Shit Happens... (in Colombia..)

The backpacking road is full of surprises.  

And sometimes, shit happens....

Journeys of potential-bliss can turn into freakish-nightmares in a matter of minutes. 

Such was the situation I found myself in on a sunny-Sunday afternoon staring out the window of a Colombian bus on a 22-hour journey towards Ecuador.

It all started back in Bogota at the Platypus Hostel as I was stuffing the last of my belongings into my backpack. 

I was out in the courtyard in a hurry to say goodbyes to fellow backpackers that I had befriended during my brief stay. Familiar faces, smiles and waves.  That goodbye-blur on a Sunday morning in a foreign hostel. 

No one really wants to engage you, its too early, its Sunday, acknowledgements are sufficient. 

The unspoken backpacker code murmured and nodded. Respect, keep calm and carry on.  

This Dutch dude pokes his head out of the door, I recognized his face hazily, I had seen him around, perhaps we had chatted, shared a few brews around the courtyard with the many other backpackers that stayed in the infamous Platypus Hostel in central Bogota. 

It was a Partypackers hostel, the type of place you meet some of the Gringo trail's interesting characters.

"Hey man, you going to Quito?!  its a long trip man, take these, they'll help.." 

and with that he stretched out his hand from behind the half-opened doorway.  I shook his hand, instantly noticing the press of a small packet in my palm at the same time.

"Sweet mate, cheers, good luck on your travels" 

and with that I was off to Ecuador...

Before long I was on the bus, belting into the lush countryside in the early hours of a relatively quiet morning for Colombian standards. We zipped past the outskirts of Bogota and into the wider green countryside of Colombia, or Locolombia as its often referred to by its inhabitants. 

I had the blessings bestowed upon me to sit besides a young women and her fat chubby son. 

El Gordito, he became quickly registered in my inner thoughts now spiralling out of control. 

‘Fuck it’ I thought.  He was restless. Big and burly. A right handful for his young mother. A notable presence wedged in between the pair of us.

"This little fatty bom bom is gonna piss me off" 

I caught myself quietly muttering out loud in plain english. And as if he heard my cue, he proceeded to drive his toy car up the side of my leg. A shy smile from the young mother and I found myself rebounding back her smile. He's cool, just a harmless youngster. I looked out the window from the aisle seat, only 21 more hours to go.  Shit...

It was two hours and thirty minutes into the ride when my hangover really started to kick in. 

The cumbia music thrashing out in the tinny speakers somehow had eluded my attention thus far, now it was grating the side of my tender head. 

I hadn't taken sleeping pills before on a long distance bus journey, but somehow the next few hours of fatty broomm brooomm driving his toy car up and down my leg and this ear piercing music was not going to cut the mustard. 

The trump card came in the form of two white pills. Small and tablety.  Knock-out-nuggets of savior in this hour of need, several hundred kilometers from Quito in a loud rickety bus with the stifling midday heat creeping up on us all. 

I reached into my pocket, leaning up on one arse-cheek hanging out the aisle,  and in one smooth motion, dropped the pills in my mouth as I chugged on some of my luke-warm apple postobon. 

'Later gator' I smurked down at El Gordito...

My head must of lay dormant for a period of ten minutes, trying to shut everything off and slip into sleeptopia. I flipped over to look out the window. 

And the cumbia band played on. 

It felt like an hour and my pill action had bore no harvest, I was still awake. Fatty brroomm brroomm had been restless as per usual and the cows were still passing in the blurry rush outside the finger-marked window. 

I felt hungry but I felt sick at the thought of food. A wave of nausea swept over me. Ahh, could this be it I optimistically pondered, I dropped the shutters on my eyelids and lay my head back to rest.

No matter how much you butter it up, there is no way to describe the feeling when a sudden surge of diarrhea grips you. 

An inferno roars within you, tears through your innards and shoots down through your intestines at a lighting pace. Your stomach tightens and your sphincter is overcome with a sudden urge to relax, to release the immense pressure building up behind it. 

And its that very urge that you must combat and defeat within the 10 second onslaught of a flush of instantaneous diarrhea. 

If you let your determination down, you can kiss your dignity goodbye. 

No, this cant be happening, I frantically tried to regather my composure. The young mother and Andreas (fatty bom boms real name) had looked up at me, I must of lurched, squirmed or maybe even let out a terrified yelp. They smelt something coming...

I was so focussed on keeping the back door locked that I lost any sense of my movements and/or vocals. 

It took me 1.5 seconds to not only realise the gravity of the situation ahead of me but the catalyst responsible. 

I had been done. I had slipped down a double dosage of laxatives. 

The joke was on me. My thoughts were climbing over top of one another, I tried to sit up straight, I started to smile, I gripped the aisle hand rail, I took a deep breath. 

Thats actually quite funny I thought. I bet they are pissing themselves with laughter right now. 

This was going to be the mother of all battles. Fighting off a double drop dosage of laxatives whilst sweating out a hangover with loud music on an uncomfortable bus with an irritating seat partner driving his toy car up and down my legs every few minutes.

I took my breathing down and tried to scramble some thoughts together for a plan of action. 

I needed a toilet.  This was no flashpacker bus.  That luxury didnt exist.  

Sweat started to gather on my brow. I needed toilet paper. Nah first things first. No amount of Colombian one ply toilet paper is going to mop this badboy up if the dam bursts. 

Another surge started to swell within me. The tide started to turn somewhere deep in my tummy. I started thinking, this is it Den, your all over here, its the 'laxative-express' hurling down the tracks hard and fast.....

A million thoughts crossed my mind. Kiss goodbye to all the dignity you have stored away whilst on this trip Denis, in fact, explain to the raging bus driver in your fumbling spanish that his seat is soiled.  Explain to those around you who are pulling out handkerchiefs faster than you can scramble your words together. 

Look the young mother and Andreas in the eye and say 'sorry, i shat myself.' 

I clenched my dignity with all my might....

And it burned, burned burned....that ring of fire... that ring of fire.....

World's worst places to backpack #3

A discombobulated country on the horn of Africa. Affectionally known as 'the land of spices'

Somalia. Its certainly hot and spicy.

A backpacking trip through here would guarantee a bit of a rush. The experience would leave you with the hair permanently standing up on the back of your neck. Or just leave you.....

Its a country when pretty much anything goes. The reality of day-to-day life in Somalia is the stuff hopelessness is made of.

Without a functioning government in this country since 1991, the country has gone through a bit of a turbulent time of late, a bit of a free-for-all.

And by that I dont mean freebies or free-dom in any sense..

The large land mass that was once home to the largest army in Africa during the 80's, has now barely enough soldiers to protect the fragmented capital city of Mogadishu.

Corruption and extortion seem to be the very threads that hold together the fiscal policy of the country.

The entire economy is based upon these two pillars of power abuse.

From the barely audible or rarely visible government to the dare devil rooky pirates, there's plenty of characters in between who are just as shady.

Al-Shabab fighters control the southern and central parts of the country. Proudly charging round on camels sprouting their religious and political ideologies. They even have the odd crack at taking Mogadishu, the country's capital city, also known as the 'city of death'. The transitional government only controls a few square blocks of the capital city. The remainder is controlled by rogue war lords, powerful clans and/or extreme Islamic-inspired militias.

Odds are, you could probably haggle on the price of your hostel room, playing them all off on each other.

'ah come on...willy the warload said he'd do it for a fiver...Al Shabab don't have any mixed dorms available.....and your the government, surely you could offer me a bit more of a 'discount'

Loosely interpreted, the name Al Shabab can mean 'the youth' and as it happens to be, there are no girls in the gang, so they are also known as 'the lads', or at least thats what they call themselves.

Standard sharia law applies in the southern and central regions and 'the lads' are known for their no-nonsense responses, you don't really don't want to be cracking out the skimpy bathers down at the beach.

(This photo of a dead US solider being dragged through the streets was taken by a journalist whose collagues were only days earlier beaten to death for taking photos)

If your volunteerpacking, be very wary of the stats stacked up against you, in the past two years, 42 relief workers have been merked. Goneski.

Paul and Rachel Chandler, a couple of greypackers traveling around the world got mixed up in the madness, to say the least. The couple now hold the accolades for the longest held captives by Somali pirates, a cushy 400 days at the hands of these ruthless thugs and criminals of the high seas.

They were released a couple of months ago. Needless to say, don't think they'll be going back anytime soon.

So basically, any form of independent backpacking adventure would basically classify as suicidal. The only way you can even think about moving about is with armoured guards, private security or Ethiopian or official Somali troops. It is likely no matter which one of these options you choose, you will engage in some form of street battle.

Pack a bullet proof vest. And your hanky. There might be tears.

Worlds worst place to backpack #5

Pakistan - Hitting the headlines for all the wrong reasons.





The numero uno wanted hombre in the world was recently taken out underneath the noses of the regime. A lot of questions remain in the dust and dried up blood. The dilemma backpackers face is simple.


Is this a safe country to travel or is this a safe haven for extremism?





Pakistan is situated in a very volatile region of the planet. Its bordered by Iran, Afganistan, China & India. Pretty much screwed on all sides in terms of niggly little armed conflicts and geo-politik tug-o-war.





Its safe to say that Pakistans long and windy roads are no longer the same as the famous backpacker trails of the Silk Road.









Those days are gone. Long gone are the free wandering hippies, goneski the tourism infrastructure, however loose it was back then, its looser now. The only thing left that remains from the free floating 1960s are the drugs.





Pakistans current tourism campaigns seem to be directed at all the wrong people. Theres no Flashpacker accommodation anywhere in Islamabad. Theres no party scene for those Partypackers in Karachi.


Slippery Osama had evaded the most intelligent intelligence in the world. He was a mythical figure, a mystery man, a man who was supposed to be hiding out in a cave. But nah, he was kicking it Pakistan. Living the dream with the million dollar pad, couple of attentive ladies, watching dvds with popcorn on the couch. Sounds like your average hungover day in an inner city hostel?!?


Lets not get carried away.....


Anti US and Johnny Foreigner sentiment is running at fever pitch. Coupled with the constant onslaught of Drone attacks in the countryside, its not such an inviting place at this time.





The only fun thing youll find in Pakistan at the moment is a game of cricket in the street. It could turn ugly real quick though. And never, ever, high five anyone.....


Stay cool, stay clear of Pakistan.

Freedom Camping & Backpacking

It boils down to R E S P E C T.





Respect for mother nature and the environment and respect for New Zealand and the people who live there.


If you decide to take a pee, or worse, rustle up a number 2, just outside your campervan or behind your tent, you may think nothing of it. I mean, it will wash away with the rain, perhaps even bio-degrade or melt away. Its human waste, surely it will erode into the organic waste that makes up your surroundings....





Well sadly no. Think about the collective actions of the next 63 people who camp in that exact spot over the next 2 weeks. If they all emptied their bowels into the same spot there would exist a pile of human feces or a small river of yellow pee enough to fill a couple of buckets. Empty those buckets into the soil, which leads to the river. Game over clean water.






The Department of Conservation do a great job in supplying long drop toilet facilities and even running water. All for a measly $6NZ. To blatantly ignore the good work that goes into allowing the tens of thousands of campers who visit the same areas we all do, would be a slap in the face for yourself.


One of the key things you quickly learn when out on the road traveling, is that you rely on the local environment and local people to keep it the way it is. Perhaps 10,000 people will stand in the very spot you happened to stand in and take that beautiful photo you have on your desktop. Before you drop that candy wrapper from your pocket, or take a quick pee besides those bushes, imagine for a second if even half of those 10,000 travelers who will visit that exact spot, did the same. It wouldnt be the same. The flies buzzing around that mould of human poo behind the rock would get in the photo. It wouldnt be the same for your friend who visited the year after you.





Its a messy one. The dropping of number 1’s and 2’s has become a national problem.


But there is a simple philosophy being mooted at the moment throughout the country. It seems to be one of the most logical steps towards making freedom camping work. The notion is that every campervan should have a toilet that captures waste that can be emptied at designated spots all over NZ roads.



New Zealand Tourism Website www.camping.org.nz


Its feasible. If you dont posses the means to take your pee pee and poo poo with you, then you cant camp wherever you want.


If you do, then camp where you want and enjoy one of the great aspects of traveling in New Zealand. The freedom to camp.
A clean camper is a good camper.
Camp New Zealands’ way, not your way.





Travel with a collective conscience and enjoy the freedom of camping.


---------------------------------------


This story is funny, well kinda....


http://www.stuff.co.nz/nelson-mail/4519468/Couple-left-to-cower-during-machete-attack

Pack it or stack it?!

What to pack, what not to pack, that is the question!!

http://www.stuff.co.nz/travel/4916289/The-secret-of-travelling-light

World's worst places to backpack #12

Haiti - the pearl of the Caribbean...



Its one large island, split down the middle. On one side - the tropical tourism hot spot of Dominican Republic. With its white sandy beaches ....



On the other side of the island, theres Haiti, where the waterfront looks more like this...



Haiti was once one of France's richest colonies. Now its a decaying mess of corrupt politicians, depleted national resources and a population with a broken spirit.

It is the poorest countries in the Western Hemisphere.
It has been raped, pillaged and left out for the vultures to pick at whatever is left.

Decades of poverty, environmental degradation, coups, violence, dictatorships and instability have left this country hanging in the midst of hell and the hands of multinational interests.

First there was the mother of all earthquakes....



Then the cholera....



The bright sunshine of the Caribbean somehow doesn't shine down on poor old Haiti. Its dark, disease ridden and death is constantly knocking on the door.




Its a failed state. Perhaps Wlcef Jean could of got it back on tracks, however the stiff ling bureaucracy and corrupt politicians didnt want that happening and as a result he was barred from standing for presidential election.



Make no doubt about it, times are tough.



If your into looting, diseases, roadblocks by illegal armed gangs, kidnapping, car-jackings and the odd natural disaster then Haiti comes recommended.

Worlds worst place to backpack # 13

Myanmar - the golden land...

Burma or Myanmar call it what you will, it's home to one of the worlds most repressive and abusive regimes. Many countries don't recognise the regime that changed the name of the country from Burma to Myanmar but at the end of the day, we all know where we are talking about.

Mountain chains link their way up across the country, which is surprising quite a large land mass, the second largest country in South East Asia.

Some of its valleys are laden with rare gems and exquisite rocks and emeralds. 90% of the worlds rubies actually come from Burma. But you wont get your hands on one. A large proportion of the country is off limits to foreigners. Your movements are generally watched with suspicion, so remember to put the seat back down on the toilet.

Officially known as The Republic Union of Myanmar, the country is a text book example of a police state. You can interact with the locals but they don't usually like to be seen mixing it up merrily with foreigners. It usually means them being dragged behind a wall after you move off.

So basically if you keep your mouth shut your entire journey, chances of you or one of the locals not getting hurt are considerably higher.

If you didn't read between the lines, Freedom of speech is more or less crushed. So if your taxi price is a fixed one. Don't haggle.

During world war 2, Burma was used and abused, sacked and abandoned. famous for all the wrong reasons, over 300,000 Burmese fled the destructing country to the jungles and mountains to India, just under 10% of them made it. Great books have been written about ‘The Trek’, I vividly recall the amazing story told by Colin McPhedran in the book White Butterflies..., I highly recommend the read, it was one of the worst but least documented refugee tragedies of World War II.

The man who architect ed Burmas independence from the British and gave Burma a glimpse of a new future was the father of Aung San Suu Kyi......, Aung San. He got assassinated and things have been pretty grim ever since.

Although its independent, by no means is it a free country. since the coup of ’62, Burma has clenched up its butt cheeks and remained tight lipped. The analogy between arseholes and military rule is no mistake.

Unfortunately they call the shots. The “junta’ will control your travels. Not only do you need a visa but you need permits and government appointed guides to visit a lot of other places. There is a civil war taking place, ethnic minorities who have been persecuted over the years have given birth to various insurgent groups.

No slogging off the 'Military Junta' or disrespect anyone in uniform, or you might find yourself holed up in one of the many jails that are populated throughout the country. The sounds that reportedly come out of those prisons make the 'rustling of a plastic shopping bag at 4am in a packed hostel dormitory' sound like a piece of musical harmony.

The military is notorious for its rampant use of sexual violence as a means of control. So do what your told or you might get uhmm .............. hurt.

Last week, the jammy 'Junta' released Aung San Suu Kyi, she was under house arrest from roughly 1989 until last week. This is what happens if you speak too loudly in Burma.

Burma forms part of the golden triangle of opium production. Conflicting reports as to who enjoys it but there is no surprising who controls it.

There has always been a moral dilemma for travelers heading for Burma. Aung San Suu Kyi pleads with people not to support the ruling government and therefore not travel to Burma. A lot of western governments support her stance.

But on the flip side, some locals do benefit from your presence, that's if you eat at local restaurants and guesthouses.

Its not the Burmese people that will make your stay an unpleasant one, quite the opposite, backpackers who do venture here rave about the Burmese people, the landscapes and the culture.

Make no doubt about it, its the military/police/government/w@nkers that make this the worlds worst place to backpack # 13.