is strangely quiet. No screaming babies or obnoxious phone conversations. Fast and Furious 3 just finished. I really liked it.

Outside the bus the ground and sky feel disconnected. The clouds are flat, layered on top of one another, moving unevenly towards the horizon. Theres so many clouds the sky is more white than blue, as far as you can see.

We drive past Ford dealerships and Esso stations. It feels just like home. I could be anywhere in Canada right now, anywhere along the Trans Canada, highway 1.” We drive Past refineries and small town diners, bill boards and highway distance signs – Buenos Aires 564. You can take great comfort in that until you look at the details – Buenos Aires 564 – then you remember youre 6000 miles from where you should be. Youre not heading home to bed but to a hostel filled with people youve never seen before. Its like another dimension down here. Things are close, but not quite right. It can really get to you if you let it. The wind and the clouds and the sun are the same, but its not quite right. We pulled into another bus station, Bahia Blanca. I get out for the fresh air because the bus is hot and stale. People are hugging and kissing; I look around but no one for me. The stray dogs are barking into the night, their noses to the ground, sniffing at crumbs. A bus pulls out and they chase after it barking, as if to say “Dont go. Youre not supposed to go.”

This morning I got an email from an ex girlfriend. She said “I don’t feel like I want to be in large groups of people today and have locked myself in my room.” She thought shed see what I was up to these days. I told her “I hope you get out of your room soon, because being alone never did anyone any good.”

On the longer bus rides they take pity on you and give you meals. Usually one or two, if youre trip is long enough you sometimes get 3. Some companies are better than others, but all are pretty awful. The meals are served on Hungry-Man style plastic platters. Lunch is always a bun with only ham, another with only cheese and a Dulce de Leche cookie. Always. Dinner tends to be a bun with ham and cheese you have to put on yourself, a platter compartment of cold, soggy rice and some kind of perverted pudding mix. Some companies also give a lukewarm main course (Andesmar, never Taqsa), usually some kind of lasagna stew. At first theyre hard to stomach but you grow to enjoy them. You anxiously await your dinner, killing time between movies by wondering what kind of mystery meat will fill your lasagna noodles. If it sounds gross, it is. You just have to remind yourself that even astronauts eat awful.

Some people have read Franz Kafkas The Metamorphosis and conclude that waking up is the scariest part of the day. It takes great faith, before you open your eyes, to assume that everything is the same as how you left it. These people have obviously woken up on a lot of buses.  In the Metamorphosis, Gregor Samsa falls asleep a man then wakes up as a giant fucking worm. Waking up on a bus is almost as bad. “What city am I in? Is this my stop? My shoes are in different places. Did I leave my bag unzipped?” Have you even woken up on a bus and not known what country you´re in? I have. On a bus ride from Puerto Montt, Chile to Coyhaique, Chile, the bus cut through Argentina because the Chileno highway isnt paved. I fell asleep and woke up in geographic limbo. Its scarier than youd think.

This is why I want to settle down in BA. I left Ushuaia, the tip of the continent, 3 days ago. Ive travelled over 3000 KM in 3 days. Ive seen literally every inch of Argentinas Ruta 3. Im tired. Take me home.

One day our bones will be in museums. The placards beside us will read “Homo Erectus circa 2000 AD.” Theyll tell stories of great science and exploration and people will marvel that we did so much with so little. Theyll see our bones hunched over computers or holding cell phones to our ears; their internal processors humming and whizzing, trying to understand the idea of external connection. Kids will grumble when they learn about the communication revolution, about the internet. Theyll learn about conquerors and warriors, not on battlefields but in boardrooms.

We will be simple people from simple times.

People will look back and say “Shit, they sure knew how to live. THey never felt this pit in their stomach or this weight on their shoulders, this isolation or this bitter disconnect. No, how could they? Back then their problems were simple. They lived together, worked together, laughed together. No we sit in silence, our minds connected but out souls apart. Were slaves to the impulses we thought we wanted.”

Yes, one day our bones will be in museums and our problems will be left in our graves.