El Dorado

A few months ago I made the decision to travel overland from Argentina to Columbia, the end point being Medellin.

So that's what I did.

I left Buenos Aires and visited wineries in Mendoza.

I spent time in the hills of Valparaiso, amidst the brightly colored homes, where I saw Pablo Neruda's house and drank at communist-themed bars.

I stayed in a notorious neighborhood in Santiago where Senor Pinochet liked to conduct his torture sessions -- and I made out with a girl there.

I travelled across the highland desert from northern Chile to Bolivia in a jeep. At 10,000 feet the stars are so close that you can make out entire galaxies. At least that's what it looks like, but I don't really know what I'm talking about. But I do know there isn't anything quite like a Bolivian sunrise over an expansive salt flat -- or being chased around a salt flat by an ostrich.

I made friends with British people, made friends with Australian people, made friends with Swedish people, made friends with Italian people and made friends with locals.

I spent time in La Paz, spending my days holed up in pubs chatting with British expats and even danced with a trannie at a night club. One evening there was even the inevitable visit to the most famous speakeasy in all of Bolivia, possibly the world.

I spent a couple days at Lake Titicaca (ha!) where I hiked across an island the Incas believed to be the birthplace of the sun. As it turns out it is not the birthplace of the sun, it's just an island.

I got drunk on a bus from Bolivia to Peru and ate carved lamb served up by girls on the side of the road.

I lived in Cusco where I spent time at more pubs and made friends with a 73-year-old ex cocaine smuggler and author who was learning to take life a little easier ("I stopped doing coke two years ago!"). I missed Connecticut senator Chris Dodd one evening at the bar, but assume he did what any white tourist does with a free evening in Cusco: get fucked up on pisco sours and try and fuck any of the myriad locals that hunt gringos with money in nightclubs.

I threw up on a van ride to Machu Picchu and then actually visited Machu Picchu. I even almost died of exhaustion climbing Machu Picchu's little -- and far higher -- brother, Huayna Picchu.

I saw almost every Inca Ruin in Peru and am still baffled that, with all their feats of engineering, those little bastards never figured out the wheel.

I ate ceviche in Lima and had my brain fried by oppressive heat in a northern Peruvian town called Iquitos.

I travelled up the Amazon in a speed boat and spent a couple days on the tri-borders of Brazil, Peru and Columbia.

I revisited my favorite bars in the La Candalaria district of Bogota. I spent time with a girl who works as a nurse in the cancer ward of a hospital, making about 600 dollars a month to watch children and old people die every single week; experiences that definitely color her outlook on life.

And I ended up here in Medellin, the city of the eternal spring and old stomping ground of one Mr. Pablo Escobar. I was only supposed to be here for two weeks but it's now been almost two months. I stay in a cheap hotel in filthy downtown and deal with the days here because the nights are a ceaseless parade of booze, drugs, women and debauchery. The nights in downtown Medellin are dangerous and it's only by sheer luck that I escape some of the more precarious situations I occasionally find myself in. But they are experiences I won't be able to have when I go back the U.S. so I will continue to happily gobble them up until I travel to the Colombian coast in a week or two.

I said this city would be my end point on a transcontinental journey but I don't really feel like ending anything. I feel like another country so I'll be heading off to Panama before returning to L.A. for a few months.

But I'm sure it won't be long before I head off again. Maybe to Brazil or Asia. It depends on how I feel at that particular moment.

But I know I won't be in L.A. long because the last time I was there I lost three years of my life. I'm not interested in losing another three.

Los Angeles doesn't offer anything I want anymore.

And in closing this miscalculation others refer to as a blog, I should say that I am done with the whole thing. I only wrote this post because I didn't want to leave it with that awful last post about dogs.

I have never read a travel blog in my entire life that wasn't complete garbage. I'm certainly not doing anything to change that reality so I may as well at least try to rise above the self-importance and mediocrity that seems to be a hallmark of anyone that thinks they have something "important" to say about the act of travel ("I've learned so much about myself...", "I caught the travel bug early...").

Words from people don't do it justice. So it's best left alone.

And even if there was something important to say, why would I want to hear about it from a moron fuckhead like you?

Or me.

My Lite-Brite Nights And The Dogs Of Valparaiso

Over the course of my three weeks in Valparaiso I saw around a hundred different stray dogs, and that was just in the areas near the house I was staying at. The number of stray dogs in total that are running around that city is probably in the thousands. Of course, within a couple months most of them will be dead from malnutrition and their offspring will take their place for a brief period until they eat it, too.

I’ve seen all different kinds of breeds and mixes, from feral huskies to mangy labs and one-legged mutts. Some are missing eyes and others have a useless hind leg or two from that time they got clipped by a car. Since their only sustenance is garbage they have become finicky eaters that won’t even touch regular dog food or hot dogs if you put it in front of them (I know, I tried to do it). To sum it all up: they’re born, have a very brief, misery-filled existence and die on the street about a decade before their time.

The thing I always admired about Latin America is that most of the countries within it are so poor the people have to keep their priorities straight. After all, it doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to crusade for the poor neglected puppies when there are two-year-olds walking around the street by themselves at midnight and begging for change before they‘re even old enough to phrase the question. In places where people live that hard, where basic human dignity is a luxury most can’t afford, and a single piece of beef can mean your kid doesn’t go hungry, the very notion of animal rights is a slap in the face.

People in these places have a hard enough time keeping their family’s heads above water without worrying about pets. It’s sort of the opposite where I come from. In Los Angeles there are many people who place the well-being of a sea scallop above that of an immigrant. And I’m pretty sure there are plenty of people who, if you gave them a choice of saving all the stray dogs in Valparaiso or saving the life of one Chilean who died in Concepcion, would take a frighteningly long period of time to make their decision.

But I think the dogs got to me because Chile is a South American success story. Chile emerged from a dark dictatorship and over the last two decades has become an economic powerhouse in the region due to government reforms and the people’s strong work ethic. In Valparaiso I didn’t see kids begging for change and there are far less homeless people there than the thousands that live near the shit-hole hotel I called home for about a year in downtown Los Angeles. So in the end what you have is Valparaiso, one of the most beautiful places in the world, populated with friendly people who are starting to have the economic opportunities many in my country take for granted, and the whole place is peppered with dying dogs.

Even I have to admit that it is a less-than ideal situation.

People can talk about the animals that are smarter than dogs that I actually eat, and I’m sure they’re right. But something I do know is that there are few other animals born that need a companion as much as a dog. Like a battered wife they’re willing to stand by your side even if you mistreat them. You just have to be around. And if you are they’ll give you tenfold the affection you give them. There’s something particularly unsettling about so many of those kinds of animals born into a world that wants nothing more than to kick them in the teeth repeatedly for a year or so and then have them die alone, in pain and unwanted. But not quite as unsettling as the kids that are born that way, I guess.

I realized after I tried to feed the dogs that there isn’t really anything to do about it. It’s shitty, but it’s the way it is. At least the Chileans are nice enough to pet them when they’re close. It may not sound like much but I guarantee you even that little gesture means a lot to the dogs.

So I went about my business in Valparaiso. I worked, spent time on the patio and enjoyed my view, went to Pablo Neruda’s house, wandered the hills, got drunk at local bars with my new communist friends, listened to live Chilean hippy folk music, listened to performance artists talk shit on my country while simultaneously giving me the stink eye, and gorged myself on amazing seafood (not readily available in Argentina).

And every night for three weeks I would look out my window into the hills that were lit up with thousands of red and yellow lights, just like the toy I had when I was a kid. And each one of those nights, under the Lite-Brite canopy, there were dogs dying in the street...

Valparaiso is beautiful and I'm coming back as soon as I can.

Into The Quake

Into The Blue was a movie that was released in 2005 and was about physically attractive stupid people who fuck each other and look for pirate treasure.

That isn’t exactly what happened in Chile, but Paul Walker, one of the stars of that movie, doesn’t seem to understand that. He came down here a few days ago (I’m pretty sure without a shirt on and carrying a harpoon) to lend a hand with the relief effort. Which is great news if the poverty-stricken, newly homeless, bereaved survivors of the quake in Conecepcion, Chile want to know how to get past the doorman at Skybar, or are curious as to what Tyrese Gibson is like in real life. Maybe Paul can share celebrity tips to maintaining a flat stomach while still eating carbs.

Hopefully what happens -- and I mean this sincerely -- is that he shows up in Southern Chile, shuts his stupid fucking actor mouth, helps clear some debris and gets back to Equinox and Pinkberry as fast as possible. That’s literally the only way he can help. If he does anything other than that then I hope he gets burned in a refinery fire.

For my part I arrived in Valparaiso a few days ago after an 8 hour bus trip across the Andes. I was shaken down at the border for about 100 bucks from an Argentine border patrol agent who didn’t like that the new passport the U.S. embassy in Argentina gave me a few months ago didn’t have a stamp in it. So it was either pay up or hole up in the middle of a barren mountain range for god knows how long. The biggest problem was that there weren’t any ATM’s at the checkpoint and I only had about 60 bucks on me. I had to borrow the rest from the bus driver and pay him back once we got to Vina Del Mar. He was nice enough to give me the money but wasn’t exactly happy about it. I was kind of surprised he did help me out. Even though I’d like to think that in my home country a bus driver would be nice enough to bail out a foreigner with money problems… I’m not so sure it would actually happen.

But that was the only speed bump. I met some Chileans on the bus and had dinner with them once we arrived. It was great not just for the company but also the city. Valparaiso is a UNESCO world heritage sight for a reason: It’s fucking awesome. It’s kind of like if San Francisco, Marina Del Rey and the Hollywood hills got together to form a city and decided no white people could live there. It’s all beautiful old multi-colored houses on stilts with twisty cobblestone roads winding their way up into the hills and tiny cafes nestled in small hillside plazas. And every one of them has an ocean view. At the moment I’m writing this on the front patio of my guest house with a nearly panoramic view of the entire city and port below. It’s so nice that I’ve already extended my reservation for another week.

I guess the strangest part about it is that the earthquake didn’t really affect the city. I’ve seen a couple repairs being made, and heard of damage to a few buildings, but for the most part everything seems fine. The real tragedy occurred in the south, where I guess things aren’t quite as pretty and people aren’t quite as lucky.

Or maybe not. After all, those who survived the quake do get to meet the guy from 2 Fast 2 Furious.

Mendoza, Argentina

It's been almost four years since I strapped on the backpack and took off across Latin American countries. It's taking me a little bit to get my bearings and remember how to do this. And after nine months of the soft life in Buenos Aires the overnight buses, zero sleep and shady hotels are all taking there toll -- and this is only my first stop. To make matters worse I'm even more out of shape than I was when I was 27 so my  bag fucks with my back and my lack of stamina limits me to short distance treks when I've got that fucker strapped on.

But I'm lucky that my first stop is this sleepy university town smack in the middle of Argentine wine country. With it's wide boulevards, leafy overhangs, lush green parks, giant fountains and cafe culture it is about as pleasant a place to spend a few days as one could hope for. It's such an insanely well-designed place that the city planner deserves to be fellated every hour of every day -- even if he is dead.

And I thought I had seen college girls before -- until I came to Argentina. It's a subject not even worth broaching because what can you really say? It's like the playmates and supermodels came together to start a college and the only rule was that you couldn't bleach your hair.

The thing that sucks about the situation is that I have to spend about five hours of my day working, but I guess there are worse offices in the world than a patio table with a pint of Quilmes at the ready and a never-ending stream of Argentine girls passing you by. And I've still got the weekend. After my work is finished tomorrow I'll assault this city like only a pasty out-of-shape alcoholic with a giant forehead can. And then there's the Pac-Monster fight on Saturday. I'll be somewhere for that, losing my mind and giving my country a bad name. Then it's off to Chile on Sunday...

For a little dose of reality and tragedy.

A Stiff Wrench In My Ass And An Oversized Dick In My Plans

Nine months was a good stretch but it’s time for a change of background scenery. Even in a city like Buenos Aires, where everything is alive and moving 24 hours a day, it’s possible to stagnate. So I’m off.

I’ll miss the city and the people.

I won’t miss the North Americans who’ve swarmed here like locusts and are doing their best to turn this place into Cancun south.

I’ll miss the food.

I won’t miss my menopausal nutjob bitch TEFL instructor.

I’ll miss the nights here.

I won’t miss the fat, non-contributing coke addict with whom I interviewed for a shitty job writing scripts for his stupid ad company’s stupid language CD campaign and who I later saw drunk and high in a bar, gyrating to a rock ballad and performing a vomit-inducing dance/mating call for a girl across the room.

(Note: His name is David Garrett and he looks like a date-rapist and he sucks so bad and I hope he gets prostate cancer and his future wife has a miscarriage and then he gets run over by a panel van.)

I’ll miss the city itself.

But I’ll get back sooner or later. For better or worse this place has its Porteno claws in me and will always be home.

Which brings me to where I’m going. Now that I’ve found gainful – albeit mind-numbing – employment I was planning on flying to Los Angeles to see friends, but the bottom fell out of that idea when I realized I couldn’t get a ticket out of here for less than six or seven hundred dollars. To get that kind of money I’d have to supplement my current gig by prostituting myself to wealthy Argentine aristocrats. While that’s certainly an option, it goes against the firm decision I made some time ago that I would never allow my body to be violated for money. In the interest of full disclosure it should be noted that I made this decision right around the eighth time I allowed my body to be violated for money.

So the reality is that I have to get to a place on this continent where I can catch a flight to California on the cheap. I’ve turned the idea over in my head a few times and I keep coming to the same conclusion: Medellin, Columbia.

Now for those out there with less than a cartographer’s grasp of South American geography, Medellin is on the opposite side of the continent from where I currently reside. So I’ve got a bit of a hike ahead of me…through earthquake-ravaged Chile, across the highland desert mountains to Boliva, around lake Titicaca (ha!) past Machu Picchu and North through Peru to Quito at the top of the Andes where I’ll catch a plane to Medellin, that little El Dorado nestled between lush green mountains at an altitude with a year-round climate of about 75 degrees.

It sounds pretty good and I think I’ll enjoy the place – provided I don’t get murdered, drugged, raped, or some combination of the above while on my way there. To make things even more attractive I only have one source of income right now and that situation is tenuous at best. That means if I lose my job while on the road I will be more fucked than all of those who have been fucked before me. But I've managed to survive the results of every stupid decision I've made in the past -- and this won't be any different.

When Ernesto Guevara finished his trip all those years ago, he came out of it having been transformed emotionally and with a desire to dedicate himself to a cause. If I survive the same trip and come out the other end I probably will have had my laptop stolen and contracted an STD.

We all make our own way in this life.

Ciao putos!

Interview With Cat

A couple of days ago I was able to sit down with my roommate’s cat (I don’t remember its name) and conduct an interview. Marcelo, the owner of the cat, has been visiting his father in Brazil for the last couple of weeks, leaving me and our other roommate (a 21-year-old Finnish exchange student) to take care of it.

Over the course of two or three hours the cat and I touched on many topics, broached a few otherwise taboo subjects, and aired some grievances.

Below you’ll find a transcript of my interview with cat.

CHRIS WALLACE: Thanks for taking the time to sit down with me.

CAT: Sure, I’m glad to be here.

CHRIS WALLACE: Just out of curiosity, did you have any other plans today?

CAT: No.

CHRIS WALLACE: Do you have plans on any day of the week?

CAT: I don’t know, do you?

CHRIS WALLACE: Let’s move on. I have to confess that I had an ulterior motive in asking you here today.

CAT: Really? What?

CHRIS WALLACE: I’m sure you may have picked up on some hostility I’ve directed towards you in my two months in this apartment.

CAT: You mean all the times you told me to shut the fuck up and called me a fat asshole?

CHRIS WALLACE: Among other things, yes. I was wondering if you might have any insight into why I’m behaving like that.

CAT: Because you’re a faggot.

CHRIS WALLACE: What?

CAT: I think you heard me just fine.

CHRIS WALLACE: I don’t think resorting to… I can’t think of the word for it… when you engage in an argument and just call the other person –

CAT: Ad hominem attacks.

CHRIS WALLACE: Thank you, yes. I don’t think resorting to ad hominem attacks is going to help us bridge our common differences.

CAT: Well what is it when you call me a fat asshole?

(pause)

CHRIS WALLACE: That’s different.

CAT: Why? Please explain how you calling me a fat asshole is any different than me calling you a faggot?

CHRIS WALLACE: Because you were acting like an asshole. And you’re fat.

CAT: And you’re acting like a faggot… and you’re a faggot.

CHRIS WALLACE: let’s get back on track. Marcelo, your… I don’t know what you would call him… your father?

CAT: He’s not my fucking father.

CHRIS WALLACE: Master?

CAT: This isn’t Amistad. I’m not a fucking slave. Do I look fucking black to you?

CHRIS WALLACE: I really don’t know.

CAT: I do what the fuck I want, when the fuck I want.

CHRIS WALLACE: Which is part of the problem.

CAT: What do you mean?

CHRIS WALLACE: Every time I leave my room you’re waiting outside and you yell at me.

CAT: I yell at you?

CHRIS WALLACE: Yes. Well, the cat version of yelling anyway.

CAT: Really? And what does that sound like?

CHRIS WALLACE: (imitating meow sound) Like that.

CAT: First of all, I don’t sound like that. Second of all, did you ever think it might be because I’m hungry?

CHRIS WALLACE: Yes I did. Ever since Marcelo left for his vacation I think I’ve been very diligent in feeding you.

CAT: You call that shit food?!

CHRIS WALLACE: It’s cat food! It’s from the store!

CAT: I don’t give a fuck where it’s from, I’m not eating that shit!

CHRIS WALLACE: Which, once again, is part of the problem. If you don’t want to eat the food that’s given to you, that’s your decision, don’t complain to me.

CAT: Yeah I guess you’re just too busy drinking and doing coke by yourself in your room to worry about whether or not I get fucking fed.

(long pause)

CHRIS WALLACE: I don’t –

CAT: The fuck you don’t.

(pause)

CHRIS WALLACE: Don’t try and turn this around on me. You’re the one who complains all day long, irritating the fuck out of us.

CAT: What do you mean “us?"

CHRIS WALLACE: Me and the other roommate.

CAT: The Dutch guy?

CHRIS WALLACE: He’s Finnish.

CAT: What’s the difference?

CHRIS: Just that Dutch and Finnish people come from completely different countries.

CAT: You’re a real condescending fucking asshole, you know that?

CHRIS WALLACE: You could try looking at a map sometime.

CAT: Yeah, cause I’ll get so much out of it, not being able to fucking read… asshole.

CHRIS WALLACE: It would be more productive than sitting around all day complaining. You ever think about contributing something to the household besides whining?

CAT: You’re right. I’ll just go out and get a job. You think anyone’s looking for an obese mammal that’s a foot tall with an IQ of 12 and no opposable thumbs?

CHRIS WALLACE: You could always get elected to Congress!

(laughter)

CHRIS WALLACE: Am I right?

(more laughter)

CAT: Good one.

CHRIS WALLACE: But seriously, let’s change the subject. Do you think there’s anyway we can stay out of each other’s way for the rest of the time I’m here?

CAT: No. I’m probably going to wait outside of your door every day and yell at you until you give me something decent to eat.

CHRIS WALLACE: You’re not going to get a whole lot of sympathy out of people with the shape you’re in.

CAT: Now who’s engaging in ad hominem attacks?!

CHRIS WALLACE: You’re fat and you’re complaining about not getting enough to eat! You don’t see the irony in that?!

(pause)

CAT: It doesn’t mean you have to be a fuckin’ asshole.

CHRIS WALLACE: I’m sorry. Just stop being so abrasive.

CAT: I can probably ease back a bit.

CHRIS WALLACE. Thank you.

CAT: You going to the club tonight?

CHRIS WALLACE: I don’t have any money.

CAT: Oh.

(pause)

CAT: I saw 2012 the other day.

CHRIS WALLACE: How was it?

CAT: It’s a disaster movie, you know? A lot of shit blows up.

CHRIS WALLACE: Yeah.

(pause)

CHRIS WALLACE: Hey, I’m gonna’ run.

CAT: Don’t you want to know my name?

CHRIS WALLACE: No. Fuck off. I hope you die.

That was my interview with cat.

Reflections On Argentina, Friends, Booze, Drugs, Prostitutes And Farmville

A loft, hookers, coke binges, binge drinking, binge eating, barely legal girlfriends, fruitless job interviews, North American and British drug addict expats, sex on a swing, sex with my own student, Finnish hard-liquor, threatening to piss on my TEFL instructor’s face, gay Brazilians, straight Brazilians, Jewish Brazilians, Jewish straight Brazilians, attractive local naked drunk girls in nightclubs, unattractive fully clothed North American drunk girls in nightclubs, visiting white friends, visiting Mexican friends, self-hatred, low self-esteem, boxing, drug dealers and two different girls who drank to the point of needing to be hospitalized while hanging out with me.

It’s too bad it all had to end.

I checked out of the loft in October and am now renting a room in the Barrio Norte section of the city. It's close to Recoleta and far enough away from the exclusively North American neighborhood of Palermo for me to be happy. I did not, as I prophesized in my last post, run completely out of money -- although I will by the end of this month if I don't find a job. I've been on a couple of interviews that amounted to nothing and sent out about 2 dozen resumes. I wrote sample press releases for a guy running a real estate Ponzi scheme and I wrote ten pages of proposals for a coke addict pervert expat in Palermo -- both resulting in no job. This is shaping up to be a lean Christmas and if things don't turn around soon I'll be completely destitute and out on my ass before the Chinese new year.

Not that it really matters. The halcyon days in this city are behind me and it's time to think about moving on. I've had an event-filled six months, a real banner half-year that more than makes up for the two years of shit life I endured in Los Angeles. I'll remember these last few months fondly, now it's time for something else. Well, eventually something else. I'm staying on for the next three months to finish a personal writing project but after that it's either back to Los Angeles to make another run at it for a while (because I'm an idiot that likes to keep pressing the button that delivers the electroshock rather than the food pellet) or teaching English in Columbia. I'm leaning towards the latter because at least in Columbia -- even though I may be abducted and tortured by FARC rebels -- I'll have a job more rewarding than bringing morons their iced coffees.

Probably the last noteworthy event of my time here was when my friends from Los Angeles, Hunter and Peter, visited for two weeks. Some of the activities one or more of us engaged in were:

A) getting drunk

B) visiting Uruguay

C) getting high

D) eating asado

E) yelling at prostitutes

F) reading Graham Greene

G) getting thrown out of a nightclub

H) watching a traditional Argentine folkloric dance performance.

Other than that there isn't much to report over the last couple of months. Here's a brief summary of what's been happening since they went back to the U.S.:

I slept a lot.

I got drunk by myself.

I got high by myself.

I was depressed for a couple of days while sober.

I was depressed for a couple of days while drunk.

I was depressed for a couple of days while high.

I played Farmville sober.

I played Farmville drunk.

I played Farmville high.

That's all. 

Manny Pacquiao!