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.....

To Die For...

On the morning of the Battle of Big Horn, Crazy Horse rose early to meet the dawn and paid homage to his creator. He then turned to his brave band of Indians and said ..

"Today is a great day to die....”

Is today, or any day for that matter, a great day to die?!

It is, if you believe enough in what your doing....

As the Rebels close in on Tripoli....an all too apparent realization washes over me.

They bid goodbye to their families and joined the mobs of men heading to ‘liberate’ Tripoli and dispose of the Gaddafi Regime. They were from all different backgrounds, tribes and professions, but they all shared one thing in common. They were there to lay down their lives for their belief in what they were doing.

They were prepared to die.

It has always fascinated me. Men, women and children who are prepared to die for what they believe in.

Those of us growing up in developed westernized nations may find it hard to relate to. We all live in relatively cushy worlds, rebellions, revolts and revolutions dont really exist. Laying down your life for David Cameron or dying for your belief in capitalism is just something that we are not really prepared to do.

Take religion out of this equation and you are left with men and women who are described by some as ‘Freedom Fighters’ and by others as ‘Terrorists’.

Similar words are thrown around, separatist, liberator, revolutionary, vigilante, militant, paramilitary, guerilla, rebel even patriot to name but a few. They all fascinate me because they all have something in common.

The willingness and commitment to die.

The aphorism is all too cliche, ‘One mans terrorist is another mans freedom fighter’.

So as the rebels march forward on Tripoli, the sons of Libya are risking their life for a post- Gaddafi life. A single sniper bullet could end their lives instantly, a tank shell could blow them to pieces any second, but they march on.

Death may scare them, but death is the ultimate sacrifice for ones freedom.

“They may take our lives, but they’ll never take our freeeeedom!!!” - William Wallace.

I have made a list of current conflicts around the world that severely hinder travel on a domestic level around the world. There you will find, men women and children who are believe that today, may just well be, a great day to die.

(Note that I have not added to this list any religious based organization or groups who have been criminally inspired)

Rebels in Libya

Colombia - FARC and the ELN

MEND in Niger Delta of Nigeria

Philippines - New Peoples Army

Northern Ireland - IRA, UVF

Spain - ETA

Peru - Shining Path

Turkey - PKK

Every day the members of these groups wake up, they are prepared to die.

I wonder what today has in stall for them.

London Riots

"wat u lookin at?" ..... was the response a little old lady got when she inquired about what the local youths on her street were up to.

In a separate incident on the other side of this city, an elderly man was smashed in the face and landed face first on the concrete, instantly sending him into a coma, then the afterlife, after he too, confronted the youth on his life-long neighbourhood street.

London cut loose.

Its loose ends were burning, wildly and dangerously, flapping about in the air like an electrical cord igniting and exploding. There were sparks, there were flames, there were deaths and there were stunned Londoners left wondering what just unfolded on their doorsteps.

I had the unfortunate experience of living close by to the madness that consumed parts of London last week

I was following the mayhem on twitter and watching out the window. It was the first place I instinctively turned to following the revolutions across the 'Arab Spring'.....but sadly, this was no revolution, this was no uprising, this was just disgusting, this was just mindless violence and a spontaneous crime spree.

Now the dust has settled, the windows being repaired, there remain many deep rooted questions that must be addressed.

Its a given that Politicians will slander each other, propose preposterous proposals and sing a tune of righteous and order. But behind the words, cracks remain. Scars that wont heal with a parliamentary inquiry, embers that wont extinguish with empty rhetoric.

London, madness arrived on your own doorstep last week.

The shutters came down and hoodies came up. Worlds collided.

Which begs the question, what kind of world do we live in when elderly ladies get mocked and elderly men get punched in the face on their own doorsteps?

London has stirred. It was ugly. But it was real, we weren't dreaming. It makes me think, that bigger things are on the way. Bigger riots, more feverish anger, greater force, deeper wounds, deeper divisions.

Life is not sustainable at the moment. If you read my last post below, I mentioned the fact that we will need 27 planet earths like this one to sustain the worlds growing population if we plan to survive without killing each other off.

I dont see us pulling 27 earths out of the magic bag anytime soon. I do unfortunately, see a lot of death and destruction on the horizon.

However morbid it sounds, however painful and disturbing it is to ponder on that thought, i think the slap of reality across the face we just experienced in london is a wake up call....

Change is inevitable...

The World as we know it....

I watched a documentary last night called ‘Man on Earth’ it was simply about that, mans time on earth.

The droopy old dude who was narrating the whole saga wasn’t nearly as exciting as the revealing of Mother Earths resilient and adaptive nature. Mother Nature, Planet Earth, The World, Gaia, Pachamama, Home, ........ whatever you call it, she’s as gentle and humbling as she is tough and unforgiving.

I dunno why I inherently call the planet a She. Maybe it has something to do with a womens resilient spirit, her sensitive nature or simply because of the direct correlation with the ability to reproduce.

The theme olde Tony was reiterating throughout the documentary was simply that. Mother Earth, our Planet, reproduces. She adapts to conditions. She has been around for hundreds of thousands of years.

But the Earth is sensitive to external forces and reacts sharply, not always with such speed, but with a consistent and almost methodical, calculated reaction.

I think this is definitely why I call the planet a She.

Cue the topic ‘climate change’.

Yeah yeah, blah blah, its a two word phrase thrown around more than the the 90‘s classic, ‘ya mumma’.

But it is a fact. Climate change occurred 7000 years ago. The World adapted to the external forces it was forced to endure.

The entirety of Africa was once abundant with natural resources. Awash with such distinguished features such as lakes and rivers, covered from coast to coast with pristine rain forests. That all disappeared due to Mother Earths reaction to atmospheric conditions. Climate change.

Now the north of Africa is peeled back, the lush green fertile surface erased and now there exists nothing but sand, hot dry crusty sand.

From the Atlantic ocean to the Mediterranean sea, fucking hot sand.

Random fact. The Sahara is over 9 million square kilometers of desert. Say what?! Must suck being a camels toe. (Hot sand ;)

Climate change is occurring now. This minute, all around the World. The Planet is reacting and Mother Earth is buckling under the pressure.

Cracks are showing. Literally. Like the ones in the roads of downtown Christchurch, New Zealand.

There are three easily identifiable issues staring down the barrel at Mother Earth.

Population, overconsumption and inefficient resource use.

It is claimed that if humans don’t sort out these issues by 2050, just 40 years from now, then we will need 27 other planets just like this one, to be able to support ourselves. If that is, we continue to use and consume the Worlds natural and non natural resources at the rate we are going and reproduce the way we are reproducing.

Astonishing aye?! The kind of startling fact that makes you not want to bring up kids in this World, for their sake.

There is not doubt, with us ants (humans) affecting the atmospheric conditions of theWorld, the knock on affects every living organism that clings to Mother Earths skin. Ok thats not fair, cows also need to look at the amount of farts they beef out. This has a massive effect on the ozone layer.

Cows fart 4 times more than humans. If that is anywhere near how many my girlfriend can pop out on a good day, thats some serious gas.

So whats the answer?!

Probably not.

I ride a bike everywhere, but thats almost suicidal on a good day in London. Don’t buy Mcdonalds in places like Brazil where cattle are farmed on irreplaceable Amazonian soil. Conserve the precious amounts of finite fresh water we have....turn off unnecessary lights....the list goes on and who am I to blast these ideals down your throat?! Im certainly guilty of simple pleasures, although I did secretly tell myself I was a dirty rotten bastard when munching down a cheeseburger on the streets of Rio de Janeiro.

What I think every human being occupying space on the surface of this Earth can do to affect climate change is quite simple.

Be conscious. Be conscious of how your actions in your everyday life affect others, not just those in immediate vicinity, but those in far away lands also.

Sounds like some sermon delivered to you by new age Buddha Backpacker Boy here, but its not. Nor am I preaching to the choir, singing REMs ‘its the end of the world as we know it...”

Im just welcoming you to our world like Roy Orbison would. This is reality. The world around us is changing.

Our planet is hanging on a thread. Its a delicate world out there. Your world can be turned upside down at any moment.

Better book that ticket to Timbuktu then.....

If you haven’t yet seen this dazzling documentary, filmed over the course of 10 years, shot aerially over 75 different countries, then lock it in. The entire thing is free on youtube, as the famous Yann Arthus - Bertrand did not want to make any royalties or cash from this labour of love.

This he says, is something we all need to see.

World's worst places to backpack #2

Iraq. One of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements on earth.

A turbulent mash up of ancient civilization and cave men with guns. This is the region once described as the 'craddle of civilization', the birthplace of writing and the wheel, where the hanging gardens of Babelyon lie....

Iraq, its on its knees. Theyre bleeding rivers of blood, too thick for a backpacker to swim through.

After 10 straight years of indiscriminate killings, of rife and ugly secteriran killings, suicide bombings and assassinations.... the people are broken, the country plunged back into the dark ages.

Its certainly a dark enough place at the moment.

Enduring the despotic dictatorship reign of sadistic Saddam must of been tough for the average Iraqi, then comes the gulf war followed by the invasion of the 'coalition of the willing'. In between foreign intervention and tyranny there's the bickering civil wars, the relentless acts of daily violence...where does it end for Iraq? Actually, where and when does it even begin...?!

Iraq has gone past the point of anything that resembles normality. No matter your race, religon or nationality, somone will find an excuse to kill you.

Torture is something you can buy down at the local market. It comes in a multi-pack containing a sack, duct tape and a humungous-sized machette. Hang around the market long enough and you might even catch the rough end of a good olde fashioned 'market blast'

Hostage taking is just what happens.

Heres a list of the known foreign victims, living and perished .... but just remember, for every 1 foreigner kidnapped 12 Iraqis succumb to the same fate.

The only cool thing about Baghdad is the fresh air on the open-roof bus tours. The roof-top rips open when you pull on the cord beneath the seat...

Travel in Iraq is possible.

There does exist a budgetpacker style of travel. But it can be only found in the north of Iraq. Iraq Kurdistan is different.

Thats northern Iraq, a region that is actually considered one of the up and coming destinations in the world, according to the New York Times. The Kurds are known to be very hospitable people and food and lodging is cheap.

There is a saying, every car in Iraq is a taxi. But watch yourself, not every man is a taxi driver.

(A bizarre clip on whats really going on in Iraq.....)

Just last week, a mass grave containing 900 people was unearthed. Nearly every day, the daily headlines murmur something about death and misery in this god forsaken and forgotten land.

Theres plenty of other places in the world that have sun and sand.

Beat it. Iraq aint for kids.

Nor flashpackers, fuck that.

Iraq, #2 worlds worst places to backpack.

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.