“Sanne, come quickly, Rash is here!”, Warren shouts from the garage. Me and Marcel are already waiting at the kitchen table. The whole day I felt like a little kid on boxing day. After months of hard work and saving money at the farm, the big day had finally come: my very own van is about to arrive on my doorstep! ​

It was already back in Tasmania that I started to fall in love with van life. The freedom, the easiness, having your home with you wherever you go. Feeling like some scrambled eggs after shopping? Just get your groceries out on the parking and prep your lunch on the spot. Afternoon Tea at that beautiful lake? Just put the cattle on. Want to stay the night in that beautiful national park? Just fold out the bed. 

During a night shift at the dairy farm, I was completely away with the fairies while cleaning out the beds of my endearing cows. Daydreaming about my upcoming adventures through Australia. Where I wanted to go, where I wanted to work. What I wanted to do with my blog... All of a sudden the idea of buying my own van popped into my mind... What a freedom that would be... ‘But gosh no, buying my own car. Driving it by myself through Australia. That would all be way too hard for such a technical dummy like me!’ The thought alone of me trying to fix a tire on the side of the road, somewhere in the middle of the outback... I could never do something like that...

‘Of course that is not too hard for you!’ Dan, my housemate laughs, while nibbling on the gourmet chicken meal I just cooked for him. 'Just look on Gumtree. I’ll give you a hand. Don't worry, we will find you something good', he says while he takes another bite.
And so the search for a van officially made its kickstart. 

My budget didn’t give me too much freedom, nor the fact that I was living in Gooloogong, a place you probably never heard about (for good reason). After weeks and weeks of searching. Finding cars that were too old, too much work, too expensive, too far away. I decided to call in some assistance from Melbourne. Here the options for cars were endless AND within my price range. 
Warren and his stepfather were more than happy to give a helping hand by paying a visit to any of the potential candidates with their mechanic eye field and so EXPEDITION VAN was moved to Melbourne.  

An advertisement of a cute Mitsubishi Express caught my attention. A cosey looking white van. A little old, but fairly low in kilometers. Still lots to be done and quite a few rust spots here and there. 'Could this be the one?', I questioned myself... I showed the ad to Dan. ‘Yes could definitely be worth it. If you’re willing to put in some time and effort into fixing it.’ , he said. I took a little moment to think. ‘Hmmm... time... I’ll have plenty of time once I’m finished on the farm. Effort.. I’m never too lazy to get myself in some challenges. But can I handle a project like this? Me, who never even handles a driver...’ 

And so I sent Warren and Marcel on a mission.

‘We bought the car!’, Warren shouts through the phone. ‘What?!’ I asked him, ‘Really? Already? But you guys were only going over to look.’ I ask him with astonishment. ‘Yeah I know Sanne, but this car was too good to be true, especially for its price. The guys selling it is a mechanic and he promised to get all the mechanical parts of the car ready for Roadworthy, all you have to do is the rest. I just did a pre-payment, you can sort the rest out later.’..... ‘Sanne are you there?’ ... I just couldn't believe it! Did I really just bought a car?! Is it really going to happen?  
With a 'YOLO' mindset I decided to sent Warren and Marcel on a mission to go and check the car out. If it is ment to be, it is ment to be. Now it is up to faith to decide. 

Deadtired I return back home from a 12-hour shift the next day. My phone rings. It is Warren. ‘We bought the car!’, Warren shouts through the phone. ‘What?!’ I ask him, ‘Really? Already? But you guys were only going to have look.’ I ask him with astonishment. ‘Yeah I know Sanne, but this car was too good to be true, especially for its price. The guys who is selling it, is a mechanic and he promised to get all the mechanical parts of the car ready for Roadworthy. You only have to get it ready for REGO and make it into a campervan. I just did a pre-payment, you can sort the rest out later.’..... ‘Sanne are you there?.... Hello?’ ... I just couldn't reply. The words were not coming out of my mouth. I just couldn't believe it! Did I really just bought a car?! Is it really going to happen?' 

And now the big day had finally arrived. After finishing my last days at the farm and moving back to Melbourne, my car was about to get delivered on my doorstep. I quickly put a jacket on and run outside. There she is, a gorgeous white van. She has some rust spots here and there, but I couldn't care less at this moment. I give Rash, the former owner a hand. ‘Nice to finally meet you Rash.’ I say.  He hands me the keys. ‘There you go. She is yours.’, he says while putting his hand on his heart as a friendly gesture. I look at Warren and Marcel. ‘Well, what are you waiting for, take her for a little drive around the block haha.’ Marcel laughs. 
I step into the car (yes on the right side) and put the key into the ignition. I turn it around and .... brrrumppppuppupupup..... brrrrumpppuppuppup... she starts! The sound of the engine is deep and loud. It reminds me of the old days, when my parents took me camping around Europe when I was a little kid. 
The butterflies are spreading through my stomach. I’m completely overfilled with joy. Slowly I lower the hand break and let her roll off the driveway onto the road. I turn right, and right again. I love the fact of sitting so high up. Looking over the road like a princess on her throne. ‘And do you like it?’, Marcel asks. ‘Like it? I love it! I feel as free as a bird! Royal almost! Now I am truly a Dutchess. A Dutchess on her throne on wheels!’  

With special credits to (English) Dan, Warren and Marcel for putting so much time and effort into making this adventure possible for me. You guys rock my world!

It is pitch black outside. I rush towards the kitchen, quickly stuff a sandwich in my mouth and run off to my bicycle. It is only 3:45 AM. Way to early to be in a hurry, but unfortunately the usual story nowadays.

Every morning I start my shift at 4 AM. Which leaves me as little as 15 minutes to take over from my colleague at the moment. The farm I am working at the moment is so big (5500 cows) that milking needs to go on 24/7. The operation never stands still. Therefore,  everybody needs to stay on their post until the new workers arrive to take over. Coming late is therefore NOT DONE!

Like every morning I cycle down the long lane towards the farm. Which is, even though on the same property as our house, still 2 kilometers away. It’s a bumpy road. Normally the moon and my ‘made-in-China-light' on the front of my steering wheel give me enough sight, but this night there is no moon. Making me as blind as a bat.

Suddenly, I hear something rattling in the bushes and before I know it there is a big grey silhouette jumping in front of my bike. I squeeze the breaks as hard as I can, lifting my rear tire up in the air. I just managed to maneuver around it. The big silhouette quickly bounces into the field, followed by more, smaller silhouettes that rush after him…
It is the kangaroo family that grazes on the fields around our house at dusk and dawn. I take a deep breath to calm down, wipe off the dust from my pants and arms and quickly continue my way to work.

At 3:59, just in time, I take over from my colleague Charly. We briefly talk through all the important highlights from his nightshift and then it is time for him to set off to bed, while for me the day just started.
Every day we follow the same routine: Go to herd number 21  (around 500 cows), wake up the cows, clean their beds (yes cows have actual sandbeds to sleep in), bring them to the waiting pen, make sure they go through the parlour to get milked and then bring them back home again to repeat the same thing with all the other herds. Every single day again.
 
Time flies by and before I know it, it’s already 5.30. I notice that Jeff is still running around. “He Jef! Shouldn’t you be home already? Who is taking over from you” I shout at him. “Ah it is Mike, but he must have slept in again. They’re trying to get a hold of him, but he is not picking up his phone.” Jeff shouts back. “Ah damn Jeff, that’s shit. But hey. Cheer up buddy! At least you have some leverage to get him to work for you on my birthday, so you can get off for the party!” And I give Jeff a thumbs up. Jeff laughs and raises his thumb in the air as well. “I’ll definitely refresh his memory when it comes to that stage Sanne!”, he says before he quickly runs back into the parlour to assist one of the milkers.

I only have to get a small herd in now and these ladies (the nickname I use for the cows)  are very easy to handle, which gives me some extra time to help the milkers. Once all the ladies have walked in the waiting pen, I shut the gates and I walk down the rotary (a massive turning caroussel-alike-construction, where all the cows stand on to get milked).
To my surprise, I see my always cheerful Dutch roommate and colleague in tears. 'He Marit, sweety, what's wrong with you? Is work stressing you out?' I ask her. She gently shakes her head while the rotary keeps on spinning, forcing her to keep on milking "No Sanne, it's Mike. He has been in a car accident this morning and ... he is ... he passed away Sanne ..."
It is like the earth underneath me is shaking. I cannot believe it. I don't want to believe it. I look at Sally. Her cheeks are also covered in tears. Thomas, one of the newbies, looks in shock while he keeps on connecting the cups. I take a step back and smash my fist against one of the panels. I can not believe it. His chocolate bars are still in the laundry room. He had kept them for today. So he would have some extra snacks for his long shift.
Yesterday, Marit and I had joked around with him, before we went home. "Bye Mike, see you tomorrow!", we said. And he laughed, waved back and shouted, "See you tomorrow!". And now there was no tomorrow...and he would not come to work anymore. Not today, not tomorrow, never. Oh gosh and his children, and his girlfriend. There are a thousand different thoughts flying through my head. Like time stands still and at the same time, work just keeps on going. It's a bizarre contrast. Too harsh to be true. As if he could simply walk in at any moment...

The days pass by. It moves me to see how a tremendous loss like this, brings people together. Colleagues that never spoke with one another, suddenly give each other a hug, a tap on the shoulder, a cup of warm tea. Also in the backpacker house, there is a great support for one other.

"Do you maybe want to stop at the spot where it all happened?", asks Amy, an Irish colleague, and housemate. "We'll drive pass it when we go shopping anyways.", she says. I hesitate but agree it would be a good closure.
We stop at the tree. There are still small car parts and pieces of metal scattered around the place.  Behind the tree is a beautiful fairytale meadow. There is a group of horses grazing against a background of green hills ... it is almost like he drove straight into heaven. I raise my eyes to the sky "Goodbye Mike, thanks for all the laughter, the fun, the jokes. Thanks for everything."

"How was it yesterday?", Thomas asks the next day. "Yes, unreal, still unreal. But a good way to give it some peace of mind", I answer him. Thomas nodds his head "Yes, I think we all take life for granted most of the time. It's so normal to wake up in the morning and start the day. But life is fragile. We have to embrace it. Appreciate what we have and who we have around us. Because it can be over at any moment. Even during a simple drive to work."
Thomas could not have been any more spot on. I gaze out of the window. It is a beautiful day. Nathalie asks me to take on an extra shift, but I reject it. Today I'm not going to work anymore, today I'm going to take a nice walk, enjoying the sunny weather. To celebrate that I am alive. To take a moment to message my friends and family. To tell them that I love them and miss them and that I am gratefull to have them in my life. Because life is more valuable than anything and I am not taking it for granted anymore.


In memory of Mike and all those who have lost their life too early.

To ensure the privacy of all colleagues, the names of all the people in this episode are modified.

`Oh my god! That is insane! Look at those colors!` I shout out enthusiastically to my fellowship in the campervan. The sun is slowly setting in the valley. Leaving a spectacular sight of red and gold in the sky. I quickly pull the campervan over at a viewing point so we can properly suck in this breathtaking sight. 

The gateway to heaven a.k.a. the door to my hotel room opens.... my jaw nearly drops to the floor. My hotel room seems to be copied and paste from a travel magazine. It’s been a very, very long time ago that I have seen a hotel room like this from inside. There’s a kingsize bed in the middle, a massive wardrobe on the side and an over-luxurious bathroom. I put my suitcase in the corner, take a deep breath… run towards the dream bed.. jump the last meter, turn around in the air and land with my arms wide on the silky soft sheets. I burst out in laughter. What a contradiction with my life a few weeks ago…

Immediately after my epic fail with job application attempt 564, I had put a post on Facebook. That evening every forum and Facebook group had my face on it with ‘Wanted: Parttime Job!’ underneath it. I got overwhelmed with helpful advice and recommendations. The one that surprised me the most was a phone call from my boss, where I already had a job for two short days a week. “Hi Sanne, sorry to disturb you outside of office hours, but I saw your post on Facebook. I don’t think it will be a very good idea if you work for somebody else besides Backpacker Deals. It will make you lose focus. It will be a big financial risk for me, but I would love to hire you for 4 days a week from next week on.”…. (silence)….
I could barely believe it. For 2 months I had been cycling the legs from underneath my body to make enough money to buy groceries and in my spare hours, I applied my life away for almost every vacancy available throughout the city. And now, out of all possibilities out there, my current job seems to be solution…. “Ow and Sanne. There is going to be a big conference up at the Gold Coast in a few weeks, I want you to go there and represent the company during the Backpacker Awards.”
My life just couldn’t be any more perfect at the moment…

After a long (rain) shower, extensive prepping up in the bathroom and enjoying the fact that I could roam around the room on my bare feet (what definitely was not the case in most hostels I had been before), I feel like I am born ready to rock the conference.
I show the lady at the counter my business card of the company and she welcomes me to join the breakfast buffet. My eyes nearly pop out. The dining hall is about the size of Amsterdam Central Station. There’s bread, fruits, vegetables, cold and warm meats, dairy products, fresh juices, coffee, tea and so on. “Is there a limit?” I ask the lady behind the counter. She giggles. “No miss de Groot, you can take as much as you like”, she tells me with a smile. I give her an astonished look back. “Pardon me asking, but how do you know my name?” I ask her. Her eyes drop down towards my chest. My eyes follow hers, looking down. “Ah… hahaha sorry! Of course, my name badge!” The lady laughs again and gives me a wink. “Enjoy your breakfast miss de Groot!”

It is a week filled with activities, lectures, drinks, good food, networking and more. I’m enjoying every minute of it. From my newly met friends, all the new things I’ve learned and everything that is coming up.

To make the most of my trip I kept the upcoming weekend off to have a little holiday. An idea I happily made notice off amongst the local tour operators. Before I knew it I got offered a private room at Bunk Hostel, a kayak tour with ‘Kayak the Gold Coast’, surfing lessons with ‘Let’s go surfing’ and a full day of hiking with Kaylene from Rainforest Tours through the Hinterlands. To top it up I give myself a day at the local zoo as well (once a zookeeper, always a zookeeper).

All these positive vibes need to be celebrated with a good glass of wine. So I decided to put my best party outfit on, put on a nice piece of art on my face (make-up) and make my way downtown.

“Yes hello, pretty lady! Could I offer you this voucher for a free drink in our bar?” I hear one of the promo boys say. I recognize his voice, but can’t really say from where… It is a strong posh British accent, somewhat softened by a significant amount of marihuana.. it is not… no, it can’t be... I turn around, put my sunglasses on the tip of my nose and look straight into the face of… “Max?! Oh my god Max?! Is that you?!” The promo boy lowers his sunglasses as well. There it is, the face of Max, my former housemate with whom I was sharing an apartment in the tiniest and most remote town of Colombia: Capurgana! Max had fallen in love with the San Blas islands and worked as one of my assistants for a while (see blog 'rain brings rainbows').
“What Sunny! No way! What are you doing here down under?”, he asks while he gives me one of the firmest hugs I ever had in my life. “I can ask you the exact same thing brother!”. We look at each other for a short while and then just burst out laughing. “Oh my gosh… it is a small world, after all!.” Max agrees… “Come Sunny, let me buy you a drink”, Max says, while he pulls downtown.

We enter one of Max’ favorite bars, order some food and drinks and start on to our long extensive catch-up. We talk for hours and hours. About my life, his life, life in general. Max tells me about his peculiar time at one of the world’s most prestigious yacht rentals. Where he had worked as a private butler for a great variety of the rich and the famous. He always had to fulfill the most bizarre wishes. 24/7. “From taxi rides in helicopters to some of the world’s best DJ’s for a private party to Russian escorts to acrobats from Cirque du Soleil for a kids party. I’ve had it all.”
I’m highly fascinated by all of Max’ stories. “And now you work as a promo guy for clubs and bars. How are you finding it?” I ask him. “Ow Sunny, I hate it. I hate it severely. People throw their beer in my face. You hear NO the whole day. It is horrible. BUT I have my freedom back now. I can do as I want, work whenever I want. Just a few more week and then hopefully I’ll have enough money together to travel around Asia.”

I tell him that I personally find that one of the hardest struggles while living like nomads. Always being flexible. Ranging from having plenty of money to having to eat dry bread for days in a row. Not knowing what is going to happen tomorrow.
“Yup Sunny, that is all part of the game.” Max responses.  “You can never live in such a UP like us, without facing the DOWNS. That is the price we pay for an adventurous like ours. Otherwise, you can't call it an adventure, can you? Then everybody would give up their boring 9 to 5 job and hit the road."

Max definitely nailed that one… My start in Australia was hard, but that was just the price I had to pay for the UP I was in right now. There will be a down again somewhere on the way, but time will get us out of there too.

The waitress comes to bring the bill. Max hands her his credit card. I stop him. “No Max, please. I’m in my UP now. Now it is my turn to take care of others. Your turn will come again once you are back in yours. I hand the lady my creditcard, without any nerves or concerns. It is nearly pay-day. My first full-time salary since a long time. My financial crisis is over for now. Can't wait to see what else this UP will bring along on this new adventure!

​My phone is silent.. still silent. I’m getting grumpy, it’s been nearly an hour since I had a call to pick up a delivery. In the meantime, it started bucketing down with rain. Luckily there is a big place to shelter in front of the supermarket. My raincoat has given up the fight against the weather and slowly starts letting the raindrops go through. Completely wetting my clothes. It is nearly 11 PM, I’m already biking around since 11 in the morning. ‘Come on, please. Just one more delivery! At least give me enough income so I can buy my groceries this week!’, I shout helplessly to my Samsung. As if the gods were listening, an order pops up on my phone. ‘Yes! It’s just around the corner!’ I quickly put my phone in the holder on my steering wheel to navigate, put my helmet on and hit the peddles like my life is depending on it.

​‘There you go. Two American burgers, one big portion of chips and two coca cola.’ The lady behind the counter hands over the bag of food to me. I swipe the screen to see where the delivery needs to go. It appears to be all the way to the other side of town, about 20 min away and from there 30 min to get back home, rewarded with $12, way below minimum wage, but at least better than nothing.
 
Completely drenched up to my underwear I knock on the door. Two boys open the door. I put my best smile on and hand over the bag of food. Unfortunately, it was not worth a tip for them…
 
It is already been three weeks since I arrived in Melbourne. The day after my arrival I managed to get a super exciting position at Backpacker Deals; a travel deal website. An amazing chance to learn more about web design, management and marketing & PR. The only downside: it was only for 2 days a week. With the extremely high cost of living, this would not even be enough to pay my weekly rent for my room. Thank God that Robin, Maggi, Sarah and Jim; my housemates, stepped in and offered to put in $10 each a week to support me with the rent.
To get some extra dollars together for groceries, I spent my free hours on my bicycle to deliver food with UberEats. The pay is tremendously bad, but at least I have the freedom of working whenever I want and it allows me to pay for my shopping until I find a better solution.
 
Robin had already given me a helping hand with my resume and email addresses, websites and contact details of various recruitment agencies. I apply for any interesting position I can get my hands on. Gardener, receptionist, waitress, bartender, postmen. I apply for jobs at hostels, hotels, car rental services, money exchange offices, etc. But all without success.
 
Then, one day, I spot a part-time position at a doggie daycare. The job is absolutely perfect. `Give it your best shot Sanne!`, I tell myself and with my head raised high, I start writing my application letter and pimp up my resume till it reaches true perfection.
Nothing beats a personal meeting, so on a beautiful day, I decide to step on my bike and start the 35-kilometer bike ride to the doggie daycare so I can hand over the letter and resume in person.
 
I prepare myself a little lunchbox and pack up some extra snacks and fruit for on the way. I quickly stop at an ATM and withdrawal $30 so I can buy myself a little treat on the way home.
 
The ride is absolutely stunning. It follows the river and passes many parks and little-protected areas.
At one of them, I stop for a little picnic break.  I get my lunchbox out and enjoy the sunlight on my face and the birds singing in the trees.
When I return to my bicycle, my happy mood drops to the ground. The front tire is as flat as a pancake. Those wee little f*ckers that just passed must have stabbed my tire… According to Google Maps, it is about 10 kilometres to the nearest bike shop… in the other direction. I decide to play it hard and buy a little pump at a local discount store for $10. The remaining 8 kilometres to the doggie daycare I spent with stopping every 5 minutes to pump up my tire. `It is just a test to see how badly you want this job Sanne. Work hard play hard`, I keep telling myself.
 
A little more than an hour later I finally arrive at the Doggie Day Care. I park my bike around the corner and grab the folder with my letter and resume neatly folded in it, out of my backpack. `Alright, Sanne this is it. Shoulders back, chin up and a big smile, you can do it` I tell myself and press the doorbell. Nothing is happening. Again. Nothing. I take a step back and look around. Then a big sign in the corner catches my eye. 

​The sign says.
I have look at my phone. It`s just 15 minutes past visitor hour. `Shit!` Luckily there is a number I can call.
 
`Doggie Day Care Juliette speaking.` the lady says. `Yes hello. This is Sanne speaking, Sanne de Groot. I saw you have a position available at the moment and thought I just pop by to hand in my cover letter and resume and introduce myself in person.` *a moment of dreadful silent* `I`m sorry dear, but I have the vet visiting at the moment. I really don`t have time for this at the moment. Just send us an email and we`ll get back to you.`  Before I could say anything back, the lady already hangs up.
Out of pure frustration, I tear my resume into pieces and toss them in the bin. Then pump up my front tire for the 500th time and start on the long journey home.
 
“Hi, how r ya?”, asks the man behind the counter, when I enter his shop with my bicycle in my hand. Google maps had directed me to his shop as it was on the way back following the bike lane along the coast. “Yeah I`m good, thanks. Uhm… just a flat tire.” “Ah, no worries mate. Little Ronnie will have that all fixed up for you in a minute. Just take a seat and your bike will be ready in a minute.” The man says while he walks around the counter and is ready to take my bike to the workshop. “Oh, that is very kind of you, but I was wondering if you just have any repair kits for sale. I only have $20 on me, so I can`t afford to get it fixed. I`m more than happy to do it myself.` The man puts both his hands on his hips and gives me a funny look. “Honey, please we are in Australia! We don`t repair tires here, we just replace them. Let me guess.. you must be Dutch.” And he burst out laughing. To not make the situation any more uncomfortable I decide to giggle along. “Ow gosh, you Dutchies are some funny stingy people. Sweetheart, if you just make us a nice cup of coffee for me and Ronnie, then we`ll give you a new tire for $20, how does that sound?”
 
Half an hour, one tire and 2 cups of coffee later I leave the shop with a fixed bicycle. “I can`t thank you enough Sir! This is beyond kind.” We say our goodbyes and I continue my way towards the bike trail along the beach.
 
It is stunning weather, almost summer alike. Families are walking in the sand, couples are walking hand in hand, a dog is running after a ball, it is all a lovely sight and slowly I let my thoughts carry me away. Away to all those great memories. That day that I met Pablo in Terra de Fuego and he bought my bus tickets to Ushuaia, the numerous truck drivers that have brought me 1000nds of miles across South America, that lovely lady in Peru that decorated my head with a beautiful ribbon, all the Couchsurfing host that had opened up their doors for me, my housemates currently supporting me by paying part of my rent… Every time I needed help, somebody had stepped forward. `This is also going to be fine, Sanne. Every little thing is gonna be alright.` I tell myself. `We`ll just put a post on Facebook to let everybody know you are looking for a job. For sure you will find something. Have faith and the good will come.`

With a jet-lagged head, I step out of the car. It's gloomy and drizzling of rain. I tighten up my raincoat and scarf. 
My two months in the Netherlands had been nothing but summer and the sun. In Melbourne, winter had definitely taken a long stretch into what is supposed to be spring. ​

With a big swing, I throw my backpack over my shoulder, put my camera bag on my belly and grab my overloaded trolley in my right hand. It`s literally a handful, moving to Australia. But at least I`ve got a bit more options now in my wardrobe than the 4 outfits I had been wearing in South America for two years. 
I look up. A little sign with the number '76' on it, hangs next to the door. `It is a small pink, wooden house, with roses in the front garden`, Robin had explained to me through a text message. The house in front of me matches the description into every detail. There`s no doubt about it, this oddly romantic cottage is, without a doubt, my new home. 
It had been only one day before my departure to Australia that Grant and had I found out it wasn`t working for the both of us. For both our sakes I had decided to find my own place. Robin, Maggi and their housemates Jim and Sarah, who was on holiday for 3 weeks, appeared to be four guarding angels and offered me to sublet the room for the time being.
With firm determination, I squeeze myself and my bags through the tiny gate and drag my trolley up the two steps leading towards the front door. I knock on the front door and immediately hear footsteps approaching. Robin opens up the door with a big smile on his face. “Hello! How are you doing? So funny to see you here! From Panama, to Colombia to Australia. How was your flight?” We finish our greeting with the traditional three Dutch kisses on the cheek. “Yeah so good to see you too!” I shout out loudly. “Shhht, softly! Jim our other housemate is still sleeping and Maggi is not far behind either. “Ah, sorry” I quickly apologize. “Come, I`ll show you the room,” Robin says and signs me to follow him.
The room is small but has everything it needs. There`s pictures of Sarah and her friends on the wall. In the left corner is a small desk and chair, underneath the window a bed with a little night cabinet squeezed in between. In the other corner is a small wardrobe with some cloth hangers above it and a big mirror next to it. “It`s a bit small, but it has everything you need,” Robin whispers softly. “It is perfect Robin, thank you. Thank you so, so much. Without you guys, I would probably have ended up in some kind of a hostel.” “Ah no worries Sanne, all good. Make yourself at home and I speak to you tomorrow. I really need to go to bed now. Tommorrow is going to be another day at the office, unfortunately.” “Yeah, no worries. Off to bed, quickly. I`ll unpack some stuff and will get into my own bed soon as well.” Robin walks back to his own room. I close the door, grab all my bags and put them in the corner. I sit down on my bed and grab some photos and postcards out of my bag. The framed photo of me and my best friend Jorien is getting the prime spot next to my bed. The goodbye card from my parents gets a place on the mirror, so I see their kind words every day. The card of Isabel with `For you sexy bum` comes next to it. I go back to bed again. Sit down and look around. It`s quite ironic. I've moved around so much ever since I started college, that it only takes a few photo`s and postcards to feel at home. Above the desk hangs a massive map of Australia. “Well Sanne, Australia is maybe not what you expected it to be, but there`s enough to explore to make it worthwhile!” I say to myself. “Let`s start tomorrow with Melbourne. I look around the room one more last time and switch off the light. Let the new adventure begin…

​With a bursting bladder, I run across Utrecht Central station. I need to pee like a hippo. The carpool of BlaBlacar (the carpool edition of AirBnB) turned out to be absolutely fantastic. At 4 `O Clock sharp, a big ass Mercedes was waiting for me at Frankfurt Central Station. After a smooth drive with an average speed of 160 km/hour on the German highway, I was back in the Netherland within the blink of an eye. The only downfall? Due to a tight schedule of one of the fellow passengers, there was no time for toilet breaks. Despite the fact that my bladder had gained the strength of Arnold Schwarzenegger after all the long bus rides in South America, it had definitely reached its limits now. ​

While running towards the main hall, I notice how strange it is to be back. Everything on the train station is still so familiar. I still know the way to all the platforms, the shops, the cafès, the colours, everything is the same. Everything is so neat and tidy, so well put in place. Not a spot of dirt on the floor. People are walking in straight lines. There`s no shouting. No salesmen that harass me. 

“Lo Siento señora, dondè esta el baño?”, I ask one of the railway assistants. She turns around and looks at me with highly raised eyebrows. “Sorry honey, but this funny language you`re speaking right now, does not occur in my vocabulary. This is the Netherlands and we speak Dutch here.” she says with a strong Amsterdam accent. Suddenly I realise I was talking Spanish to her. It`s almost unnatural for me to speak Dutch on the street. “I`m so sorry Madam, it`s been a short couple of nights. I was just wondering where the bathroom is.”, I continue in Dutch. The lady still looks at me with a suspicious expression on her face. “Straight ahead honey, just across platform 8. On the left side. You need to bring change, so make sure you have some Euros in your pocket.”  

Ten minutes later and with a happy bladder, I step in the train toward Schiphol airport. I look around. Everybody is talking Dutch, everybody looks Dutch, acts Dutch. I spend the whole train ride looking around. Taking it all in. 
Before I know it, the train already stops at the airport. With butterflies in my stomach of excitement, I get off the train. I`m so excited to be back that I skip every other step, jumping my way up to ground level. I can see my parents from a distance. I run towards them. Big kisses and hug all over. What an unbelievable feeling to be home again!

After joining my parents for a little holiday, I finally arrive back home. With my backpack on I walk to my room. I open the door. It`s almost like I never left. Still the same blanket on the bed, that one DVD that I watched before I left is still lying on the cover, just like my favourite books and CD`s. I open up my closet. A massive Christmas feeling overwhelms me. So many cloths, so many options. Of more than half of the items I had already forgotten that I had them...Shirts, tops, skirts, trousers. I look to the right. My backpack is still on the floor. The further I travelled, the more cloths I had given away. At the end, I only had two sets of winter cloths and two sets of summer cloths. Every night I would step underneath the shower with my cloths on, to wash them. Sometimes I was forced to hang them to dry on my backpack when I needed to catch another bus. “My gosh Sanne, with this many cloths, we don`t have to wash for at least two weeks!!” I tell myself out loud and a massive smile appears on my face. 

The following weeks I mainly spend with visiting family and friends. It`s an indescribable feeling to be able to hug everybody again, grab their hands, to see them, be part of the conversations. Not just being passed on from one person to the other on the Ipad, but being a real part of it. To sit around the dinner table together, share the same food, reliving the memories and pulling out those typical old-school jokes. 
It suprises me how normal it is to be home again. To sit around the dinnertable with everybody. Some of the houses might have changed a bit or even completely, but the friendship is still the same. Also the conversations are still the same. It a strange feeling. From inside I`ve changed so much. I`m so loaded up with stories, that I don`t even know where to begin anymore, let alone my friends and family… and at the same time I didn`t really care. It feels so nice to talk about `normal` stuff again. About that new job, new boyfriends, the cat, the dog, that strange neighbor that still lives next door…

The two months litterly fly past. My date of departure is getting closer and closer. I take the dogs for a last walk around the park. Catch up with some old and new friends and spend as much time as I can with my loved ones. It feels emotional. It`s so nice to see everybody again and hard to say goodbye so quickly. Eventhough I was heart-broken to leave South America and did not look forward to go back to Europe at all… I notice that I find it even harder to leave on my next adventure again. It`s almost like sitting in a warm bath in a cold bathroom. It`s so comfortable that you don`t want to get out and step with your bare feet on the cold tiles. I sincerely wish I could just fit everybody in my pocket and take them with me. 

Before I know it, my last day has come. Tonight I`ll take to bus to London, to spend the last weekend there with friends before I fly out to Melbourne. “What would you like to do on your last day?” my mum asks me. “I would love to go to the beach, with the dogs, just like we used to do every Sunday after visiting grandad and grandma,” I tell her with a smile.

It`s a beautiful summer day. There`s a fresh breeze blowing over the beach. The perfect day to freshen up the mind and let the wind take away your sorrows. The dogs are following us with their tails high up and their wet black noses in the wind. They`re not as fast as they used to be, but it is still feels like the old days. To give the day a perfect touch up, we end the hike with a visit to one of the cafès on the beach. Ordering a hot chocolate and some Dutch snacks. “Do find it hard to leave?”, my mum asks me. I feel the tears popping up in my eyes. “Extremely hard mum”. We hug each other. Me, my mum, my dad and the dogs. “I`ll take care of the bill, then we`ll quickly go home and enjoy our last hours together.” My mum suggests wisely. 
She returns a few minutes later. With an envelope in her hands. I look at the card. It had the perfect message on it: 

To Comfort you
I send you the shells
To Strengthen you
I send you the big sea
I`ll let the Sun embrace you
Please know, you`ll always have me
​

I give her a big hug. A warm and comfortable feeling falls over me. All the sadness and sorrows fade away. I`m ready now for my next adventure. ​

​With my eyes closed, I listen to the calming sound of the sea. My back is on the soft, warm sand. Some salty water drops are slowly making their way from my belly down to the beach. I`m about to take my last jump in the Atlantic Ocean (for now). I gaze at the famous Ipanema beach, the buildings, the taxi`s, the buses that are rushing past. The high green mountains in the background who, like an older brother, embrace the city with their calm and strong appearance. And of course Christ, the 38 m. high wonder of the world. Looking down at the city like a friendly, kind-hearted father. His arms wide and open. Built on top of a mountain, where you can see him watching over you from every angle of the city. Strategically put there in the hope to change the minds of any (potential) criminals and lower the high rate of crime in town.

Ironically I`ve experienced the complete opposite during the two weeks I was in Rio. People had been cheerful and happy. If I would stop for even 2 sec. Trying to orientate, people would come over and offered to help me in the right direction. It was the complete opposite from all the street gangs, robberies and treats I had been warned for.
 
The sun finally breaks through the thick clouds. The feeling of the warm glow of the sun on my skin tops up my happiness even more. Grant quickly turns around on his towel to make the most out of the sun. It is my last day. The end of the beginning. My first episode of travelling has come to an end. I close my eyes again and think back to all the amazing memories I`m enriched with. How it all began in the Dominican Republic, with friends, luxury and unbelievable parties. The adventures and Rum with Luz on Cuba. Working at a Bed & Breakfast in Costa Rica, living with the Guna people on the San Blas islands, my parents that came to visit me and the thousands of kilometres I had explored. The amount of people I had to say goodbye to, but the even greater amount of people that gained a special place in my heart.
 
Cerveja! 7 reales for a cerveja!”, a salesman shouts out in the distance. “Hi San” says Grant while he pokes me, “I`m going to end this America adventure with a beer. Would you like one too?”. Still lost in thoughts, I slowly shake my head “No thanks”. Grant waves the salesman over and orders a beer. He lifts up his head from the backpack for a split second. “How much was it again?” he asks the salesman. “7 Reales senior”, the salesman answers. Grant turns around to grab the backpack, but grabs in the sand. In a split second he jumps up and looks around him. “Did you grab the backpack?” he asks with disbelieve in his face. “No, you put it underneath your head remember.” “It`s gone! The back is gone!” Grant yells. “Shit my camera!”, Slowly I realise that all the photo`s of the last weeks were still on there. Quickly I run to people around us to ask if they`ve seen anything, but nobody has noticed anything. “Let's split up” Grant suggests “You go this way, I go the other way, maybe they`re still around.” We both go our own ways. My feet rush through the deep, soft sand.
 
I`m scanning the whole beach, looking from left to right, but I find no sign of the red, somewhat sun bleached red backpack. A friendly lifeguard tells me to look into the trash bins “They often dump the bags with whatever they can`t use of their stolen goods in there.”  Quickly I walk in the direction of Grant, while looking into every bin. I wave him over. “We have to look into the bins!” I yell at him. Like a well-trained CSI team, we scan through all the bins... Then, out of nowhere, Grant yells: “He you! He stops! That`s mine!” A homeless man is looking up from the bin. In his right hand a newly found treasure, the red backpack. Grant runs up to the guy and pulls the bag out of his hands. The poor man is too overwhelmed by the situation to say anything and stares at Grant, then turns his eyes towards me and back to Grant. In the meantime, Grant opens up the bag, but nothing is left inside. It`s completely empty. The wallet, our clothes, food, drinks, cell phone and… my camera.. all are gone. With a great sense of guilt I put my hand on the man his shoulder “Perdon Senior, is there anything else you found in the bin? Or maybe in some of the others that might be ours?” The man shakes his head and apologises. I feel incredibly sorry for him. While we are looking to get our luxury items back, all he is aiming for is to find some food or things to survive another day...If I had had some money or food, I would have given it to him. “Maybe try on the boulevard senorita.” The man tells us “A lot of times they sell the electronics as soon as possible. Phones are ripped apart on the spot.” I put my right hand back on his shoulder, and with my left hand on my heart, I say: “Obrigado amigo. Thank you so very, very much!” And as fast as we can, we walk towards the boulevard.
 
While walking over the boulevard, Grant suddenly whispers “I f*cking can`t believe it!” and grabs my arm to let me stand still. Very subtle he points towards two guys with four phones in front of them. They`re taking out the batteries and SIM cards and swop them over with the other phones. In front of them lays a phone cover, one that looks exactly like the one of Grant. “Quickly warn those policemen over there. I`ll make sure they won`t get away.” And softly Grant pushed me in the direction of a group of the officers. In half Portuguese, half Spanish I try to explain them the situation and point towards Grant and the two man, who start to get a little restless. The police seem far from impressed by the whole story and are clearly not intending to move out of their warm and comfy afternoon sun anytime soon.
​
“How are you so certain that phone is yours senorita?”, Asks the smallest of the group, while his big fluffy moustache is bouncing up and down above his covered upper lip. It makes me crack.  Filled with anger, I shout out to them that they have to follow me because otherwise, the man might escape. A helpful Carioca couple (as the locals in the Rio are called) comes to the rescue. The woman calms me down, while the man starts talking the policemen (well more shouting). This seemed to have made a bigger impression than the patiently and polite request of a tall, blond Dutchy. “Alright then Senorita, where are these men you are talking about?”
Grant comes running towards us. “He`s escaping! He`s escaping!” he shouts. Pointing towards a man in a blue T-shirt that is walking fast-paced in front of him. Finally, the police come into action and catch the guy. “Where is the other man?” Grant shouts at the guy, “Where is your friend?”
“What friend, I don`t have a friend”, the man says, not willing to give too much information.
The police command him to open up his cooler and bags. The Ola labels of icecream appeared to be a trick. There`s no ice-cream inside, only electronics, amongst which three cellphones. Grant`s phone and my camera our unfortunately not part of the pile of goodies.
“Where is that Samsung phone you and your friend were pulling apart?!” I ask frustrated. The guy denies everything with a straight poker face. Helpful Cariocas try to assist in the situation by helping to translate and keeping the police into business. At the end it is just a complete chaos of people yelling and screaming. I slowly start to feel lost in the whole situation. I`m still dressed in nothing more than a Brazilian bikini (yes a thong) and start to feel a little naked with all the dressed people around me. My clothes were stolen, I had nothing to wear. Somebody offers their sarong to me, which I happily accept, even though it was somewhat see-through. The police offer us a ride to their office so we can report the crime. At least we can get some money back from the insurance this way, but the photo`s from my camera will be gone forever. Also the man got released, due to lack of evidence… On top of that, they gave us the advice to take a taxi back to the hostel (with no money), so walking back seemed the only option.
 
“Let this not ruin our memories of Rio! Let's do something fun tonight” I tell Grant. He agrees.

That night we pick up Ben, our legendary friend from London. Ben had heard of a big street party which was supposed to be absolutely epic. And epic it was! An awesome band was making all the hips go loose on the dancefloor. The caprinha`s were flying over the counter. Everybody was treating each other like long-life friends and people are buying each other rounds of drinks. The crowd is slowly melting together to one big group of friends.

At the end of the night, are freshly-met friends call us a taxi and make sure we get home safe and sound. "This is the real Rio”, I think to myself. The helpful, kind and warm-hearted people make this an unbelievable city. And the thief of today… well apparently he needed my camera and cloths more than I did. 

​With a plate full of food and two cups of tea I join the breakfast table. “Here Rachel, for you.” I say to my English roommate from bed number 21. “How`s your Brexit hangover? Calmed down a bit?” I ask her. “Ah, it`s ok. Any news from your own country?” She asks in return. “Well, my favourite theme park is being sued because, apparently, they have `racist` rides. Besides that, there is some unrest in regards to the healthcare system.”

​ “Oh, ok, what do you mean?” Rachel asks curiously. “Basically, the government cut funding in healthcare which now means hospitals etc. don’t have the money anymore to keep on a high level of nurses, doctors and so on. This results in long waiting for a doctor or nurse to come, lots of different nurses taking care of the same patient which means a patient has to undress him- or herself in front of a lot of different people every time she/he is being examined or showered. In the past people were only showered by one nurse, maximum two or three." At this moment a young, tall Brazilian girl sits down at the table. She has clearly overheard the conversation. “Sorry to ask, but what kind of `cuts` did they make?” She asks. “Well, I don`t know all the details about the situation, but apparently the nurses are expected to do the same amount of work with only 30% of their former collegeas.” She looked a bit surprised. “Do those people ever see the state of elderly homes here in Brazil? I don’t think so. Or a hospital? If there even is a hospital.” She`s obviously a bit upset. “Weren`t you here to visit a doctor?” Asks the guy that works at reception.” Yes, that`s right.” Says the Brazilian girl. “The village that I live in, there are no endocrinologists, a doctor who`s specialized in hormones. Due to an issue in my womb I have to see my specialist every month. I am very fortunate that I come from a wealthy family, so they can afford the 2.5 hour flight that I need to take each month. It`s sad though, for a lot of people this trip isn’t affordable, let alone the cost to see a specialist. No money, no care. Or, you have to attend a very uncaring government funded hospital.”
I get a spontaneous flashback. Due to some unfortunate stomach issues Grant and I both had visited several government funded hospitals in Central- and South America. Also when Grant was sick in Panama. That hospital was definitely not a place you would rush back too. The flashback  takes me back to Panamacity where my new Aussie boyfriend had caught a bit of Central American jungle fever. I remember Grant, sick as a dog, in the back of a taxi on the way to the hospital. After arriving at the hospital and seeing the doctor he was pointed to the first aid section where they would give him the necessary care. I vividly remember walking into a fully loaded waiting room of patients, as big as a classroom, around 30 people sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs, freezing their butts off as the air conditioning is set at 15 degrees. All family and friends were not permitted, no visitors allowed. I could understand, there was simply not enough space. I tried to convince the nurses that I had to stay with him. First of all because I didn’t want to leave him alone in this misery and second of all, because in his state of deliria, he wouldn’t be able to speak Spanish. After a little arguing, the nurse gives in and I was able to wait with him. The older nurse came over to give him the IV. She was obviously stressed by the overwhelming number of patients that she had to take care off. She grabbed Grants arm and without a second thought she pricked the needle into the vein. It went as quick as a fruit picker with ADHD. Afterwards, she shuffled over to the other patients and provided them with the necessary care. I record a daughter bringing in her elderly mother. The women obviously had some mental disease like Alzheimer’s. Blissfully unaware of what was going on around her, she gazed around the room with an empty look in her eyes. As soon as the fragile mother sat down, the daughter was told to leave as there was no more space. Just as the daughter started to walk away, the old lady was whipped into a blind panic and the daughter desperately tried to convince the nurses that she had to stay. This was to no prevail. The patient that was next to her, an old man around the same age as the disorientated women, tried to put his sorrow aside and comforted her.
A younger nurse took over the shift. The older nurse quickly pointed to every patient and provided the young and enthusiastic nurse directions on who needs what type of care. How on earth she recorded all that information, I have no idea. But the young girl took it all in. I remember her providing a nod of understanding. She calmly helped out every patient, giving them a warm hand or smile. When she arrived at Grant, she friendly asked if everything was ok and replaced the IV bag which was running on empty. Grant was in seventh heaven and didn’t had a clue what was going on. He had previously asked if he could have something to drink so I ask her if that is ok. She replied in a friendly manner “I am sorry but normally I am not able to provide drinks to patients as they get their liquids through the IV, however if he really needs it, there is a vending machine close.” She ended her sentence with a wry smile and wink. Grateful for her friendliness I stood up and place my hand on her shoulder. “Thank you so much. I don’t know how you keep up with all this work… you must be under so much stress?!” She gave me a soft, calm smile and she shows me the small, wooden cross around her neck. “I am able to cope, because it is my duty.” 
I remember walking to the vending machine thinking what pressure these nurses were under. I also wondered if the ill that are in this hospital, are showered on the times they want. Or how many different nurses they have taking care of them. I didn’t want to know the answer. The feelings I had all those months ago stir inside me once more. It definitely put things in perspective.

We arrive in Chuy. A little town close to the border of Uruguay and Brazil. It has just as much charm as any other border town here in South America. But this one appeared to be a true mecca for tax free shopaholics. On every spare square meter, a shop was squeezed in. they were then filled up with useless stuff and the windows decorated with over the top advertising in Spanish and Portuguese.
 “Sorry sir, but do you maybe know where the buses to Brazil leave from?” I ask a man in a sports shop. “Oh, it`s just on the other side of the street sinora. Do you see that tall building over there? That is the bus terminal.” With a smile and a “gracias” I show him my gratitude and signal to Grant that we need to walk further.
 
In the main hall of the bus station there is a gigantic counter protected by jail bars. It quickly appeared that these jail bars were here to protect the customers against the bitchy sales women. A true killer-bee ready to sting. It became clear very quickly that she felt she was way too good for this job.

​“Excuse me, but what time does the next bus leave to Brazil?” Grant asks politely. The killer-bee breathes heavily and points with her long witchy nails to the signs above our heads. The next bus appeared to leave in about an hours’ time. “Do you know where the immigration offices are for Brazil and Uruguay? We still need to get our passports stamped.” I ask her. “Oh, the immigration office for Uruguay is very close. Just one block down and you will find it at the corner. To enter Brazil, you`ll do this after you get on the bus. The border is about 4kms from here.” Grant and I look at each other. We both decide that we have enough time to get an exit stamp for Uruguay. Grant turns himself to the killer bee and says “Ok, two tickets for the bus at 4.30pm please.”
 
We walk down to the corner and as soon as we reach the block that the lady directed us too, we take a good look around. Apart from the tax free shops there is nothing too be seen, let alone an immigration office. I walk into one of the shops and ask the girl and ask “I`m sorry sinorita but do you maybe know where the immigration office is?” The girl looks back at us with full amazement. “The immigration office for Uruguay? That`s quite far. You can`t walk there. At least a few kilometers out of town.” A deep anger stirs inside me. I realize now that the killer bee at the bus terminal just wanted to sell us the tickets and couldn’t give a dam if we were able to catch the bus or not. I turn to Grant. “What should we do now?” But Grant stands still and doesn’t say a word. His face is pale. “Come on Grant, we have to hurry up. The bus is leaving soon. We have to think quickly now.” Grant looks back at me with the look of a dead man. “I think my visa for Brazil just expired a couple of days ago.” He says softly to me. “What do you mean expired?!” I ask. “Come on, show me your passport.” We take a look at the passport. Valid until 28th of May, it says. “Shit.” We say at the same time. “What do we do?” “Ok, let’s just go back to the bus station, talk to the wicked witch and call out that she lied to about the distance of the migration office. Maybe that way she will give our money back or change them to a later time.” Grant suggests. “In that case we can grab a taxi to both offices, that way we have more time to organize the paperwork.”
 
With a big frown, the wicked witch looks back at us when I tell her that the immigration office isn’t one block away, it is in fact 4kms out of town. I considered it would be best not to mention anything about Grants expired visa. For sure this evil spirit would take advantage of any weakness that we would show. So, I blamed it all on the fact that we didn’t have enough time to stamp out of Uruguay as the office was so far away. The sales lady raises her eyebrows sky high, looking extremely unimpressed. “Listen honey, do I look like a border control officer to you? I am selling bus tickets here. So just to make it clear, your problem isn’t my problem.” Without giving us any more attention, she turns to the next customer. “Next!” We decide that any further effort would be a waste of time and the best thing to do would be to chance our arm at the Brazilian border. A formula one taxi drive and two Uruguayan exit stamps later, we rush back to the bus. The bus driver signals for us to come over and asks for our passports and paperwork. “Just to speed up the process, I’ll fill in the migration forms for you.” He says friendly. Grant looks at be nervously, but I give him a casual wink as if to say `it`ll be fine`. We hand over our passports to the bus driver. “Oh, Australia.. Do you have a visa?” He asks Grant. Grant, as cool as a cucumber, replies “Yeah, of course amigo. Todo bien. All good.” The bus driver gives a look of satisfaction and walks to his office, leaving us behind, knees trembling. After a couple of minutes he re-appears from his office and hands us the immigration papers and our passports. Grant and I give each other a quick smile. Step one of the illegal entry – accomplished!
 
The bus stops in front of the immigration office. The bus driver, realizing that we don’t speak a word of Portuguese, decides that it’s best to accompany us. The immigration officer is watching the local soccer game on the TV with his black army boots casually resting on his desk. With one eye on the TV and another on us he reaches out his hand as a sign for us to hand over our passports. I decide to hand over my passport first which is free of any need for Visas to enter Brazil. He quickly types some of my details into the system and grabs the big `entry` stamp and firmly presses the stamp on page no 60. One down, one to go.
Grant confidently slides the passport over the counter. The officer repeats his previous ritual and again grabs the big entry stamp. Then, something on his computer screen catches his eye and he puts the stamp back down. He grabs Grants passport and gives it a full examination. Meanwhile, Grant and I are pretending that we are interested on the local soccer game. Just at that moment the local team get a red card. Grant slams his fist on the counter and shouts “puta madre, that isn’t a red card!” The officer turns to the TV and is obviously just as frustrated as Grant acted. After watching the players, coaches etc complaining about the red card that was dealt, the migration officer turns back to Grants passport, gives one last look and shrugs his shoulders. With his right hand he reaches towards his big green entry stamp and says “Bem vindo ao Brasil.” We are in! As cool as eskimos we leave the office. As soon as we are out of sight, we jump into each other’s arms. Grant gives me a big kiss. “Let`s celebrate tonight baby!”

Slowly I open my eyes. With a big smile I look at the wooden planks next to the bed. They make a somewhat improvised wall between the kitchen/living room/bedroom and the tiny little bathroom. It`s just like a tiny little hobit hole. The wooden cottage we found ourselves in. It might be 15 square meters at most, but of my god, I loved this little hut so much!

In Punta Del Este I had heard stories of a little town,  off the beaten track: Cabo Polonio. A former fisherman’s village, built by sea lion hunters. Nowadays a true retreat for those who are trying to find some peace and escape from the daily hustle and bustle.
A true escape is never a simple one. After multiple buses we ended our journey in an old farming truck that had been converted to a bullet proof beach transportation service. Its massive wheels carried us through the puddles and mud to finally show us this Garden of Eden. A small, surreal place built on a tiny peninsula at the far corner of a national park. A place with no electricity, no Wi-Fi. Barely any connection to the outside world... the `main street` was nothing more than a sandy road. Its other streets were nothing more than the traces of popular footpaths. Reveling itself by the flattened patterns of grass on the ground. The houses were little improvised wooden huts, constructed by whatever could be found on the beach. Some of them, so fragile and effected by the strong coastal winds, were grounded by an old rope, desperately holding the hut in place. A great challenge considering that the wind takes no prisoners here. Most houses are joyfully painted in all colors of the rainbow. Decorated with beautiful shells or other trophies that have been washed up on shore.
The truck stops in the `main square`. Nothing more than a small patch of grass with a wooden signpost in the middle. An old lady, dressed up in winter clothes to protect herself from the chilling winds, approaches us. “Do you guys want a little cabin? I have a place close to here. I`ll give you a good price.” She says friendly. For sure it couldn`t be far considering the fact that this village has a total of 30 inhabitants living here year round. Once we arrived at the hut it was love at first sight.  It`s a tiny, cozy shed which is smiling back at me. There was a bucket of water placed in front which was there so we could wash our dishes. Inside there was a little table with two wooden chairs. A candle on top of the table allowed us to see our dinner during the dark nights. A little stove top to cook our food and in the corner a bed was squeezed in. The ceiling was low but just high enough for us to stand up straight. The walls were decorated with sea shells, crab shells and all that has been bought in by the sea. The wind made it`s in via the cracks in the walls. But it didn’t matter. This was our little home for the next couple of days. “We`ll take it. For two nights please.”
The sun was almost setting. Just some quick shopping’s before it got dark. Luckily the local supermarket is just two huts away. It appeared to be nothing more than a huge army-barrack with some shelves on the walls. At the back of the store, a group of old sailors are talking with one another. They seemed copy-pasted versions of Popeye the sailor man. “Hola, como estas?” They ask friendly. “Yes, we are great thanks.” I respond.
A little less than two minutes later we return to our hut with our hands full of shoppings. The sun is only just above the horizon. Quickly, we drop the shopping bags on the table and decide to make our way to the beach. A couple of local dogs come to join in. A picturesque sky filled with colorful clouds forms a true spectacle. The wind blows through my scarf making it dance. It`s cold. Freezing cold. But it is lovely. It reminds me of the long walks we used to take on the beaches on a Sunday before we made a visit to Grandma and Grandad. The dogs that are playing on the beach. Little sand storms take place, smoothing the skin on my face. “Daddy would love it here.” I think to myself. We returned to the huts. Grant starts cooking. The cat of the hostel 100 meters away sits in front of the window, meowing for some leftover food. The lighthouse starts its nightshift, shinning a warm spotlight over the little village every 20 seconds. We light the candle on the table. We`ll leave the dishes for tomorrow. It is too dark outside now. Quickly we go outside to gaze at the stars. The Milky Way makes a warm, colorful cloak in the sky. We suddenly hear the pot squealing. One last cup of tea. The rest of the water we put in the hot water bottle to preheat the bed. I blow out the candle. The sun has gone down and so it is time for bed. As soon as it rises we will start a new day. “You can always find happiness in the simple things.” I think to myself.

​“Hola Sanne, Grant! Como estas? How are you guys doing?” With a big hug I greet my cousin Pamela. Before we left to the breathtaking Patagonia, we had visited my family in Buenos Aires. The decendants of the brother of my grandfather. He had grabbed his bags after the war and traded the Netherlands for Argentina. Like a lot of people of that time he was lured by the great stories of counties far away, countries full of changes, countries full of jobs and money, a new adventure, a new start. A deep sense of respect arises when I think of these people. “Are we still true travelers?” I think to myself. In the past there wasn`t an endless number of travel guides, travel forums, travel blogs. You weren`t able to `google` where to go, how to prepare yourself or what to expect. You just bought a one-way ticket, took some cash and put some clothes in the suitcase. You embrace your family and friends for one last time and off you go. You turn around one last time and wave them goodbye, knowing you may never see them again. You`ve promised to write them but itwill take weeks for you to get into your promised land and then another few weeks just for the letter to arrive. What a joy it must have been to find the money to make a phone call, to finally hear that familiar voice again, to finally speak in your mother tongue once more. For sure, you must have felt lost and lonely.

​Now, two generations later, we have tracked down the family in Argentina. The contact had been stagnant for several years, but now through the wonders of modern technology (Facebook), we were connected again.
With a big smile I stroked Pamela’s shoulders. It`s such difficult feeling to describe, it`s like a mini home-coming. The two sausage dogs Pancho (Spanish for hotdog) and Coca (Coca-Cola) greet us at the door. Pancho quickly runs to his dog basket and grabs his tennis ball. Like an Olympic trophy, he puts it in front of our feet as a sign for us to play fetch, a ritual he would repeat for the rest of the night.
Tulio, the boyfriend of Pamela, steps out of the kitchen. He is wearing a flower-patterned apron, completely contradicting his lumberjack-like figure. He greets us with a traditional kiss on the cheek. “Please sit down guys. Make yourself comfortable. I want to hear all about your travels through Patagonia as soon as dinner is ready. Now excuse me as I have a feast to prepare!”
An hour later we raise our glasses and bring out a toast. Tulio and Pamela want to know every detail about our travels.
“Tulio, the tubs of Vaseline were not necessary.” Grant says while he gives Tulio a wink.
Tulio had been deeply concerned about our plans of hitchhiking through Patagonia the last time we had visited them in Buenos Aires. “It`s not your girlfriend you should be worried about, you should be concerned for your own… hmm.. safety.. Better take a tube of Vaseline if you know what I mean?” was the light hearted warning he had given us last time we spoke. Everything had gone well, we had an amazing time and we had returned back to Buenos Aires, safe, sound and with no sore bums. The weekend flew by. Saturday we went to the Zoo, Saturday night was spent eating delicious home-made pizzas  with my other cousin Martin and his girlfriend had made us a surprise in baking `tompoezen` a traditional Dutch desert. On the Sunday the whole family gathered together for a lunch that by the end of desserts and coffee, had people unbuttoning their jeans to make way for our buldging stomachs. Before I knew, it was time to say a heart breaking goodbye.
 
Later that night I crawl onto the couch of the hostel with a strange feeling swelling inside of me. We were put on the top floor and a big tourist group caused an uneasy atmosphere. I decided to create my own little world and put on a movie. For the twentieth time I saw Mr Darcy explaining his eternal love to Kiera Knightley. With this romantic ending to the day I soon fall into sweet dreamland, blissfully unaware of the fact that on this night my lovely roommates would wake me up at 1am, 3am and 8am in the morning. There was a mixture of switching lights on and off, packing their suitcases and of course, talking so loud that I`m sure that the ground floor could have heard the conversation as well. Fueled with anger I turn around on my mattress. This is one of many nights where a lack of sleep has been present. We decided to ask the receptionist if it was possible for us to move to the ground floor where we previously stayed before the weekend with the family. This was luckily not a problem so we returned to the dorm to pack our things. The moment I grab my jeans and start to pack them into my bag, I break down. “Honey, what`s wrong?” Grant asks me. He walks up to me and gives me a big warm hug. “I`m just exhausted. I`m so tired and at the same time angry at myself. People here are living on the street trying to survive day by day and here I am crying about a bag that I need to pack. I`m just an ungrateful piece of shit.” With a firm kick of my backpack I release my anger. “Hey, come on baby, don`t be so mad at yourself. Everybody has an off day once in a while. There`s nothing wrong with that. Come, we have been very busy lately, today we are going to `Netflix and chill`. With a couple of sniffles of my nose I walk behind Grant and head towards the elevator to move to the lower (and more relaxed) ground level.
 
That day was spent purely on the couch, eating chocolate, drinking mate and watching my new tv series addiction `Orange is the new black`. Every time someone would step into the room I would stress as I didn’t feel like socializing. I didn’t feel like talking. I didn’t feel like the routine Q&A of every traveler discussion.. Where are you from? How long have you been travelling? Where have you been? Where are you going too? Etc etc.. I decided to have an early night thinking the extra sleep might do wonders. Thank god we have the whole dorm for ourselves. No rude roomies waking us up tonight!
 
The next morning I feel much better. A good nights rest has refreshed my mind. “You look much better today!” Grant says. “We have to hurry now, the boat to Uruguay is leaving soon.” Quickly we pack our stuff and take a taxi to the harbour. There is a group of backpackers sitting in the waiting area. “Hola chicos, are you guys going to Uruguay too?” They nod. “How long have you been traveling for?” One of the girls ask. “It`s been over 17 months today.” I say proudly. “Wow, 17 months, that`s such a long time! Aren`t you homesick? Or tired?” They ask filled with astonishment. I chuckle – “Yes, I have to admit, some of those feelings are starting to pop up now.” I scan through my passport. There are so many empty pages left. I`m excited to discover a new country again and with some Netflix days in between I`m sure I`ll be ready for the journey. When I step on the ferry I look back to the dock, imagining how it must have been in the old days. "Nah not for now, I`m going to send my family a whatsapp as soon as I have Wifi again." 

​With a big `puff` I put my backpack on the sight of the road. Three policemen curiously observe my actions from behind their pilot-worthy-sunglasses. With their hands in their pockets they casually lean against their massive police 4x4. Their curiosity reveals their happiness that there`s finally something happening at the gas station of the sleepy little, rural town of Daireaux. A small country town that, besides a notification on google maps, won`t receive a lot more fame. A little than 30 minutes before, we had been dropped off here by an overfriendly truck driver. He was out of the world excited that he finally met other hitchhikers on the route 65 than his local neighbours. 

​As usual Grant needs “just a second to go to the bathroom” and I start putting my thumbs up. We`re only 500 kilometers away from Buenos Aires. The weather here is much more pleasant than the cold, harsh winter in Ushuaia. All around the birds are singing their last song of the season. Big tractors are driving up and down to get the last harvest in. With a little smile I loosen the zipper of my jacket. It`s so nice to enjoy this last summer day.
The second car that passes, stops immediately. A happy chapper with a big smile on his face and sunnies that could easily beat the ones of the policemen (who are still observing the whole situation with their hands in their pockets, leaning on to their 4x4) steps out of the car. “Bolivar?”, he asks, while he pull his sunglasses down to the tip of his nose. “Yes please!” I answer while I already grab my backpack. “But we are with two.” I inform him, while I point to the one and only driver`s seat in his car. “Not a problem siñorita, if your boyfriend`s behind is just as small as yours we`ll all fit in very easily.” Stoked that we found a ride so quickly I start waving to Grant, whose trying to get a ride from an older couple. He shakes their hands and comes running over. “They`re full.” “Cool, no problem. We have a ride to Bolivar, from there it`s only 300 kilometers to Buenos Aires.” We all jump in the car and with a bit of Tetris-skills we all fit in. “Mate? Do you guys want some mate?”, the boy asks. Grant and I enthusiastically nod `yes`. After a short night sleeping in a shed that called itself a hostel we were more than happy to have some sips of this energizing herbal drink. After a round along the gas station to fill up the flask with hot water, filling up the mate cup with fresh leaves. After knighting Grant as the mate server, we were more than ready to hit the road. Cristian appeared to be a very good companion and after 10 minutes it was like we were catching up with one of our best friends. No more than an hour later he drops us off at a roundabout and stays a while to keep us company. Then it`s really time for him to go. We say goodbye with a massive embrace. “Chicos, please make lots of beautiful children. You guys are a beautiful couple.”, he says with a wink. “We`ll first keep on practicing.” I joke back. With a massive press on the gas he flies off. “Is that guy over there waving at us?” Grant asks and points his finger to some truck drivers on the other side of the roundabout, buying some snacks from a small kiosk. Their trucks a fully loaded with cows. “I think they`re just waving goodbye to the owner. They`re transporting live animals, so I`ll be surprised if they`re allowed to take hitchhikers. So far we`ve always been neglected by chauffeurs of special transport.” I say to Grant. Grant pulls up his shoulders; “I bet you he was waving to us.” To mark our `agree to disagree`, we give each other a kiss and then quickly continue hitching for every traffic that comes passed. The trucks filled with cows slowly pulls away from the other side of the roundabout. The first two trucks slowly drive passed. Politely we wave at each other. Just as I start to put on my victory face to emphasize my correct guess the last truck suspiciously slows down around the turn. I put my facial expression quickly back to neutral. The truck passes slowly and then parks the truck, a little bit clumsy, in the grass beside the provincial route. “Told you so.” Grant chuckles. Without any further argument we both grab our backpacks and run to the front of the truck. The driver opens the door. “Hablas Castellano?” (in Argentina Castellano signifies Spanish). “Si, señor!” we shout in symphony. “Bueno, get in chicos. These souls...” he points to the back of the truck we`re the cows are looking at us through the wooden barriers, “….will spend their last night in Buenos Aires. If you want I can take you there.” Without a second of hesitation we hand him our backpacks and climb into the cabin. Carlos was curious about everything that had to do with Australia and Holland. He asked us around a thousand questions. “Ow chicos, it`s getting late. The slaughterhouse of these buddies is in the middle of the slums. Very dangerous area especially at night! Shall I drop you guys off at the town before Buenos Aires?” Grant and I look at each other. After two long days of hitch hiking we want nothing else than just crawl into a bed in Buenos Aires tonight. “Could we maybe go with you into the slaughterhouse and then call a taxi?” I ask him. Carlos looks like a kid that just heard he won a trip to Disneyland; “Por supuesto chicos, of course! I`ll call a friend of mine. He`ll know a reliable taxi for sure. Then I can show you guys around at the slaughterhouse. It`s really interesting.” We give him a grateful smile. There was no doubt this would be an interesting night.
 
The night starts to impose itself. The endless grass planes exchange themselves for houses, tractors exchange themselves for cars and grazing cows made their way for crowds of people. The simple one-lane-route has transformed into a massive 4-lane-highway with on-and off rems left, right, up and down. There is no doubt about it, we are back in Buenos Aires. “Sanneee, please close your window. We`re about to drive into the most dangerous neighborhood of Buenos Aires.” I wind up my window as fast as possible. The houses are badly maintained. Some of them don`t even have a roof. The better houses have bars in front of their windows. In front of a kiosk is a long line of people waiting to buy some necessities. The owner serves them through a small opening in the front door. Sometimes he walks to the back to collect the orders and then hands over a plastic bag via the same opening. “We`ll now pass the hospital of Evita Perron. There`s nothing left of it. Former politicians stole everything from these people.” As in a movie about the end of the world, a sky high, mass of around 12 stories high rises above the intriguing neighborhood. There`s no windows left, not a single one in all the 12 floors. The whole building is pitch dark. Only on the ground level there is some light. Some youngsters are playing some music and trying to make some atmosphere in this haunted place. “Around the corner from here is the slaughterhouse.” Carlos says while he points with his finger over the steer wheel. His colleague in the truck in front of us turns his truck and guides it thru the massive gates. A guardian friendly waves at him. “The cows here are worth a fortune, especially the young ones, they`re worth thousands of pesos. Quite regally a truck is being robbed. That`s why there`s so much control.” Grant and I look at each other with a concerning glance. We drive along a high wall with equally high gates. Every gate has his own number. “We have to go to number 12.” It`s dark and the few lanterns that give some soft yellow light are like notifications of the death that is awaiting. We pass some trucks that are parked in front of the gates. A man with a cattle prod walks on top of the trucks shouting loudly to push the cattle through the one-way gates. My stomach starts to churn. I look into the sidemirror. One of the cows curiously gazes back at me through the wooden barrels. Carlos parks his truck at the final destination: gate number 12. His colleagues give us a warm welcome. They invite us to come and take a look on top off the wall, so we have a good view of everything that is going on. The area behind the wall is around the size of a soccer field. Every group of cattle is perfectly organized in their own coral, small ones with small ones, vet ones with vet ones, breed, etc. `Gauchos` (Argentinian cowboys) are galloping on their horses between the enclosures, moving the groups from one place to another. The gauchos wave enthusiastically shouting some explanations here and there and inviting us to make pictures. Despite the deadly atmosphere, there`s lots of laughter and lots of thumbs being raises into the sky.
“So chicos, what do you think? Did you guys like it?” Carlos asks us when we return to the truck. We give him a smile. “Gracias Carlos! That was interesting. Thanks for everything.” Fueled with sadness in what we had just seen taking place, I wanted to say otherwise. But who am I to judge? Who am I to voice my opinion when all these workers are doing is to earn a dollar to put food on the table for their family and in turn feed millions across Argentina.
As we jumped in the taxi I could still hear the moo`s from the cattle. Wiping away a tear or two I had a mini epiphany, as sad as it was to see the cows pushed and jabbed by the sharp cattle prod, this is their country, their culture. Sometimes to respect somebody else, you have to put aside your own opinions.

​Pablo drops us of at the border. To get back north, we have to travel via Chile. As always, he greets everybody on his way with a warm embrace and a short chat. For a short moment I think he must know almost everybody in Argentina. We get our passports stamped, while Pablo catches up with all his friends at the border crossing. Now the time truly comes to say goodbye to our special and endearing friend. “Saturday I`ll fly to my house in Buenos Aires. I`ll wait for you there with my wife, children and grandchildren.” We promise him to make it to Buenos Aires and say our farewells with a tear and a smile. 

​A couple of truck drivers enter the immigration office. With a little joke I start a conversation with them. They offer me a ride, but unfortunately appear to go south. Grant points to 3 big trucks coming from the south and therefor, most definitely go up north. The trucks pull over and the chauffeurs get out with a pile of papers. Once they`re waiting in line I slowly approach them. “Sorry to disturb, but is anyone of you able to take us further north?” I ask them. The short, stocky driver in the middle turns around and briefly observes me with his eyes. Then he takes a quick look at Grant, who is waiting in the corner with the bags. His eyes turn back at me. “Alright then honey.” He mumbles with a brief sigh. He points out a massive parking spot on the other side of the border. “Wait for me there.”
Our new friend, Sergio, appeared to be on his way to Trelew (a place 50 kilometers south of our end destination, Puerto Madryn, which is a full 2 day travel away). After some cookies and good jokes he was willing to take us all the way up there. Sergio was everything you would expect from a stereotype truck driver. A bit rough around the edges. He could tell us everything about those fu&!ing politicians and even more about his di%/ed of a boss. He appeared to be the best teacher when it comes to swear words in Spanish and a knowledgeable man when it comes to tapping of electricity and avoiding taxes. After two hours of driving and cigarette number 20 we pass another couple hitch hiking on the side of the road. “Look more of those crazy folks like you guys.” Sergio points at them and burst out laughing. “I don`t understand you guys call this holiday. Waiting outside in the cold, just to save a couple of pesos. Just travel a month less, but enjoy your time. When I got my money together, I`m going to buy a ticket for me and my sinora to the beach. I`ll park my butt in the sand, with in my left hand a beer and in my right hand a cigarette and I`m not going to move for my whole holiday. You backpackers are all crazy as f*ck.” He takes a last inhale of his cigarette, lowers the window and then throws it outside. He grabs some paperwork from his dashboard and starts scanning through it while he steers the truck with his knees. Filled with amazement I gaze at him. Sergio noticed and start laughing his typical trucker laugh. “Don`t worry missy, I`m driving this thing since I`m 16 years old. I roll a cigarette, make a Mate (traditional drink in Latino America), I do everything while I`m on the road. We`re not in Europe where we need our beauty sleep every two hours. Everybody over here wants their food fresh and therefor as quickly as possible. For us that means we often need to drop off a load 2,000 kilometer further in 2 days’ time. Then you`ll get very creative behind the steering wheel to keep on driving.” and again he bursts out laughing while lighting up cigarette number 21.
 
After a long drive of 9 hours we finally arrive in Rio Gallegos. It`s almost 10pm. Sergio parks the truck besides a gas station. “I`m going to sleep here tonight. If you guys are here when I wake up tomorrow, you got yourself a ride to Trelew. If not, you need to find yourself some other crazy fool like me to take you up there.” We thank Sergio for taking us up here and go on the hunt for a place to sleep. After roaming around the dark streets of Rio Gallegos for a bit less than an hour, we finally find a spot. The door is open. A long dark set of stairs lead us up to the second floor. All the doors are closed and there is no reception to be found. “Hello, is anybody there?” Grant shouts around the silent hallways. The door at the end of the hallway slowly opens and a young lad of around 20 years old, sticks his head through. He can barely open his eyes. “What do you want?” he mumbles without any appearance of sympathy. “We`re looking for a bed to sleep for the night. Do you work here?” Grant asks. With a deep sigh the boy walks out of the room, quickly closing the door behind him. “Si, I do. Follow me..”  he says. We follow him down the stairs, back on the street where I hand him the money. “Just wait here for a second. I`ll deal with the administration first and prepare the room.” The boy walks around the corner to the backyard of the hostel. We hear him losing his belt and then the zipper of his pants. A big sigh indicates that the `water` we start to here running, is definitely not coming from a tap. “Is he just taking a piss?” Grant asks, and we both cannot help ourselves laughing about this bizarre situation.
We wait and wait, but the boy is not coming back. A lady staying in the room on the side of the street opens our window. “Is he still not coming back?” she asks. “No, he went to the back, but I don`t see him anywhere now.” I shout back to her. “Just walk to the back sweetheart. There is the house of the owner. He`ll help you out.” As a sign of gratitude I lift up my hand.
 
A little bit insecure I walk up to Grant, who already rang at the door of the owner. We tell him the story and the more we explain, the angrier the look on his face. His wife appears from the kitchen, dressed in a flower patterned skirt. `Jorge, what`s going on honey?’ she asks while drying her hands with a cloak. “Ow always the same shit with that kid!” the boss shouts angry. “Please put down your bags. You can leave them here in the living room. Let`s go and look for that son of a b*tch!” Still in the twilight zone of not having a clue about what is going on, we follow him like two obeying puppy’s.
“This is the door isn`t it?” the boss asks and points at the door where just 15 minutes before the head of our mysterious receptionist had appeared. Before we could even nod our heads, the boss already knocks on the door with such a force that it surprised me his fist didn`t went straight through it. A girl of about 20 years old opens the door and behind her appear the curious faces of another girl and boy of about the same age. “Where is that so-called-friend of yours?!” the boss shouts at the girl. The girl immediately turns red, knowing she is in big trouble, but quickly corrects her facial expression and calmly asks: “What friend?” “That asshole who rents this room from me you fool!” the boss shouts, raising his voice even more than the last time. “Haven`t seen him for days.” The girl says with an admiring confidence for somebody who is clearly lying. “Well missy, if that friend of yours hasn`t been here for days, there is nothing for you here either.” The boss raises his finger and points it to the three teenagers. “I`m gonna close the door now. You guys have 5 minutes to bring that piece of shit over to my place. If not, I`ll invite the police for a movie night on my couch!” pointing at all the security camera`s that are all over the hallway. The girl loses grip on her straight face. The boss smashes the door. “5 minutes, you hear me?! You guys got 5 minutes, not a second more!!” We turn around and before we could even take one step, the door of the tiny little room opens again. As a rabbit out of a musicians head our mysterious friend appears out of the room. “Boss, what`s going on? Why all the fuss?” the boy asks with a false tone of inosines in his voice. Filled with frustration the boss grabs the boy his shoulder. “You know very well what is going on here you little smartass! Give me the money those poor people paid to you!” The boy tries to mumble some excuses, so very quickly realizes there is no way out. With his hand he reaches into his pocket and grabs out the pesos Grant had given to him 15 minutes before. “I warn you, you little piece of shit! This is the last time you hear me? If you don`t pay me that rent before the end of this week I`ll kick you and those useless friends of yours out!” With a calm and friendly wave the boss tells us to come with him, leaving the boy behind with the drops of sweat dripping down his forehead.
 
It`s still dark when the alarm goes off. We barely had 5 hours of sleep after all the commotion of last night. Luckily the boss had upgraded us to a private room to make up with all that had happened.
We quickly grab our bags and start making our way back to the gas station we had left Sergio the night before. Sergio`s curtains are still closed. Grant goes out to buy us some breakfast and the moment he comes back, Sergio opens his curtains, waving at us to come in the truck. While we make ourselves comfortable for the big trip, Sergio puts a massive gas stove between my legs with a kettle on it to boil up some water for mate and coffee. `You guy’s slept well last night?’ he asks. Grant and I start giggling and tell Sergio the story of what happened last night. “Ow when it comes to money we are all crows over here.”  Sergio says shaking his head. Grant and I look at each other in the eye. Luckily we know better, but with this king of the road, there will be no room for discussion.

​“Pablo! Pablo, mi amor, how are you doing?” So happy to see our old friend again, I don`t even give myself the time to pull off my backpack. Filled with enthusiasm I run over to his desk and give him a warm hug. As always Pablo has a big smile on his face matching his calming karma which could easily beat the brightness of the Dalai Lama or Nelson Mandela. Grant follows me and gives Pablo a hand. Pablo, a short, balding man stands in between us. “How were your travels in Ushuaia?” He asks while he looks up into our eyes. “Ow Pablo it was amazing! Unbelievable, the nature, everything. Absolutely mind-blowing.” Pablo gives us a gentle stroke over the shoulder. “Please take a seat my friends. I`ll make some mate and then I want to hear everything about your adventures.”

We had met Pablo a week before while hitch hiking to Ushuaia. We had left that morning at sunrise from Rio Gallegos and had made it all the way down to Rio Grande by four in the afternoon. A fair effort, considering it included two border crossings (to make your way to Ushuaia one must travel via Chile) and a ferry. Only 3 more hours to get to Ushuaia, we decided to give it another go with hitch hiking. We agreed that if no ride had been found within an hour or so, we would go and look for a bus. Filled with determination to catch a ride, we wave our carbon sign with `Ushuaia` on it, up and down. Gracefully move our thumbs in the right direction and present our piece of carbon like it`s the biggest price someone would have ever won with the lottery. Despite the high level of entertainment and empathy we created, we didn`t achieve anything better than a couple of windows lowered down with a shout out “Sorry!” coming from it. “Ok Sanne, it`s 6:30, let`s go to the bus terminal now it`s still light.” Grant says, while throwing the sign in the bin.  
We cross the highway and take a left. A friendly man crosses our way and we greet each other with a quick “Good afternoon, how are you?” as you greet everybody like this over here. We pass each other and I quicken up my pace to catch up with Grant. “Hey wait! Where are you going?!” somebody shouts from behind me. A bit frightened and astonished at the same time, I turn myself in the direction of the shouter. It appears to be the man I just passed. He quickly walks back to me and repeats his question. This time with a calm and friendly tone. Completely under the spell of his relaxing energy, I tell him about our unsuccessful attempt to hitch hike and sorry that we are now on our way to the bus terminal. “I`m sorry.” the man says. “I can`t bring you to Ushuaia, but I can drop you off at the bus station.”
We follow him to the car (which appeared to be a close look alike of a hummer) and get in. “Wow this is definitely the most impressive car we ever had a hitch hike in!” I say staring at the overload of buttons at the dashboard. Our friendly man is laughing. He introduced himself as Pablo and appeared to be well-traveled man with a big passion for mountaineering, a successful business in Rio Grande and his family living 2800 kilometers further north in Buenos Aires. We got so lost in conversation that the already short ride seemed even shorter. Pablo accompanies us to the ticket counter and before we were even able to say anything, he puts his credit card on the counter saying: “Two tickets to Ushuaia please.” “No, no, no, please no!” Grant and me say while trying to pull his arm back. “No, please sir. This is too much.” Pablo calmly turns around, puts his hands on mine and looks deep into my eyes with a calming look you`ll very rarely find in a person. “Please Sanne, let me do this favor to you. My daughter had such an amazing time in the Netherlands and Australia. The people over there have been so good to her. This is the least I can do in return.” Filled with emotion, I`m completely stuck in the words that just don`t want to roll over my tongue. “But… we don`t know your daughter…” I mumble softly. Pablo softly squeezes my hand. “Doesn’t matter my child. I know you two now.” “It`s a great, great pleasure to me, meeting people like you two.”
 
Now, a week later, we are at his office drinking mate. “I hope you guys didn`t book a hostel, because I would love to invite you to stay at my place tonight. We buy some wine, eat together. In that way we can catch up and you guys can tell me everything about your adventures in Ushuaia.” Grant and I briefly look at each other. We had agreed on not accepting anything more from Pablo, but sitting at his office now, we both realized there was no way he would accept a decline of his offer. Apart from that, we couldn`t wish for anything more tonight than enjoying the company of this special guy.
With a mild hangover I wake up the next day. Images of last night dance through my mind. Pablo had invited a friend and we sat around the table enjoying good food, wine and company until it was far past midnight.
Grant was already in the kitchen preparing breakfast. Softly he opens the bedroom door. “Psst… Sanne…. Are you awake? Look what Pablo left us on the kitchen table.” Handing me over a piece of paper. It`s a letter from Pablo. `Dear Sanne and Grant. I`m at the office. Write me a message as soon as you`re ready. I`ll bring you guys to the border. From there you can find yourself a truck to bring you further up north.` Again I`m out of words. The amount of kind and helpful people I`ve met during this journey that go above and beyond, just to help us out, is simply astonishing.

“Ahh fuck… ok, give me some time to wake up.” Still half asleep I put my clothes on and make my way to the kitchen. “Ah there she is! Our sleeping beauty.” Says my German roommate from dorm bed number 6. Much more kindness than a mild smile and wave I can`t give him in return. I put some toast with `Dulce de Leche` (a traditional Argentinean caramel spread) on my plate, and try to balance the explosion of calories out by adding an orange and an apple on the side.
“Where shall we start hitch hiking?”, asks Grant, once we finally all packed up walk beside the road. "Let`s go up to the roundabout, from there the traffic leaves to `Ruta 40` which leads to `El Chalten`.”  After waiting for several minutes, a minivan pulls over. “Hello, mates! Where are you blokes going?” The long blond pony-tail appeared to be top photographer David Wayne Swift and more than happy to drop us at the cross point with `Ruta 40`. “This road here leads to El Chalten. Just wait beside the billboard for passing traffic. You`ll need some luck, there is not a lot of cars passing, and a lot of hitch hikers.” We thank him for his advice and sit down on our backpacks in the comfy warm sun. We look around us. There is nothing between us and the horizon. We are literarily in the middle of nowhere. David was right, a small half an hour later another car pulls over, dropping of a couple. It appeared to be a French/Chilean couple we shared the back of Ute with for 5.5 hours through the freezing cold flats. We were all freezing our fingers off, so I decided to pull my sleeping bag out of my backpack as good and as well the turns and bumps in the road would allow me. Once my little mission was finally completed, I zipped my sleeping bag open and threw it over our legs. We did not allow the cold to pull down our joy. We saw several Guanaco`s (a species of lama) and breathtaking landscapes. Once a couple condors flew along with us for a while, I couldn`t care less that my lips were turning blue and that I couldn`t my fingers were almost freezing off my hands.
 
The couple slowly approaches us and start laughing as soon as they recognize us. “Hey, how are you guys doing?” asks the girl. “Yeah good, bit quiet when it comes to traffic, but well… The sun is shining, we can`t complain. You guys want some crackers with pate? We got it from a truck driver.” The couple politely say no to the offer and make their way (completely meeting up with the unwritten hitchhikers laws) to a spot 100 meter further down the road.
Hours pass by, we get more and more bored. We decide to start a game of monopoly on the IPad, but once Grant after his 6th turn still didn`t land on a street to buy, the atmosphere has dropped to a level which would make a funeral look like a nice way to catch up with friends and family. Then all of a sudden a car approaches, as if God sent angel it comes closer, making its way over the hills. We start waving our thumbs up and down. It`s already 4 PM and the closest we have come to a hitchhike was a lost Guanaco walking past. The car comes closer, we see the driver discussing with his wife. I put my pageant smile on and try to send out as much charm as I possibly can. Unfortunately without any success, the car drives passed. Then, just fifty meters further, in front of the other couple, it makes a stop. The girl quickly gets up her feet and runs to the car. “To El Chalten?” the girl asks. She waves to her boyfriend, who quickly grabs their bags and both of them jump in the car. Leaving Grant and me behind in astonishment. “Did they just steal our ride? They didn`t even mention that we were here first…” I mumble softly. “You got to be kidding me!” Grant shouts out. “They know we don`t have a tent. It`s getting dark. If we don`t get a ride out of here, we`re screwed. They came here later than us and still they steal our ride.” Filled with anger, he grabs a stone from the ground and throws it towards a white-bleached smile of some fake super model, promoting El Calafate as the capital of glaciers. A loud `dong` echoes through the valley once the stone hits the billboard and then softly lands in front of the Guanaco, who raises up his head as a sign of astonishment. Softly chewing some brown pieces of desert grass. “Come on Grant. Are you done being grumpy and sad about the world and life? Calm down”
Grant kicks against another rock. “No I`m not calming down. It`s %&/( rude of them to steal our ride. I feel let down by humanity!” I start laughing. “Let down by humanity? Did you forget about all the amazing people we met on the way. People like Camilo, saving us from a freezing gas station. Giving us food, coffee and his bed while he drives us down for 7 hours along the coast. Yet now you let yourself get swept off your feet by just 2 random idiots. We start arguing and quickly the argument turns into a fight. It gets me to a point that I`m so fed up with the whole situation that I grab my back and start walking back to the cross point. “Where are you going?” Grant shouts. “Anywhere, I don`t care, as long as I get myself away from here!” A truck appears from the distance, going in the direction of the town we just came from. “I`ll show you some hitchhiking mister!” I think to myself, while I pretend I`m not looking at Grant. As elegantly as possible I raise my thumb in the air and flick my hair back. The car comes closer….beeps a couple of times…..and then passes with 40 miles an hour, making my hair dance from underneath my beanie. With one eye I secretly observe Grant`s reaction. He nearly rolls off his backpack from laughing. We continue ignoring each other for a couple more minutes. Then it`s Grant who puts his pride aside and walks up to me. I stubbornly look in the other direction, pretending I don`t see his action. “Would you please come back and sit next to me. It`s so boring alone with the Guanaco, we just don`t have a lot to talk about you know…”  I laugh about his joke. “Ok, if you promise to be less of a grump.” “Deal” says Grant. A jeep approaches from the other direction, going back to the town we just came from. “Let`s try I get this one, at least we get back to civilization. If we`re lucky we can still try to catch a bus.” Grant states wisely. We both raise up our thumbs. As a gift from heaven, the car pulls over and a massive hell-angel-alike figure steps out of the car, exposing his perfectly trimmed mohawk. “Uhm… pineapple..?” (our secret code for potential trunk killers) Grant whispers softly in my ear. “No, I think this is fine.” I say while nodding to the 6 year old girl sitting on the passenger’s seat. “You poor guys look like you`re in deep trouble out of here. Jump in!” laughs the hells angel, while he opens the door for us. “Don`t forget to put on your seatbelt, safety first!”
 
While we`re cruising through the landscape, I think about what happened today. Of all the cars that had driven passed, most of them had a little cross on their hind mirror or an image of the Virgin Mary on the window. Some had a massive Ute or even plenty of space on their backseat. No one of them stopped to pick us up. Finally we`re saved by a man who most people would avoid when meeting him in a dark alley. Well as we all say: Help always comes from those you least expect.

​It`s 9 O`clock in the morning and El Bolson is waking up. Fully packed we open the door of the hostel. A cool breeze freshens up our faces and clears our noses. We turn around one last time to shout a “Ciao! Suerte!” to everybody and then we`re fully ready to hit the road. It`s freezing cold. The morning mist has left a silver glance on the grass in the park. It`s about 2 kilometer walk to the beginning of the highway. We quicken up the pace to warm ourselves up. The heavier we breath, the more steam appears from our mouths. As two walking locomotives we pass the gas station. I turn around and start walking backwards. Pretending I have done this trick already a thousand times I put my right thumb in the air and start moving it up and down.
An old Volkswagen pulls over. The poor car is clearly on one of his last drives. The window of the passenger’s seat is turned winded down and two young blokes smile at us with their charming yellow teeth. “Where are you guys going?” asks the driver. 

“To Esquel” I answer. I closely observe the boys and then let my eyes scan through the car. The boys start talking with such a heavy accent, that I cannot understand a word they`re saying. Grant comes standing next to me and softly I whisper to him: “Grant, I think we might have a `Pineapple` here…” (Pineapple is a code word we use in case we don`t trust a possible hitchhike) “Come on Sanne, you silly goose. Those guys look pretty trust worthy”. Grant smiles and bends over to talk with the boys. “Can we come with you guys?” Grant asks. “Yes you can, but we are not going to Esquel. We can take you to a village 50 kilometers on the way. From there you can continue you trip.” I decide to leave the shadows in my thoughts behind en put by backpack in the back of the car. We take place at the backseats and close the doors of the car with a firm swing. “Do you guys want some matè (a traditional strong tea)?” asks the guy on the passenger`s seat while I holds his matè cup high. “Ow yes please!” says Grant pleased and takes the mate cup from the guy. After a couple of sips he passes the cup to me. With a touch of despise I smell the matè and take a tiny small sip. “They might as well have poisoned the matè..” I think to myself. The boys are lost in conversation. Their accent is so heavy that I have to focus really hard in order to pick up some parts of the conversation. “Where shall we take them?” ask the driver`s seat boy. “I don`t know, what would be a good spot?” responds the driver. I feel my palms getting sweaty. Yesterday another driver told us 5 local girls has gone missing, probably because of human trafficking. All kinds of doom scenarios are rushing through my mind. “Grant, if they turn off the route, we both pull open the doors, push our bags out and jump out of the car!” I whisper softly to Grant. “Ow come on Sanne, what is wrong with you? Just relax.” We get into a small little town. The driver turns the car of the main road. A small flash of panic rushes through my body and I make myself ready to jump out of the car. Then the car, suddenly stops. “Here we are!” says the driver. “Here we are?” I reply, still astonished I didn`t end up in 6 pieces at the back of the truck. “Yes, we discussed on the way what would be a good spot to drop you guys of. We work 5 kilometers out of town. At least here all the traffic comes through going south. They have to slow down as they enter town, so it`s more likely for them to pull over and take you guys.” An unbelievable sense of releasement rushes through my veins. Those sweethearts, with clearly not a penny in their pocket have made a big turn to help us out. Filled with gratitude we give them a package of biscuits, a hug and wish them all the best before they drive of into anonymity.
 
We`re not even fully settled on the side of the road, before the next car pulls over. A retired man form Buenos Aires offers us to take us to the next town, 100 kilometers away. “Wow if we continue on this pace, we might get to Chile tonight!” Grant says hopeful. Again, we are perfectly dropped off at the next spot. We`re we repeat the whole hitchhiker`s ceremony of dropping our bags, picking the perfect spot to stand and try to keep ourselves entertained in the meantime. Unfortunately, traffic seems to get more and more scarce, the further south we go. With an average amount of 1 car per 10 minutes, we try to pass the time with the game`celebrity heads’. Once, after the 20th game, Grant finally guesses he is the Dalai Lama and I get to the insight that I`m Marilyn Monroe, Grant had come to the stage that I was fed up with it (and that`s mild way to describe it). “Come on Sanne. We`re already waiting for four hours now. It`s cold, it`s getting late, I`m done. Let`s go the information center and find out what time the bus leaves, so we can at least catch a bus out of this hole, before it gets dark.” After some attempts of keeping hope, I finally gave in. We put our backpacks back on and walk towards the office. Over there the lovely lady told us it would be at least another 3 hours, before the bus would come pass, so we decided to give it another go in the meantime. As soon as I put my thumb up, a car pulls over. “Where are you guys going?” asks the driver. “To Esquel, could you take us?” “Yes of course, jump in.” Answers the guys who introduced himself a couple of minutes later as Francisco. “Normally, I never take hitchhikers, but I was sitting in the restaurant and saw you guys coming back. You looked so disappointed, I couldn`t leave you there.” “Ah thanks a million, that`s so sweet. Where are from?” I`m from Chile. I had to go to Argentina for work. Normally I would fly, but the people of the airline are striking, so I took a rental car. A long ride from Coyhaique....” “Coyhaique?! You`re from Coyhaique?!” I interrupted him in his story. “I`m sorry, but we are on the way to Coyhaique. But as we are hitchhiking we thought it would take us about 3 days to get down there.” “Well if you want I can take you there. It`s a long drive though, about 9 hours to go. But yes, I could definitely use some company.” I give him and Grant a high five. “Amazing! We must have been waiting for four hours to meet each other `pope` Francisco.” giving him a wink. What a luck. I look outside. The landscape is stunning. “You see Sanne.” I think to myself. “Everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it just takes a while before you see it."

​“Excuse me madam, but the next bus to Lago Hermoso is leaving in 6 hours.” I raise my eyebrows. “…. 6 hours?! And how am I supposed to make a hike around the lake if I arrive there at 5pm?’ The attendant looks back with the unimpressed facial expression which resembled the look of a zombie. “Again, I`m sorry madam, but it`s low season. May I suggest you take a taxi down? So you can enjoy this sunny day down at the lake. Goodbye!” And with a big `slam` he shuts down the window to start his low season siesta. “What do we do now?’ I ask Grant, a bit disappointment by the fact we might not be able to go on a hike today. “We could try hitchhiking down. 

There is enough couples standing on the side of the road, so why don`t we?” For a couple of seconds I allow different voices to cross my mind. The voice of my concerned mother, the voice of that adventurous chick hitchhiking through Africa by herself, the voice of CSI with their rotten bodies in the back of trucks. But when I finally hear the voice of Carolina, my Argentinian friend, who I met on the farm in Arteaga, I know everything is going to be alright. She has been traveling alone through South America, only by hitchhiking without any problems. Grant looks at me with a big frown above his eyebrows. “Yes ok, why not.” I sigh while I casually shrug my shoulders.
 
We pick up a piece of cardboard at the supermarket and write with big letters `Lago Hermoso`. Somewhat nervous we choose a spot in the street that leads to the onramps of the highway. “Ok, there we go..” I think to myself. Some horror stories of other hitch hikers pop into my mind. Like the one of a couple that had to wait 3 hours in the middle of nowhere, before a car finally freed them from the freezing cold wind.
Three cars are appearing from the distance. Somewhat clumsy I put my shoulders back, raise the sign high and wave my thumb up and down. The second car pulls over and opens the door. “Wow, that was easy!” says Grant. After a quick look into the car, during which we were greeted by a friendly smiling 65+ couple, we jumped on the back seats. One hour, a piece of paper full of travel tips and many stories later, the couple drops us off at a restaurant. “Just follow that gravel road, it will bring you to Lago Hermoso within an hour.” The couple drives of and we wave them goodbye. The sun is softly warming up are skin, making it feel like one of those perfect summer days back home. Time flies bye and before we know it, it`s 5pm, time to head back to the bus. We ask the restaurant owner what time the bus leaves, but he doesn`t seem to know. “I`m not sure, but I think it doesn`t pass before 7pm.” His friend behind him puts his thumb in the air, waving it up and down. Grant and I look at each other. Why not… and for the second time we take the hitch hikers position. A gracefully as possible I smile to the cars flying by on the pavement. After 15 minutes I was done with it and ask Grant if he wanted to swap. Then, all of a sudden a car stops and the same couple from earlier in the day appear. “Need a ride back to San Martin?” the man smiles from underneath his moustache. Without a second of hesitation, we get in the car. These experiences can`t be beaten by the most beautiful lakes in the world.
 
The south is waiting for us. We are about halfway through Argentina and although taking selfies is not our biggest specialty, taking one with us in front of the sign `End of the world` (the most southern point of the continent), is definitely on the list. About 2500 km left, so time to get our butts on the pavement again. As hitch hiking is a much more fulfilling traveling experience, we decided to forget about buses and put the thumbs in the air on the same spot as yesterday. This time we got picked up by a middle aged couple who appeared to be better travel guides than all the lonely planets combined. Filled with pride, they tell about the different lakes, the impact of a volcanoes eruption and much more. Just before the end destination they take us to a viewing point for a group picture in front of the lake. After a short drive, we arrive at the `center` of Villa la Angostura. A hug and a kiss to say our gratitude and goodbyes, knowing we would, most probably, never see each other again.
 
Grant had found a `couch` for us on the website `couch surfing`. A website for travelers. The idea: making your own couch/bed available when you are at home and have the access to couches/beds of others while traveling. The result: best inside travel information, friend`s for life and not spending a penny.
We ring the bell of a small, cute, wooden bungalow in the middle of the forest. Chalo opens the door, gives us the traditional Argentinian kiss on the check and introduces us to the 4 other `couchsurfers` that stay with him. The living room is combined with the kitchen and not bigger than 12 by 2 meters. The mattress leaning against the wall reveal a somewhat improvised way of life. As well as the creatively ordered kitchen. Chalo tells us that because of his work, he`s not able to travel the world. By receiving travelers he still has the ability to have a taste of traveling. “I learn so much every day. About the world, about religion, politics, you name it. It gives me so much energy to receive people from all over the world.” Camila, a fellow couchsurfer hands him a plate of spaghetti. `….. and it gives good food!` Chalo ends his speech with a wink. I chuckle. “Bon provecho!”
More and more people enter the house. A friend of a Brazilian couple that sleeps here as well and a Polish/South African couple that got lost and are looking for a place to stay. We ended up with 10 people. Quite a challenge for me and Grant as we promised to cook for everybody tonight. Everyone gives there last bits of rice, beans, vegetables, etc. and after the necessary improvisation we managed to put a decent meal on the table for everybody. Bottles of wine are making their circles among the group of wanderers, stories are being exchanged, the guitars are brought out of their bags, the dust is wiped of the drums and maracas are made from empty bottles with uncooked rice. As good and as bad as it goes we sing along with classics like `summer of 69` and `besame`. The clock keeps moving forward, taking the level of wine in their bottles with it. On the point that nobody can keep their eyes open, the couches are put aside, the mattresses are `tetris-ed` on the floor and everybody finds himself a spot to sleep.
 
It`s the second night we stay at Chalo`s place. Chalo took all the other `surfers` out to the village for a small guided tour around. Grant and I decided to stay behind and enjoy the return of the piece by playing a game of monopoly. Just on the moment I`m buying Mayfair I hear a peeping sound coming from outside. Filled with curiosity, I open the door. A pair of chestnut brown eyes look up to me. It`s a blond stray dog. “Ah little cutie, what are you doing here? Wait let me call the owner of the house, maybe you can spend the night here.” Luckily, Chalo answers the phone and I tell him the story. “No problem.” he answers. “Just put an old blanket in front of the heater and give her some water and food.”
The left over ravioli is gratefully eaten out the pan and the water is splashed out of the tupperware box. Everybody puzzles their mattresses back on the ground while Corina (as we decided to call the dog) keeps everybody awake with an intense loud snoring. I stare at the ceiling. My eyes move around the room and catch the outline of Corina, move over the other travelers and then finally get stuck at a little mountain of blankets with Chalo underneath it. He, the owner of the house, is sleeping on the most uncomfortable couch you can ever imagine. His house is smaller than many Hobbit holes and he has a fulltime job. Still he`s happy to help out everybody. I think back of the couples that gave us a ride. All people that didn`t knew us and still willing to trust us and help us. No requests to pay for gasoline, not asking to pay for gas and water. Just helping somebody out, without the need of a favor. They`re still there, people, good people who are really there for one another. On the background Corina produces her biggest snore of the night and I think to myself `What a wonderful world.`

​An old man slowly sits next to me. His back is painfully bended forward and almost forms the shape of half a moon. With great effort he lifts up his head as far as he can to greet me. His face is deeply wrinkled by the many years of intense sun in this altitude. “Buenos dias mi hija.” (Good morning my child) he says with his toothless smile. “Buenos dias señor.” Even though I was used to the fact that elderly people would apply to me as their child, it still felt uncomfortable to reply with the common `Papi` or `Mami`. With a firm sip I try to suck the last bit of juice out of my glass. I sneak over the counter to see if the lady has a bit more left in the blender. There is, at least enough for another glass. I put on my charming best and do the trick I`ve seen other with Peruvians. 

​“Mmmmmmm… that was lovely Señora, is there maybe some more left to fill up my glass another time?” Without hesitation she grabs my glass and fills it up with the rest of the fruit juice she had made for me. The whole process went so smoothly that it gave me a chuckle. In modern society this would be completely out of the question. Getting two glasses, if you only payed for one, especially when you realize it was only $0.50 to start off with. The man next to me orders a Crema de Leche with sirop and then tries his outmost best to turn towards me so he can ask me the usual questions; “Where are you from?” “How long are you traveling for?” “What places have your seen?” Although I would love to have a proper conversation with him, I found it hard to understand him. He belongs to the native people from this area and therefor usually only speaks Quechua. Also the lack of teeth doesn`t lift up the level of articulation. Grown up in the country side, he had to help out on the farm. Even if he was allowed to go to school, the area was so remote, there wasn`t any. Nowadays the heavy work on the farm has left his weight on his back, making it impossible to making a living. In order to survive his elderly days he decided to move to the city and started to sell toilet paper on the streets of Cuzco. Full of pride he shows me his bag full of rolls. “Do you want any my child?” he says with his ever-lasting teeth less smile. “No thank you señor, my boyfriend had some stomach issues, so we are well supplied at the moment.” I stand up and pay the lady. “This is for the juice and this is for the `Crema de leche` of señor. “Ow gracias, mi hija, gracias.” The man says while he grabs my hand. “Your welcome, saves you selling 5 rolls of paper today.” And with a last tap on each other shoulders our go our separate ways.
It`s busy on the market of Cuzco. Woman, men, children, everybody is buying their supplies for the upcoming week. Women in traditional clothes walk pass, carrying their shopping in a cloak with every imaginary color in the world on it. A butcher chops off the right hind leg of a pig, which is hung upside down on a hook. Two street dog sit in front of this scenery, swiping theirs tails full of hope to get a bite. On the background the vocals of the salesman and –woman echoing through the hall “Manzanaaaa… manzanaaaaa!” “Pan suaveeeeeeee… pan suaveee..!!!!” “Carne, pollo, muy baratto, baratto, baratto!” When I breathe in, my noise gets entertained with a million smells of meat, herbals, fruits, chocolate, warm soup, cake, bread, etc. I`m so intrigued by all the magic that is happening around me that I totally forget my little mission. “Oh bummer… a hat Sanne, you came here to buy a hat you little daydreamer!” I say to myself, while I force my little remark by giving myself a slap on the forehead. We were leaving on a 5 day track to Machu Pichu tomorrow. With an average altitude of 2500 m. and a bright sun, you don`t want to walk around without a hat. I quickly find one, a flat one, brown. Unfortunately the lady doesn`t sell ribbons to fancy it up. “Ah tranquillo señora, I`ll have to go and buy fruits anyway. The handicraft ladies are close from there.” I tell her while she gives me the hat. I head off to my favorite fruit stall, but to my surprise the lady has been replaced by a 10 year old boy. “Buenos dias Hermosa (handsome), welcome to the best stall in all of Cuzco! We have apples, oranges, strawberries, you name it, and we got it.” He states proudly while spreading his arms as if he was giving a speech in the theater. “Well, well sir hahah, I`m sure you`re good salesman.” “Best one in town hermosa.” “Hahaha, I`m sure about that, but don`t you have to go to school chico?” The raises his eyebrows sky high. “It`s the weekend Hermosa, there is no school. The stall is open 7 days a week. I take over from my mother in the weekends, so she has time to do the housekeeping.” He proudly states while opening up a bag and putting in the fruits I point out for him. “But what about your homework?” “I make my homework in the evenings. Don`t worry Hermosa, I`m an intelligent man, I always finish my homework in no time.” Proudly he hands me the fruits, while I pass him the money. “If you need any meat Hermosa, my sister is more than happy to help you, she is on the corner.” With an indecisive mind I make my way to the meat court. There she is, with a big shiny meat knife in her hand. Her hair perfectly held back in two braids, tight up together with a red band. She raises the knife high above her head and with a big swing she divides the dead chicken lying in front of her on the table into two. How her skinny little arms got the knife so high in the sky is a mystery for me. She lifts up the pieces and put them on display. The next one has its turn now, it`s a lot bigger than the previous one. After three unsuccessful attempt she ask the neighbor for help. The big (for Peruvian standards) fat guy takes over the chicken and the knife and with a small `Chuck` cuts straight through the breast of the lifeless bird. All of a sudden the girl noticed my appearance and stares back at me with chestnut brown eyes. It gave me a fright and with a look of shame I try to save as much of the situation as possible. I slap my own forehead, theatrically gesturing that I just remembered something and quickly continue walking. She was 8, at most…….
 

​Tables have been turned again. After weeks, excuse me, months of being totally happy and in balance with myself. The little devil inside me has popped his head around the corner again. Fed by being homesick, I long to my trusty regular, comfy life back home. Spiced up with the condiments of fear and doubt about the future. Enjoying my current life I am eating through my savings, but will there be a job to level it up. And if yes, what kind of job? 

​I would absolutely love to work and live in Australia for a while. After months of traveling I`m blessed with many friends in Australia and my gut feeling (even before the era of Grant) already whispered a couple of times that this might be THE country for me. The people are laid back, there is an overload of job possibilities and a biodiversity in which I, as zoologist, could drown myself in. “But it is a long far way from the Netherlands..” the little devil whispers in my ear. “What are you can do when you`re married and blessed with children, a family of your own? Then you can`t just visit your parents anymore. Or take the bike to a friend`s place. Going for a drink with the girls.” Arrrrrchh!....... it just drives me crazy. “Grant, I have to go to the coast for a couple of days. Just sitting with my butt in the sand.” I tell him when we are looking for our next destination in Cuenca, Ecuador. “But you had plenty of time to chill out on the beaches of Galapagos…” Grant answers with raised eyebrows. “I know pretty boy, but I need to empty my mind. If you want you can go somewhere else and catch up after a couple of days, but for now I need to park my butt on the beach.” Grant admitted he would be keen on doing some surfing and (loyal to Australian habits) keen on having a couple of beers. So after the advice of other backpackers we set our ways to Mancora.
On the moment of arrival Mancora appeared not to be the promised land we were hoping for. The beach was eaten by the sea, washing into the beach restaurants/sheds. The waves were too high for beginning surfers and (entirely meeting up Peruvian traditions) trash was widely spread. Luckily Loki hostel, with a bar, swimming pool, volleyball net and several comfy hammocks and sunbeds appeared to be the ideal spot. It turned out to be the ultimate party destination for young Argentinians and Chileans, who filled up the dancefloor in the evening and soak out their hangovers in the swimming pool during the day. During one of the many games of volleyball I got into a conversation with Dirk, a fellow Dutchie from our charming capital Amsterdam. The conversation had reached the ear of Juan, one of the many young Argentinians. He addressed us in a fluent Flemish accent “Allee, zijte gij Hollanders!” (Howdeeee, dudes, are you guys Dutch?) Dirk and I looked at each other and after less than a split second we burst out laughing. It was like the British queen just gave a speech with a heavy Texan accent. It didn`t take Juan long to claim eternal fame among the Dutch guests with his charming adorable way of speaking.
The days are filled with heavily loaded itineraries of siestas, volleyball, bar, lunch, repeat…. Still it wasn`t what I needed. I needed a quiet place to empty my mind. A good change occurred when Grant didn`t feel well (=hangover) and decided to dive into his bed instead of the swimming pool. Grabbing my change I left the resort and for a walk on the non-flooded parts of the beach. With my ears I focused on the sound of the waves, while leaving a part of my worries behind me with every footprint in the sand. Lost in thoughts I bump into a reincarnation of Bob Marley. “Ah lo siento amigo lo no visto” (sorry friend, I didn`t see you). “Ah tranquilo hermosa, don`t worry. My students have their minds at another place as well today.“ `Bob` responses while pointing to a group of surfers between the rip. “Aj, perro las olas, the waves, they`re a bit high for beginners, aren`t they?” He chuckles, “Doesn`t matter, up to a certain height at least. The main feature is trust.” I gaze at one of the boys in the ocean. His timing is perfect. With great force he paddles in front of the wave. Once the wave grabs his board, it starts gliding to the shore line. The boy pushed himself up and tries to stand. Heavenly concentrating on his feet, he looks down, moving his gravity point to the front. It doesn`t take longer than 2 seconds before he falls over the front of his board and with a big splash he gets swallowed up by the waves. “Look at that. They don`t even trust their own feet. Constantly they keep on staring at their own feet when they try to stand up. Those things are attached to your body for a reason. Once they have faith in their own feet and keep focused on the horizon, they`ll keep themselves balanced. Combined with the right timing the wave will take them back to shore. Without timing and trust, they’ll fall and get a nice salty taste of surfing.” He looks at me with a serious face and then burst out laughing. Again I look back at the ocean. The boy pops his head above the water coughing heavily. A second opportunity arrives in the form of a big wave. The boy has spotted it as well. He turns his board around and quickly starts paddling towards the coast.  “The horizon, look at the horizon!” `Bob shouts next to me. The wave grabs the board and pushes it forward. The boy looks forward, pushes himself up and steadily puts his feet underneath his body. Slowly his hands are letting go of the board. Filled with amazement the boy looks at us with big eyes. Then with the same amazement he looks at his own feet after which he soon falls forwards into the swirling hands of the wave.
‘Bob’ laughs. “They`ll learn it.” I smile back at him. “Today you taught me exactly what I needed. Thank you!” and while I turn around I leave a somewhat surprised `amigo` behind. I feel the wind blowing in my face. Through a straw I take a sip from my ice tea thinking “Ah good old Bob, everything is going to be alright..!”

​The year 2015 is coming to its end. I`m already on the road for more than a year now. Time flies when you`re having fun. What a time it has been, especially the last two weeks on Galapagos. Absolutely unforgettable. I never wiped away so many tears of joy in my life. What a richness in wildlife. Young sea lions, curiously gazing at our camera`s. The nights we spent sitting on a bench in the harbor, enjoying the clumsy movements of the sea lions coming to shore after a hard day of work at sea. We biked along a dozen giant tortoises on island Isabella. Drank wine on the beach together with other backpacker on Christmas Eve. We`ve seen massive sea turtles swimming past, elegantly, almost ballerina like, pushing themselves forward with their flippers through the water.

Unfortunately, all good things come to an end, also our Galapagos adventure. We fly to Quito, the capital of Ecuador. To catch up with the exceeded expenses on the Galapagos, we decide to take a bus to the hostel instead of a taxi. Once arrived on the final destination, Grant grabs into his pocket, noticing the wallet is no longer there. “It must have felt out of my pocket. I still had it on the airport when we were buying a sandwich.” I remain calm. “It`s just money babe, shit happens. Just be a bit more careful next time.” We check in the hostel, while I start up a conversation with a girl at the bar. “Ow wow your pictures must be out of this world!” She cheerfully shouts, once I told her we just came from the Galapagos. “Ow yes, for sizzle……” and then all of a sudden it strikes into my mind… the day we came back from a snorkeling trip and the guide offered us to put his pictures on our memory card. The one on my camera appeared to be full and I replaced it for an empty one. To keep the old one safe, I put it in… the wallet…..I turn to Grant and pull his shoulder. “Grant, the card, the SD-card with our pictures, it was still in the wallet!” and I burst into tears. “Calm down baby.” Pulling my teary head into his hands. “Hey... we still got lots of pictures, from your phone, on your laptop, on the other memory card. Not everything is lost. We still have the memories. Don`t forget the amazing time we had babe.” His words pass through my ears, but my mind is somewhere else. I simply can`t stop crying. Ever since I was a little girl I had been dreaming away reading about the adventures of Charles Darwin and his ship the `Beagle`. At university I finished almost every book I could find about genetics and evolution. Immersed with fascination I wanted nothing more to see this magical place with my own eyes. There were the word of the church had to take a little step back to make place for a scientific addition into God`s creation. …… “ Come Sanne, you go and make yourself comfy in the bed with your laptop to see and admire all the beautiful pictures we still have. In the meantime, I`ll make us some tea.” Luckily quite some pictures appeared to be saved, as I was so smart to make a back-up on my computer after the first 3 days. All the pictures of island Isabel however, appeared to be lost. I give myself some time to be sad and cry it all out. Luckily the Israeli couple, whom we share a dorm with, don`t really seem to care. With the sheets I dry my tears and go to all the amazing pictures I still have. “Come on Sanne, there are so many amazing ones left.” I say to myself. I decide to put a post on Facebook. A tremendous amount of responses come in. Most pictures are now replaced by beautiful shots from friends. I might lost my pictures, but I got some amazing presents in return. 
It`s new year’s eve, time to say goodbye to 2015 and give a warm welcome to 2016. It`s been a year filled with travels and adventures. A full year abroad. And all this now in the beautiful city Quito. An amazing historical city, filled with just astonishing historical churches. One of the churches is filled with copper and cold, sky high paintings, and beautifully dressed statues. To keep the family tradition high I decided to burn candles for my love ones. I buy three, a pink one and a blue one for the persons I said goodbye to during my travels and a green one for everyone who is with them. Grant does the same for his grandparents. We grab each other`s hands and look at each other. I give one last gaze to the candles, lift up my head and give a little knot and smile to Virgin Marry, who lifelessly stares back at me, comforting me with her marvel smile. Softly Grant squeezes my hand. It`s time to hit the road again.
On every corner of the street a `widow’ is dancing on of the frequently played beats like ‘Bailando’ or `El Taxi`. All of them are men dressed up as women, trying to collect money for charity (read: beer for party). Some of them are so fanatic that they dance on the middle of the street, forcing every car to stop by giving the bonnet a lap dance.
Papier-mâché dolls are being sold in every shop. A café owner gives us some explanations of this old tradition. In the old days the dolls were representing people who had a bad influence on someone’s life. Think certain politians, policemen, a bad neighbor or –family member. By lilting them into flames with New Years people latterly burned away the bad luck from the old year, making space for good luck in the new one. Nowadays the burnings have somewhat lost their meaning. Famous cartoon- or movie heroes are now the ones facing the flames.
 
We buy a bottle of wine and some snacks for the night and set foot towards the main square. It`s oddly quite on the streets. Apart from dozens of police cars, there is nothing or nobody. We quicken up the pace, the sooner we get to the square, the better. There the atmosphere seems much better. Many dolls are being burned with huge circles of people dancing around it. Some daredevils run out of the circle to jump through the house high flames (yes guys, in Ecuador you need to put some effort in getting good luck). We bump into some other guests from the hostel and give everybody a sip of wine. After some drinking, dancing and laughing, the new year has arrived! Only a shawarma is missing to close it down as a good party and after wiping of the last bit of garlic sauce from the corners of my lips it`s time to go back to the hostel. It`s not far, just a 15 minute walk. Still enjoying the good vibes, Grant and I bring up the good memories of that day and night.  Suddenly, out of the dark, 3 guys come towards us. A strange feeling of mistrust, fills up my stomach and I start to walk on the right side of the road. As far away as possible from the boys. Grant doesn`t seem to notice anything and cheerfully continues talking. Then all of a sudden everything seems to be entering a time-lapse video. One of the guys grabs Grant by the arm and before I`m able to do anything, another grabs me by my hair. I look in to his eyes, which clearly drowned with drugs and alcohol. I try to free myself, but then a see a shiny big kitchen knife in his hand. I scream, I scream as loud as I can. The boy drags me by my hair into the direction of the park. The point of the knife softly pushes through my shirt into my stomach. “What the hell is trying to do? What is he going to do? What does he want? Ow please don`t let him want to do that…” I`m terrified, not knowing what is going to happen next…..Out of the blue, the guy let`s go. Finally I`m able to stand up and see what is going on. All three boys are running away. Grant runs towards me and puts his arms around me. “Are you ok?” he asks. With my hands I stroke over my belly. Fortunately I don`t feel any wounds. My fingertips examine my head. Apart from descent amount of lost hairs, there is not too much damage there either. “I`m ok, and you?” “I`m fine. I gave them the wallet. Your phone is still safe in the moneybelt.” A wave of panic strikes me. “I want to go Grant. I want to get off the street now!” A police car crosses our way. Wildly waving my arms I tell them to pull over. Quickly I tell them the story and point out the three guys who are still running in our sight. With burning tires they set off, leaving us in despair on the street. “What do we do now?” Grant asks. “I want to get off the street now, Grant!” and tears roll down my cheeks. We stop a taxi and drive the last part back to the hostel. I can`t sleep. Every time I close my eyes the imagines spurt through my mind. “Come let`s watch a movie, that will give a bit of distraction.” Grant suggests. We take the blankets down to the tv-room and make it a covey activity with tea and some snack leftovers. I put ‘A brief history of time’ in the DVD-player, a movie about Steve Hawking. One of world`s best known scientists, who did not allow his paralyzing disease stand in the way of his career. A great inspiration. I think back about my sessions with Corine in the Netherlands (see my first blog `In a country far, far away.’). She had given me a book which stated; `Fear does not result from what you experience, but the thoughts your form about it.’ I decide to see it as a lesson. They might have taken my money, but they will not take away my joy in traveling. That`s soaked into my bones, nobody will ever take that away from me, it`s part of who I am.

​“Hola, como estas jovenes?” An elderly men is descending the hill towards us. His arm spread wide like a Jesus statue and around his neck a cross. He`s only one black and white outfit away from looking like a priest. Sweat drops make their way down from my forehead towards my jaw. After our jungle tour we wanted to see a bit more from the Amazon. Puerto Nariño, a small ecovillage, a two hour boat from Leticia, appeared to be our Mekka. We walk up the muddy hill. It`s challenging us. With flip-flops, a backpack on my back and a smaller version on my front it`s not an easy task, especially considering the insane high temperature and the equally insane humidity. Juan, the hostel owner, shows us around. The dorm, the kitchen, the doors that everybody had to keep shut to keep the monkey`s outside, the parrots, the cats, the dogs. It`s a true Zoo. The atmosphere is laid back. Everything is possible. We settle into the dorm which appeared to be our own private gigantic bedroom for the next couple of days. During dusk, we say goodbye to the sun, which says goodbye to us in return by leaving an impressive coloring above the jungle when it sets down behind the horizon.

“Pats! Kleng! Boom!” I`m startled awake and sit straight up in my bed. “Kadam kleng!” The sound comes from the kitchen. I slowly get out of bed. Softly I put my bare feet on the wooden floor and as silent as possible, sneak towards the door that separates our room from the kitchen. Slowly, I open the door just enough to gaze through the opening unnoticed. I look back. Grant is still in a deep sleep. I`m on my own. I close one eye and with the other I try to get a view on what is causing the noise. My sight doesn`t reach far enough to see what is going on. I curl my neck around the door to take a peak…. “Oh no way…!” I giggle in amazment. One of the monkeys has found her way inside the common area and is digging into a pan with leftovers chili con carne. Her buttocks and squirrel tail are arched gracefully over the edge of the pan. “Hey, get out of there! That's not good for you! Hop off you!” Quickly, she shoots up the curtains and into a hole in the mesh (revealing her own secret entrance) and scampers outside. As best as I can, I try to repair the damage in the kitchen. Having swept the necessary dishes and broken shards, a mop is the only thing missing to finish the job. I walk outside toward the house of Juan. “Ouch!” I feel a sharp beak nipping my left heel. I look back and see one of the Parrots, who has a habit of biting girls’ heels, glaring up with a look of; “Back off my land.” Ah no, completely forgot to bring my broom. Juan gives all women at the hostel a broom to protect themselves against the woman-hating-Parrot. But with all the monkey excitement in the kitchen I had forgotten my bird shield. “Rocho, no! Leave Janet alone!” (After 5 times having to repeat my name, we settled on Janet). It is Juan, shouting from his porch. With a low head and widely spread wings Rocho staggers back to his base under the door of the hostel. I tell Juan about the monkey incident and the same afternoon the mesh above the kitchen door is fixed, this time, monkey proof.
 
There is a lookout tower on the hidden away property which gives us the chance to bath in the sun and watch the endless wildlife that is passing by. We see Parrots flying past the hammock, monkeys jumping from branch to branch, dolphins gasping for breath in the river and the most colorful butterflies you could ever imagine. Unfortunately, we are obliged to leave the place way sooner than we wanted. To avoid high season on the Galapagos Islands, we have to start to make our way to Ecuador. We say our goodbyes to Juan and the heel hungry parrot and head for Ecuador. A small ferry takes us from Leticia to the other side of the river where we are able to get a fast boat to Peru. A comfortable boat is departing the next morning to Iquitos, hundreds of kilometers west. It`s still a mystery how we can continue our journey to Ecuador from there, but it`s a descent way into the right direction. We decide to take the gamble and walk the next morning, in the dark, towards the boat. Grant has forgotten to put in his contact lenses. We cross one of the flimsy ramps which is being used a bridge between one muddy edge of a mini quagmire and the other. Grant volunteers to go first and as he crosses the plank of wood loosens it`s balance on the bank of mud. The crossing ends with Grant and backpack, knee deep in the muddy abyss. While Grant is trying to make the best of his new mud-stained outfit, I get to talk to an American whom has lived in Ecuador for over 20 years. Luckily, he knows an easy way into Ecuador. I write all of his tips and tricks on paper and warmly thank him for his time.
It takes us a full day before we arrive in Iquitos. The largest remote town disconnected from main roads. Anyone who wants to travel beyond Nauta will have to make the trek by boat or plane. A horde of pushy taxi drivers awaits us on the banks of Iquitos, ready to drive us to our hostel. We give a gentleman the name and address of our preferred destination. “Oh, this hostel is full ma'am. There is a large group of students who arrived this morning. I know a different hostel for you, much better and a good price.” Grant looks at me “What shall we do now?” He asks. “Bet it's a trick of him.” Taxi drivers in Central and South America have a habit for gaining commission when tricking tourists into their `amigos` hostel. “We have a reservation, so not to worry.” After some disgruntled mumbling from the driver, we agree on a price and hop into the motor taxi. Upon arrival to the hostel, the normal argument over the agreed price begins. It appears that the taxi driver had a gripe because the traffic light was red for too long and we haven`t yet paid extra for extra luggage. The hostel, as we guessed, was far from full. 15 rooms and only three other guests. Wisdom strikes again. The driver, after all of this, decides to have a shot at one last piece of `business`. He runs after me and puts his card in my hand. “I also organize tours through the jungle madam, if you are interested you can always call.” I draw my left eyebrow high in the air. “Sorry friend, honesty is a virtue. You tried to cheat on us with the hostel and then the price of the taxi ride. If you had been honest with me it might be a different story.” Returning the card back, leaving the driver in full amazement.

Iquitos proved an even dirtier city than Leticia with a mountain of pushy tour vendors. After the 10th pushy salesman walking the street within fifteen minutes of arriving, we decide to depart the next day. By bus we travel to Nauta, from where the rumours telling us that a boat could take us to Yurimaugas, which would bring us back to civilization, with roads! Nauta, where the boats for Yurimaugas departs, appears to be equally charming as Iquitos and after some searching we find a cheap hostel which room resembled something like the bunkers that soldiers slept in while fighting world war two. Over the past couple of days I had been hunched over the toilet bowl trying to throw out my jungle parasite. So after a long boat ride and bus, Grant suggested I should get some rest while he hunted down the boat which could take us to Yurimaguas. In the meantime I kept myself entertained watching a Spanish voice-over of the 'Devil wears Prada` whilst trying to swat away hand size insects from my face, continuously entering through the window (window being a gap in the wall with bars).
 
Grant returns less than half an hour later, walking in with two tickets in his hand to……. Yurimaguas! I spontaneously fly into his arms. The Amazon has been great, but in these circumstances I am ready for culture and development!
The joy unfortunately doesn`t lasts for long. According to the tradition (see blog `passport on the wall`) I passed my parasites onto Grant. This makes him do the necessary yoga moves above the toilet seat for the proceeding 6 hours. The smells, noises and groans make for a romantic last night on the Amazon.
 
At 5 AM we had to be at the boat. Since I feel the least troubled of the two, I'm going to the ticket booth before 4 AM to see if we can exchange the tickets for the next day. The girl at the counter takes the two tickets from me and points to a chair in the corner “Wait there, the manager will sort you out in a moment”. In order to kill some time, I read the various posters on the wall. “Only cards that are canceled up to 1 hour before departure, can be refunded.” Says one of them. My phone says 5 to 4, so I'm still good. The manager walks inside. A short, burly woman with a leopard-skin print shirt which she must be wearing since 15 kilos ago. I quickly make this assumption since her upper body seems bound together by the shirt and now each roll of fat tries to make its way out between the series of buttons on the front. The girl mumbles something to the lady. She strikes a deep sigh and sits down at the desk, starting to re-issue two new tickets. She hands me the new tickets "That is 150 soles". She says with a straight face. "But I've already paid. Up to 4, I`m allowed to cancel the tickets for free.” Pointing to the paper with terms and conditions hanging above the desk. She sighs and looks at her watch "It's two past four kid, you're too late." I look at her with disbelief. "But I've been here for 15 minutes, additionally, the street is filled with people who want to go on the boat, you can resell the tickets easily." "Not my problem. The tickets are attached to a name, so you cannot overwrite them to someone else." With anger I grab my old tickets from her desk. "If we today puke and shit all over your boat, then that's not MY problem." With stamping feet I walk back to the hostel to Grant to tell the story and quickly pack our bags.
 
The boat appears to be an old cargo boat of 30 meters long and 2.5 meters wide. The chairs resemble something you would find at a beach, iron frames with plastic lines acting as back support. "And where is the promised toilet?" I ask the captain. With a neutral face he points to the middle of the boat. An improvised wooden wall, just under our hip level, apparently is our toilet. A thin, sea through piece of blue cloth has to be the door and in the middle is a bucket, representing the toilet seat, revealing the former visitors achievements. "Are you sure you want to do this Grant? We can always buy a new ticket.” “They can shove their tickets where the sun don`t shine Sanne. I won’t pay a penny more.” Still, he has barely finished his sentence, when he quickly leans over the edge of the boat to repeat the nightly activities again. We put our coats on chairs to prevent a striped pattern of clotheslines on our bottoms and decide to make the best out of our 16 hour trip (10 hours today, 6 hours tomorrow).
 
The sun rises slowly, creating a magnificent pastel of colors. Astonishing sights cross our path; creative timber boats with huts on them pass us, all this possible due to a lawn mower motor steadily pushing the boat alone. Large freighters, filled with hammocks to take as many people as possible, pass us by. We stop in small villages where women sell pans of hot food, trying to make a little living. And all this under the regular melancholy of Grant emptying his stomach every hour. `Madam troll` runs back and forth in her tight leopard shirt and stops in each village to get as many people as possible on the boat. Unashamed she puts the money of each illegally sold space into her cleavage. People who do not have enough money for a chair, sit in the back among the luggage.
Pretty soon our sunken appetite turned into our luck. The promised lunch was running extremely late and the excited mood in the boat starts to be taken over by a grim. "Tenemos hambre! De donde esta mi almuerzo?! (We are hungry! Where's my lunch?)." `Madam troll` is way too busy with filling up her cleavage by stopping in each and every single village that we encounter. The clock already shows 5 PM, when lunch is finally brought in. Slowly dusk is coming in. It begins to get dark, pitch dark. The captain (which sits in the back of the boat) cannot see a thing. His assistant stands in front of the boat with a flashlight and tries as best as he can to keep the boat in the middle of the river. Not an easy task with all the curves and the fact that his instructions have to find a way past dozens of people and more than 30 meters of boat. It's a big, comic chaos. “Left!!!”He says to the left!” “What's he saying?” “To the left! To the left!” Cries the customers who are now acting as messengers. The boat makes a sharp turn left, closely missing the riverbank. Terrified that the boat capsizes I strongly embrace my backpack with my passport, bank cards, laptop and camera. “Calm down now Sanne. We are both excellent swimmers. Nothing will happen. If we tip over, I got you.” Grant is trying to reassure me. “Believe me, I'm not afraid to drown. I can trust you. But I also trust in their abilities.” And point to the caiman eyes that light up when the torch of the assistant shines on the water.
 
At 21:30, more than six hours later than planned, we arrive at our stop. The hostel has as much charm as our hostel in Nauta. “And our dinner?” “Yes, what about our dinner?” Ask the people in the boat to `Mrs troll`. “You had your supper at 5 PM.” She replies with a straight face. “That`s not true, that was our lunch!” Shouts a man. Casually she lifts her shoulders and closed the discussion with her motto: “Not my problem.”
 
Just a bit before sunrise we leave for part 2 of our epic journey. The children on the boat are overcoming their shyness, which quickly turns the nightmare into a funny adventure. They laugh constantly about our funny faces and bad Spanish jokes and our sunglasses are cheerfully passed through while posing for pictures. Also candy crush on Grant`s iPad appears to be a real hit.
 
After a lengthy but entertaining journey, we, with `some` delay, finally arrive in Yurimaguas. Our backpacks ended up on bottom of the pile of luggage, so we have to wait until everyone is out of the boat. With my elbow I poke in Grant`s side “Look, boxes full of food and drinks. And we have not even had breakfast today.” Grant makes a desperate attempt to pry breakfast. The troll is facing a street. “There's cafè Marios. If you show your boat ticket, you get your breakfast there.” We didn`t trusted her for a penny. We walk towards the cafe, which (of course) does not appear to exist. We decide to leave the whole experience behind us and take the next collectivo (shared taxi van) to Tarapoto. Here we check in at an overpriced hotel with swimming pool, balcony room and Mary Poppins clean bathroom. After traveling for three days passing around 1,500 kilometers, we stand hand in hand in the pool. “For the next couple of days, let`s enjoy a bit of luxury Grant.” “I think we deserve it."

The screen in the airplane shows 10:30. We have been flying over nothing but jungle for 1.5 hours. It reaches as far as the horizon. Here and there a river breaks through the green infinity. There is nothing but green trees, shrubs, no signs of indigenous villages. The airplane descents, the green infinity starts to show its details. Gigantic trees start showing their form. We go down quicker and quicker and with a smooth bounce, the airplane lands on Amazonian ground.  The doors of the aircraft open and the fresh, humid air of tropical rainforest greets our noses. It reminds me of my time in the tropical greenhouses in the zoo, causing lovely memories to pop up in my mind again. We wait for our luggage at the improvised luggage carousal, which needs a firm kick from one of the attendants every few minutes to keep it going. The large amount of artificial Christmas trees which glide past on the conveyor keep the surprised tourists entertained. One has got to admit, this is a bit of a strange sight, given we are in the largest and greenest heart of the world. We change our long Bogota-proof jeans to khaki-green shorts and a t-shirt. We are enthusiastically greeted by a man who introduces himself as “George, George of the Jungle.” I have a flash back to my childhood where my good friend Marleen and I would watch George of the Jungle on TV. I think to myself, my god, if Marleen had been here, she would have peed in her pants with laughter. He says that he organizes several tours in the jungle and gives us his business card.

​Leticia appears to be far from a charming settlement in the Amazon. At first glance of this `pueblo` I wonder if the word `bin` exists in their vocabulary. The buildings have to live under considerable lack of maintenance. We walk a few laps in search of a hostel, but they are either too expensive or too dirty for words. Luckily, there as a true Tarzan, our friend from the airport, George, turns around the corner. He had his 'office' in a hostel which turned out to be a pretty place. Both the price and the room were appealing to us and we decided to stay. Obviously, as a sign of gratitude we were obligated to listen to George`s sales pitch about a 4 day tour through the jungle which would leave tomorrow. Without too many expectations we stepped into his office, to leave it, after 10 minutes with an empty wallet and receipt as approval of the jungle tour we just booked. After all, the sooner we could get out of Leticia, the better. We would go into the jungle with four other people. Staying two night in a basic lodge (read basic in the most extend way possible) and one night camping amongst the animals and trees in the middle of the jungle. We would go dolphin watching, piranha fishing and much more. I was excited. Since I was a little girl I had dreamed to sail down the Amazon river and since I had received a videotape of `Horses and Dolphins`, I added `seeing the pink river dolphin onto my Amazon shopping list.
 
We leave at dawn by boat from Leticia. It is very busy in the harbor. Small motor boats fill the gaps between the larger boats, which fill in the gaps with the cargo ships. All kinds of things are being loaded and unloaded. A human corpse (yes, human!), is clumsily covered with tarpaulin, is brought in by two men onto the mainland. A goat shrieks loudly when it is transferred from hand to hand, from one boat to the other. Filled with amazement I gaze around to find more astonishing activities. It's already an adventure, even before we set foot in the jungle.
 
It appears that it`s a one hour boat ride to the start off point of our jungle hike. Armed with bags of water, snacks and George with his machete, we set off. The days pass quickly, enjoying fresh caught piranha which is delicately grilled over the fire. The nights entertain us with the symphonies of the jungle and of course the stories and myths of the locals are proudly pass on to us. Various gray and pink river dolphins cross our path and the last day we walk towards our last stop, the jungle campsite. Andre, a Peruvian local, joins us for the journey. His family has lived for generations in the jungle and he shows us the magic of Mother Nature. At the campfire we talk about `Pachamama` the mother of the jungle. Andre and his family still believe firmly in her existence, or let me say, know of her existence. “With everything we do, we thank Pachamama” We ask her for blessing. It is very important to treat her with respect. If you make her angry, she takes revenge on you.“ He tells a story of a Chinese company that was lumbering the Amazon forest. Over time, there were reports of employees going `missing`. There were reports of noises, whispers and disturbance coming from the dense forest. Slowly but surely, the Chinese company withdrew their employees and with it, the project. Pachamama is said to `eat` the remaining machines. She lets vines grow around them, making the old machines rust away with her rain, so that the jungle can thrive once more. You can never get away with taking too much from Pachamama and if you do, you have to give back as much as you got to offer.
 
Along the way we learn all about the trees and plants in the area. It's incredible how many medicines have been here since thousands of years. There are even natural contraception medicines. A plant to stimulate broken bones to heal naturally. Poisonous plants which, given a drop or two in your enemies tea, would cause certain death within 5 minutes. For the women who give birth a couple of times too often, there is even a bark, which, when prepared as a tea will turn the `the little missy` into virgin-like once more . “Is there a natural medicine that helps headaches caused by Dutch ladies?” Grant asks whilst directing a cheeky wink to George. “No, that’s not here. If you have a headache, the pain is only in your mind. You should instead sit down at the river and ask yourself why you are unhappy.” A chuckle rumbles around the group.
 
Although I have not ticked all the boxes of the animals I wanted to see, I learned much more than I could ever have hoped for.

​The plan, a bus to El Cocuy national park, a place right off the beaten track. This meant that a direct bus to El Cocuy wasn`t exactly possible. It took us at the end, a night bus to Bucaramanga, a full day in the bus to Capitanejo, and another bus to another small village.
We get off the bus, still enjoying the ridiculously beautiful views we laid our eyes on the last few days. The bus driver points us to a cafe on the square. We walk towards it and a kind, old man comes walking towards us. “We are traveling to El Cocuy, could you help us further?” I ask him. “Yes, you can take the bus, it is about four hours, or I can ask a friend of mine to bring you there.” The last option sounded much more appealing. We waited in front of the cafe in the sun for our hitchhike. The old man walks quickly back into his store and comes back with an old newspaper. “Excuse me miss, but could you help me with number 13, horizontal, four letters. I've been pondering for days, but got absolutely stuck on this one.” I look at the newspaper and chuckle; English word for 'travel'. I take the pen out of his hand, and write in the open blocks TRIP “Ah great! Thank you so much my child, now I can finally go on with my puzzle.” I look at Grant and Warren, who try to keep their laughter to a political correct amount. Amazing, ow how I love the country life care free feel of Colombia.
 
To our great surprise, within minutes a large jeep appears around the corner. “Ah, there is your transport”, the man says. We throw our luggage in the trunk and climb into the jeep. “You`re lucky” says our driver, “there are currently a lot of tourists in El Cocuy, so you`ll have a lot of friends.” “How many are there?” I ask him, not sure whether I should be happy with this news. “Ow at around 7” replies the driver (again I hear chuckling from the back seat) “Wow, seven, I had thought that there would be less after the shooting.” I say with the utmost astonishment in my voice. (a few days earlier were 12 policemen shot dead in the park due to the ongoing drug war). “Ow but that was very deep in the park, near the border with Venezuela.” “How far exactly?” I ask for my own reassurance. “Ow about four days on horseback, from the remotest `refugio`.” I smile, that is indeed very far.
 
“Here is El Cocuy. All the expensive hotels are here on the square and around the corner are the cheaper options.” Around the corner then. We see a wooden sign `Hotel` and go inside. Through a narrow, dark corridor, we arrive in a covered courtyard. It looks crowded with villagers whom all looked up with a face full of amazement from their plate with hot soup when we walked in. They are small, have a mountain hat and wearing sheep woolen ponchos. All of them are David Beckham-sunbed-brown and have deep, red cheeks. I feel like Gandalf in a tavern full of hobbits. A young, plump lady, about two heads shorter than me comes up to us “Can I help you?” “Yes please. Do you have room for three people? And what is the cost per room?” I ask. “Yes, you can stay for 12000 pesos (4 dollars) per person, we have a room available overlooking the street.” We look at each other. “Ask her directly how much lunch cost?” says Warren with his eternal appetite.
Less than 10 minutes later we dumped our bags on the bed and sit on the table with a cup of hot soup and a plate of hot food. All for the cost of 2 dollars.
The next morning we get up early. At 6:00 AM the milk truck arrives on the square. For a few pesos you can jump in the back and get dropped off at the entrance of the national park. We get a lot of attention in the square. Most villagers are already awake and waiting in traditional mountain clothing for the milk truck. An old man comes curiously at us. “Are you going into the mountains?” He asks. It takes me a while to understand his heavy accent, also the fact that he had only two or three teeth left in his mouth didn`t exactly contribute to his articulation. He introduces himself as Pedro and turns out to be of good help. He helps us to right milk truck (apparently there are more) and wishes us a good trip. Our backpacks are passed forward. The milk truck is packed with curious faces. We park ourselves between two barrels of milk and hold on to the side of the truck. We're going up. It's freezing cold. Frozen water drops form a Swarovski glance on the grass fields. Every few hundred meters there is a farmer waiting along the side of the road with a bucket of milk. If it is a big farm, he might have two. The milk truck `supervisor` pours the milk into the barrel and notes the amount in a `Barbie` notebook. The higher we get, the more children there are waiting along the roadside. Most on tough mountain ponies, when the farm is too far away. This also seems the same for the school, therefore, helping out on the farm is the only option.
 
After 2.5 hours we arrive at the entrance of the park. The ranger greets us kindly and ask for our papers. We give our passports and the reservation confirmation of the `refugio`. These appeared not to be good enough. We had needed to register at the office down in town. They just forgot to mention that when we reserved a room at a mountain lodge. We try to negotiate, but the park ranger stands his ground. The milkman proposes to take us down again, so that we can arrange our papers and go back up tomorrow.
The next morning we have better luck. In the village, we are greeted kindly upon return. It was also found an extra day to acclimatize to the altitude, was not a bad idea (the village of El Cocuy lies at about 2800 m. Our mountain hut is situated at 3800 m). We pass the entrance to the park and when we can look around the corner, we could not believe our eyes. It is a huge valley surrounded by snowy peaks. In the middle is a stream and the field is filled with colorful flowers. The boys are keeping up a firm pace and I try to keep up with them as good as possible. Warren and Grant carry way more of our stuff than me and yet I have trouble with the weight of my backpack. The walk is beautiful and (because of the altitude) literally breathtaking. After about three hours we arrive at the refuge. I throw my stuff on the floor, pull my sleeping bag out of my backpack and fall into a deep sleep.
 
“Sanne.... Sanne.... wake up, food is ready.” Slowly my sleeping bag is pulled down and displays the smiling face of Grant. The boys have cooked a hot pot of stir-fry. A lunch `warmly` welcomed with this freezing temperature.
We make beautiful walks and enjoy the national park to the fullest. There are no more trees on this altitude, but it's amazing how many plants still survive in these extreme conditions. Once we go into the mountains, the vegetation stops and there is nothing but rocks and snow. The water from the lagoons and streams is so clean that we can drink it without problems. According to the locals the water is nowhere in the world as healthy as in the mountains of El Cocuy.
 
After a day or two, slowly we are getting used to the altitude, we decide to go to a mountain hut on the other side of the park with an altitude of 4,200m. From here we can climb the mountain Sierra Nevada; the tallest in the park, 5,330m high. It is still dark when we leave, pitch dark. Unfortunately it's cloudy, so we cannot see the crazy star splendor. It strikes me that there are no birds singing, despite the fact that dawn is coming in fast. It is too high for birds. The air is still, I hear only the muffled sound of our footsteps and our heavy breathing. We’re walking in a quick pace and although I consider myself a good walker, everything costs me more energy here. With my flashlight I follow the blue sweater of Warren, who is running in front of me. It ended up costing us a generous two hour walk and a hitchhike of a local innkeeper to arrive at the new location. We are greeted by lovely farmers family and when we got a room, we crawl under a thick layer of woolen blankets for a beauty sleep.
 
We come back from a short walk. Bobby (a Jack Russel mix who joined us halfway the walk), the boys and I sneak in the dining room. It is a large dining room, which I still do most reminds me the most of an old viking hall. Large, long wooden tables, accompanied by long wooden benches, covered with sheepskin rugs. Two French boys have set up their tent at the end of the hall. “A lot warmer out of the wind.” Warren states as he gets some wood and builds a fire in the barrel. Bobby rolls up under a chair on a sheepskin and we push the chairs and benches as close to the barrel as possible to delight our frozen limps. We put big pots of water on the fire, so we can wash with warm water, instead of the icy mountain water coming from the shower. I'm going last. I carry the pan in the shower, close the door and squeeze my ski jacket under the crack of the door, in the hope that I can shower warm up the bathroom a little bit with the hot steam coming out of the pan. Shivering like an old Nokia that is receiving a call, I take off my clothes as quickly as possible and step barefoot on the icy tiles. It is -7 degrees Celsius in the bathroom. Quickly I throw a bowl of hot water over my shoulder. “Ah how sweet! Oh my god what is this nice!” Quickly I throw another over me, and another. I soap myself in and then enjoy each bowl of warm water to the fullest.

With warmed-up-bones I quickly get myself into the kitchen, it's my turn to cook. Almost three quarters of an hour later I proudly scoop food into the bowls and create two additional bowls for our French friends. Something which was very much appreciated by their taste pupils after having nothing else but canned food the last couple of days. As a sign of gratitude they share a bottle of liquor of which I put a decent twinge in my tea. It heats up the system so nice. We share stories while the fire crackles in front of us. One of the French boys, Jacque, rolls a joint which was also shared among the rest. Grant and I say wisely rejected, aware of the altitude and the danger that drugs and alcohol can have here. The evening progresses and we can barely keep our eyes open. Warren and Grant go to bed and I decide to drink a last cup of tea. The good conversations carry on till Jacque suddenly drops his cup on the ground. His body shoots in a cramp. His eyes roll away behind his eyelids and his whole body shocks regularly making him falling of his chair. Quickly I jump up and catch him to prevent his head from smashing against the barrel of fire. His friend is so in shock he can barely move, frozen to his chair while watching the ritual. “Please help me, I can`t hold him any longer!” I scream while I`m desperately trying to keep the shocking body away from the flames. The friend stands up. “Hold his head.” I tell him. I grab a ski jacket and throw it over the chair in order to prevent his head beating against the wooden railing. I grab his wild waving arms trying to keep them down like a cowboy would pull down a wild horse.
 
“What's happening? What's wrong with him?” Asks his friend with a desperate voice.“ I am not a doctor, but it looks like an epileptic seizure. Let's stay calm, he`ll get out of it.” The moment I finish my sentence, I see Jacque`s face turning as white as the snow on the mountaintop. His lips turning into a blue shade and the heartbeat of his wrist collapses. His mouth drops open and a stream of blood comes running down like a waterfall. “This is not good. Hold him down. I'm going to look for help.” I say to his friend, who nervously gazes at me when I run out of the dining room. It`s pitch dark. I run across the yard and punch my fist as many times on the door till somebody opens it. “Quick, call an ambulance! It's an emergency. One of the French boys has no pulse and loses a lot of blood from his mouth.” His wife begins to bomb me with questions and I lose my patience. I step past her into the farmhouse and cry to her children for help. They quickly get to action, suits their mobile phone and start making calls. The farmer and his wife follow me back to the dining room, followed by her son and daughter whom desperately trying to call someone with their mobiles.
 
The moment we return in the dining area the farmer and his wife put their hands in front of their mouth of shock. The farmer burst into tears. Jacque looks pale. His lips are blue, except his lower lip, in which the blood left a deep red mark floating down his chin dripping into the red pool on the chest part of his T-shirt. His friend is squatting next to him and cries; “I cannot get him to his senses Sanne!” I sit next to him and grasp the pulse of Jacque; “He still has a pulse.” I feel with my hand under his nose and his mouth and feel very gentle air current. “He's breathing!” “Perdon, hermosa” says the farmer, “I have found a jeep that can take him to the hospital, but it will take at least an hour before they get here.” I consider the other options, but quickly conclude that there is none. “If that's the only way then por favor.” I thank her for her help and translate the communication to the friend in English. Jacque meanwhile starts to blink his eyes. His friend starts talking directly to him, “Jacque, Jacque, can you hear me?” “Talk to him quietly, I'll get you some water, so that we can make him a little representable.” I state. When I come back with a pot of water, I sit down in front of Jacque. Jacque looks hazy to me. “Bonsoir Jacque. I'm Sanne, you probably do not know me. That does not matter. You were away for a little bit. But we are all very happy that you're back. Your friend will now wash up, because you became a little dirty.” Jacque puts on a smile with a touch of confusement. “Ah bien, merci`. I give a cloth and water to his friend. “I'll just write a letter in Spanish for the doctor so he knows what happened. I write my number there, if there are any questions, you can always call me.”
 
When Jacque is freshened up and the letter is written, Grant and Warren appear in the dining area awoken by all the fuss. They help the friend packing the tent and backpacks. Jacque had somewhat come back to his senses. “Hey Jacque, I'm Sanne. How do you feel?”  I ask him. “I feel very light-headed ... but who exactly are you?" He replied. “You came here to the camp with a friend, like me, that is how I know you. You were just out of consciousness for some minutes, but you`re back again. To make sure you are alright we got you a jeep coming to take you to the hospital. They`re going to examine what happened. Your friend will come with.” Jacque nods, obviously only half aware of what is going on.
The jeep arrived and we wave them off. “Thanks for everything!” says his friend. “You're welcome! And let me know how things go at the hospital.”
 
That night I could hardly sleep. All sorts of images pass through my head. “Grant, do you think it will be ok to climb the top tomorrow? What if something happens to one of us? There will be nothing we can do….There is no phone coverage, nothing there ...” “Calm your farm Sanne, sometimes it is just bad luck. Let go of your fear, don`t let it affect your adventures.” He is right. The next morning we leave early for our mountain climb to 5330 meters in altitude. Every 200 meters, I treat myself to a break to catch my breath. It's heavy, but I do not give up. Even if it will take me 10 hours, I must and I will reach the top. It was foggy and therefore impossible to how long is left to the top. And  then.... finally.... the snow. A sign from the mountain that the top will not be much further. One last ridge that doesn’t seemed to come to an end and then... “It's here!” Warren shouts from the fog. “You are almost there!” And with my last steps I walk toward him and Grant. I let myself fall on the ground and close my eyes. “Freaking well done chick!” I think to myself.
 
A few days later we arrive in Bogota. I open my email. There is a message of Jacque. All the results were good, it was indeed an epileptic seizure. He had bitten his tongue, what had caused the wave of blood. The scans didn`t show any signs worth worrying for. It was probably a combination of height, marijuana and alcohol. Fortunately, a happy ever after.