After getting transferring in Tena via a bus from Baños, Ecuador, I arrived in Misahuallí, with the temperature and humidity doubled. Stepping off the bus, a good foot taller and several shades paler than the rest of the occupants, here was the gateway to the Amazon. Only one problem though – I had no accommodation, no guide, zero wilderness survival skills, and no plan. Luckily, a wizened older local stopped to talk and welcomed me to Misahuallí. He asked where I was from, what I was doing, and what I needed. We walked around the town, checking each hotel for space, and upon finding a room for myself, went to find a guide. After a short search, for 100$, I obtained a 3 day/2 night venture, with the first day a trek through the Amazon, and the second tubing down the river, as well as a visit to a local indigenous community and staying with the guide’s family in their village. As someone who would perish immediately if lost in the wilderness alone, this was going to be an adventure.

Farcero and I set out the following morning. As he gathered supplies from his house, I noticed one in particular. As the Amazon has no trails, one needs a machete to cut through vines, webs, kill small animals for sustenance, and keep snakes at bay. So we set off, one local and one very out of place, sunburned, foreigner.

Trekking through the Amazon isn’t like hiking back home. For starters, everything can kill you. Farcero made this very clear as we would pass various brightly-colored bugs and plants. “That?” he looked over. “That’s 24 hours. Slow. And next to it, that beetle. Quicker, a few hours. And just to our right, about an hour”. Laughing the whole time. No way would I have survived on my own. Another time, as thousands of ants scurry underfoot, he pulls off to a tree and waves me over. Sticking the machete into the bark, he pulls it out and jams the blade in my face. “You know what a bullet ant is, right?”. And yes, right in front of my face, the animal with the most painful sting in the entire world. Farcero is laughing. My bowels nearly void themselves. I push the blade away, telling him I did know, but didn’t want one so close. And all those ants underfoot? The same.

Other aspects of the Amazon are quite cool, with a knowledgable guide. Farcero stuck his machete into what looked like an encrusted tuber, but opened it up, and it was a cacao pod. We snacked on the purest form of chocolate as he described survival techniques. As I was applying the hundredth layer of bug spray, Farcero jammed his machete into a termite nest for his own supply. If you let the termites run down your arm and rub them into your skin, they release menthol, which acts as a natural bug repellant. For once, it helped to smell like a pack of Newports. We ferried streams, I nearly fell in multiple times. In another section, it started to rain, but due to the canopy, not much fell through. One occurrence, due to the the rain turning the ground into mud, we had to scramble up a slope. After trying to grab a branch to steady myself, two brightly-colored problems came into view. Two very large, very poisonous spiders on either side on my head. “Emm, Farcero, can you get the machete?”. Needless to say, I didn’t die.

After we had trekked for some time, we stopped for some typical Amazonian cuisine. Baloney sandwiches. Yes, all over the world. We discussed life and living in the jungle. He preferred the quiet and isolation, I said I could not. Cushy offices don’t exactly lend well to outdoor survival skills. Farcero had served in the military and was a licensed guide. He lamented the lack of educational opportunities in these small villages, the bereft of well-paying work, and the absence of young people. The government was starting initiatives to provide employment and studies, but this was not to occur in the near future. Work paid sporadically, and although intelligent and well-connected, tours were completely random. He offered Ayahuasca nights as well, and showed non-hallucinogenic aspects of the ceremony.

After day 1 of not dying in the jungle had been completed, we set back off to his family’s house. To my luck, none of them spoke spanish – only kichwa, the indigenous tongue. And this is in no way related to spanish. Yet again, our conversations took place as a long-form game of charades. With only an outdoor shower and water tank, chickens and other small animals running amok, and a lack of doors, my third floor walk-up it was not. But this is all part of the fun – being able to live, if only briefly, in the same manor as an indigenous tribe in the Amazon. Fascinating, to say the least.

The following day, we headed off for another hike and tubing in the Amazon River. True to form, Farcero filled me in on all things deadly. “You’ll be fine. The anacondas are under water and only come out at night, the caimans are by the banks, and the piranhas won’t trouble you if you don’t cut yourself”. Excellent. We tubed in two blow-up tires, tied together by a length of rope, and paddled down the river. Hitting rapids and drops, the freezing cold water gave a sense of being alive. Since everything around could kill you. With all the foresight, I had brought my daypack, with wallet, phone, and passport inside dry bags. This was nearly for naught after almost capsizing after going over a rapid. I can only imagine how fun the call to the Embassy and to work would be, explaining an extended stay on the basis that my passport went overboard in the Amazon.

After finishing tubing, we docked the floats and went ashore to a local kichwa village. There, we watched women pan for gold. A few flakes would net them enough for shopping for goods at a nearby market. However, this work means bending over for hours at a time every day in the riverbank, sifting through rocks and the stream in hopes of a minor profit. Most of the older women suffered from back problems as well as poor posture. As some of the villagers only spoke their native language, Farcero translated. We watched the process of making a local drink and dish from the Yucca plant, common in the jungle. We were also brought local tools to test them out. I shot a ten-foot blow dart gun and failed miserably. Difficult to aim and even harder to balance, each shot was well off target. The darts themselves are coated with the venomous skin of the poison dart frog, and shot at small game for food. It was repeated how quickly I would die in the jungle. After that, Farcero and I conversed with a local about village life. It turned out that he had fought with FARC, or the Colombian Armed Revolutionary Forces. Slipping over the border, he spent a year fighting in the jungles due to believing in their cause. Once the armistice had been signed, he left and headed back to the village, where we met. It’s interesting to converse with mercenaries about their motivations and experiences. His was no different. For the sake of privacy, names have been withheld.

All things considered, the venture down into the Amazon was enlightening. Completely out of my comfort zone, and for a small price, the ability to experience a few wonders of the jungle and indigenous life was worth every cent. Head down to Misahuallí and ask for Farcero; the locals will know for whom you seek. Also look out for the monkeys that envelop the town. They bite.

 

Carnival(e) – the word itself brings to mind dancing, singing in the streets, partying, music, and enjoying life. Best known in Brazil, with popular variations in Cádiz, Spain and Venice, Italy, this festival lasts for days and is ripe with celebration, tourists, and a touch of hedonism. Carnival begins the friday before Ash Wednesday, and commences on Ash Wednesday, which begets Lent. The name “carnival” itself comes from latin, “carnelevare”, meaning to remove meat. However, this is not observed during the festivals themselves. Cured and smoked meats are just too tasty.

This trip revolves around the Italian version – called Carnevale and held in Venice. This name change is due to the fact that Murphy’s Law does not translate into Italian. As it goes, the entire theme of the weekend was “if it can go wrong, it will.”

I transited to Venice by way of Milan, where a friend was on exchange. After a night in Milan, we headed off en route to Venice and supposed craziness. This is where everything started to go poorly. The first notice wasn’t even in Venice; it was getting to the Milan train station. My friend lived around 40 minutes from the central station, and any reasonable person would wake up early to ensure boarding the train. However, we left at 11:25 for a 12:10 departure, needing to walk, tram, and metro to the station. As luck would have it, we arrived to the train station at 12:05. Not the platform, the metro exit. Making Usain Bolt look slow, we took off sprinting for the gate. Hopping on the train just as it was pulling away from the platform, we were finally Venice-bound. A few hours later and conversing with Italians who had also gone on exchange, we arrived. During a festival, the cheapest accommodation usually sells out months in advance. My friend had booked two nights before, ensuring we would be lucky to get the pick of the lowest value, sordid, and likely uncomfortable. Onwards.

We had dropped our bags off in the unheated room and set off to eat and take in the nightlife. To my later surprise, nothing of note happened. It wasn’t until the next day, when, finding out that only one night had been booked at the hostel, we were to either return to Milan or seek alternate arrangements. Such as street camping. In February. Taking the best approaching, worrying about what to do later, the group set off to explore Venice, take in the jovial atmosphere, eat as much pizza as humanely possible, buy a mask or three, and pretend to fit in to the historical ambiance, backpacks and all. Though the afternoon went on without a hitch, we suddenly had to make a choice: return home to Milan, ride the rails until morning, sleep in the train station, or find a bench.

We decided on the last option. Returning to the station at 7:47 pm, there were two Milan trains – an 8:00 and an 8:10. Picking the latter, we stopped for a slice of delicious train station pizza and waiting. At 8:03 pm, my friend got a call from his roommate, who had joined us last-minute. “Where did you two end up?” Responding, “we’re waiting for the 8:10 back to Milan. Try and catch that” to which his roommate yelled “…the 8:10 is an ARRIVAL. You missed the last outbound train to Milan at 8!”. Merda. 

Luckily, there was an erasmus event in the nearby town of Padova and with yet another 8:10 train (outbound this time), his roommate got to the station at 8:07, bought tickets, and was on the train a minute before departure. And yes, the train did leave on time. One problem remained. We were en route to Padova, but with not only no knowledge of where the event was, but also lacking a place to sleep. Fortunately, a couple seated next to us gave the location, so one of the problems was solved. The next step was finding accommodation that wasn’t located in a public transit stop. After pulling out our various phones and checking hostelworld, airbnb, booking.com, and others, no results populated. Somehow, turning around, there was a hostel located one block from the train station. We paid 65 euro to pack four people in a room the size of a pantry…I slept on the floor.

Finally, with bags dropped off, we headed to the event. Located in a club in an obscure corner of the city, the night started out well. Then, well before closing time, someone turned all the lights on. Yes, clubbing in zero darkness is exactly as much fun as it sounds. Needless to say, everyone emptied out. Beats sleeping on a train station bench. Getting up in the morning, we missed our check-out time, but didn’t think much of it. As everyone was packing up, the cleaning crew entered and seeing four people in a room clearly fit for two, began shrieking in Italian. It was go time. Everyone grabbed their pack and bolted, one staggered after another, to appear as if we came from different rooms. Before able to leave the building, the manager pulled my friend aside and charged him for another night; what a separate room would have cost.

Having a few hours before the train to Milan, we decided to wander the city. Of course, we stumbled into a gambling operation. TVs streaming sporting events in analog quality from around the world, currencies from what seemed to be half of Europe, and enough languages to pass for the Tower of Babel. This is not the restaurant you’re looking for. After looks, gestures, and a few threats, we decided to move on. Getting to the train station early for a 5:40 pm train, we waited. And waited. And waited. In typical Italian fashion, the train showed up…an hour later. Amidst the chaos, an idea was floated to catch a train towards Genoa and transfer somewhere from there, but it was not acted upon.

Pulling into the station, the train looked oddly packed. Although Padova was only the second stop after Venice, the amount of passengers standing, sitting, and packed together was more akin to a third-class train in the developing world. With nary a free space, we rushed the door, the last ones on. Despite having purchased tickets and reserving seats, there was no path to the heated cabin. Too many people had merely hopped on the train to Milan, not bothering to obtain fares, which meant all of the legitimate passengers had to wait. In the storage/transit compartment between the heated cabins. Standing, with nowhere to sit. Unable to take the backpacks off. And in a cruel twist of fate, the train took an extra hour and a quarter to arrive. So for three and a half hours, we stood, in the frigid passing compartment, looking hopefully upon our taken seats. Finally, the train had arrived into Milan. Running into the compatriots who shared our first leg cabin, my friend and I headed straight to his apartment for a drink and to avoid anything else that may have gone wrong. This was not without realizing we arrived too late for public transit, after hopping on a tram…that wasn’t even running. Finally, to the universe’s credit, the taxi after did not break down and the only inconvenience was an expensive fare. Who doesn’t love the 6.50 euro starting meter?

Even being delayed, the plane back to Madrid the following day landed safely. And apparently, Easyjet has cleaner seats than the hostel. As it turns out, the first room we had was occupied by another guest. Bedbugs. The only thing worse would have been food poisoning, a canceled debit card or two, and a backpack in the canal. Somehow, we got out without losing anything else and although frustrating, Carnavale was one for the memories. Though next time, make sure to book everything well in advance and learn the Italian gesture for hitchhiking. Carnavale, mi scusi. Arrivederci.

 

 

As travel becomes more and more advanced, cheap, and accessible, lesser-known cities are becoming discovered and therefore flush with modern conveniences. Those of you who await a Pyongyang McDonalds may still live to see the day. That being said, there’s something romantic and adventure-worthy about long-form overland travel. In the age where a metal tube can take you from one hemisphere to the other in a few hours, the overland journey is becoming more and more convoluted. For those who would prefer to reduce their carbon footprint and take the ease out of flying, here are a few routes in which the modern vagabond can follow in the footsteps of legends such as Marco Polo, Alexander the Great, and Ibn Battuta. Strap on your pack, tie your boot laces, and ready your voices to complain about the endless bribes and unforgiving border crossings to endure on these majestic adventures.

Our first stop is that not of recent internet infamy, but rather an ancient gateway to goods and knowledge – the Silk Road. Though unfortunately not one defined path, the legendary Silk Road was a series of trade routes that stretched from Xi’an in China all the way to Istanbul, nearly 8,000 kilometers. Brought into popularity by a certain Marco Polo, this path trafficked through Central Asia, the Middle East, and the South Caucasus, traversed by caravans and camels. Caravanserai, or inns, served as means for rest, conversation, commerce, and eating.These Caravanserai were positioned within a day transit of each other, around 30-40 kilometers in distance. Camels aren’t exactly know for their agility. As a result, trade flourished and diverse products from both East and West swapped places to populate their newfound homes.

Every aspect of civilization was dispersed throughout this road. Technology, science, philosophy, language, and architectural influences were swapped amongst travelers. Spices, gunpowder, and paper came later Its flexibility and usefulness adapted trade demands to local needs and up throughout the 19th century, was still functioning as a commercial route. Perhaps Amazon will build a warehouse there next.

Art and religion spread as well. This can be seen in the (rest in peace) former Bamiyan Buddhas, which were destroyed during the Taliban rule over Afghanistan. In addition, Christianity, Zoroastrianism, Hinduism, and Islam found roots in various locales along the route, such as Western China and the entirety of Central Asia. To this day, Central Asian nations are predominately Muslim (East) and save Tajikistan, speak Turkic languages. Travelers and merchants alike would absorb products and religions, carrying each back to their homeland, and creating footholds for each to flourish. Entire cities were developed as trading posts and rest stops, many of which still hold significance today.

In the present day, the main route would look something akin to this. Afghanistan is currently off-limits, as are certain areas within the Northwest Frontier Province (NWFP) in Pakistan. Unless of course, you possess a small army.

Quickest: China – Kyrgyzstan – Uzbekistan – Turkmenistan – Iran – Turkey

Scenic: China – Pakistan – Tajikstan (via the Wakhan Corridor) – Uzbekistan – Turkmenistan – Iran – Armenia – Georgia – Turkey

With three to six months, an intrepid explorer should be able to cover the route in detail and leave room for excursions, getting lost, transport breakdowns, extended questioning, and low quality roads that make bumper-to-bumper traffic look fast.

Naturally, there are plenty of divergences. The Karakoram Highway (KKH) takes one into the Hunza Valley and through untold mountain passes and crystal clear lakes. This area is completely secure, due to isolated villages and heavy police protection. These villages were historically mountain kingdoms and ruled by local mir. Nowadays, one would see a more agrarian scene, with shepherds and other nomads tending their flocks. However, this is only one pass of the KKH. The KKH connects Gilgit-Baltistan, Punjab Province, and Khyber Pakhtunkhwa with Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region, home to Kashgar and its famed night market. The Khyber Pass is unaccessible without special permissions and a likely military escort, so forget about transiting to Kabul.

Sadly, transit through Iran is not possible for all passports. For Americans, Canadians, and British Nationals who don’t want to pay for a guided tour (the only way to get into Iran these days), there is a ferry across the Caspian Sea from Turkmenbashi to Baku. The only problem is, the ferry may not run at all. Poor luck for those sprinting across Turkmenistan – a transit visa is the only work-around for avoiding stuffing government coiffeurs, which lasts anywhere from 24 hours to 5 days. This is at the discretion of customs officials, so be sure have a deep “gift” basket. As Central Asia is composed of former Soviet-block countries, their bureaucratic standards reflect quite literally an iron grip. Visas are expensive and numerous, and due to communist-era salaries, checkpoint guards and police will need to be curried favor with. Bring cigarettes. Lots of cigarettes. And booze.

All in all, this route is difficult, but can be accomplished with money, time, and mental fortitude. Crossing East to West will bring forth a melding of languages, customs, cultures, cuisines, landscapes, bribes, shoddy roads, scenery, and more. Highlights include the Taklamakan desert in Xinjiang, trekking the KKR and the Pamir Mountains in Pakistan and Tajikistan, visiting the ancient scholarly Uzbek cities of Bukhara and Samarkand, the wonders of Eshafan and Persepolis in Iran, the Gateway to Hell in Darvaza, Turkmenistan, Ushguli and Mestia in Georgia, and the literal continental fusion in Istanbul. Note: many cultures are conservative in nature and learning norms will go a long way in preventing offenses and potential injury.

Before disembarking, it’s crucial to have some knowledge of Chinese, Persian, and Russian. Bonus points for Urdu and other Turkic languages. English will not be as widespread and learning basic conversation will ensure a more enjoyable journey. For those with an adventurous spirit, boundless patience and a desire to retrace the footsteps of ancient merchants, the Silk Road is one for the ages.

Recommended reading: The Travels of Marco Polo by Marco Polo and The New Silk Roads by Peter Frankopan. The former describes the explorer’s journey in depth while the later goes into the history of the various kingdoms and empires that existed along the route.

Over the past few years, I’ve had the opportunity to partake in some incredible trips, resulting in countless memories – the good, the bad, and the mundane. Here’s a brief list of my top 10 experiences on the road, of which posts will be written in further detail.

1. A motorbike tour in Central Vietnam that included being kidnapped by teachers for lunch and a birthday celebration with the drivers’ family for one of his daughters.
2. Trekking in the Ecuadorian Amazon and partaking in a homestay with an indigenous family in Napo.
3. Biking into the mountains in Nan, Thailand to meet hill tribes and witness their way of life.
4. Witnessing the starry night light up the desert in Wadi Rum, Jordan after partying with a group of Jordanian Christians – spontaneous invitation and the host’s sister had lived in the same city I went to University in.
5. Partaking in an 8-course feast of snake in the aptly-named Snake Village near Hanoi, Vietnam. Cheers’d a table of locals with bile (part of the meal) and in return, they bought beers as we all exchanged toasts in our native tongues and took too many photos to count. Note – always know the local variation of “cheers”.
6. Watching Real Madrid play FC Barcelona live at the Estadio Santiago Bernabéu in the 2013 Copa Clásico in Madrid, Spain.
7. Sharing beers with a formal FARC rebel after shooting a blowdart gun poorly in the Ecuadorian Amazon.
8. Riding in a Trabant as part of a Crazy Guides Communism Tour in Kraków, Poland and being transported back to the days when the Iron Curtain imposed its will on Europe.
9. Being nearly ran off an impasse in the Rif Mountains near Chefchaouen, Morocco due to coming close to entering a suspected opium plot and being run over by a herd of goats.
10. Having to utilize google translate in Khmer to process an order and check on the status of my meal in a karaoke hall/biergarten in Phnom Penh, Cambodia. I ended up with spare ribs and a fly & ant curry.