Late For School (Peru, 2004)

Liliana was late for school. She walked in at about 11am, her usual beaming smile replaced by a stoical demeanour that is always sorrowful to see in a child. Not happy, not sad, just normal and numb, like an adult in any metropolis on a Monday morning.

We had been teaching the class about family that day. Simple words, like Mum, Dad, sister, brother, would accompany anecdotes about mine and Will's (the guy I was teaching with)families. The kids were keen to learn about my two sisters; how old they were and what they did. I had promised my younger sister, Tasmin, who was in primary school, that her Peruvian counterparts in Pacaran would write letters. The girls in Pacaran were excited to hear about what a "chica inglesa" would be up to.

But Liliana was late. This was unlike her; she was studious, bright and enthusiastic. Jokingly, I rounded on her as she shuffled in and shouted, "Why are you late?"

There are moments in life that catapult you from adolescence into adulthood. Often you may not notice these moments occurring until years afterwards. The pace of life leaves little time for reflection. But now, six years later, I know that Liliana's response to my mocking question made me grow up a little. Maybe a lot. How do you quantify these things?
She simply looked at me, and replied "My Dad died," then went and sat down in her place and unpacked her things.

I couldn't believe what I had just heard, but I didn't pursue it. I was in shock.
Why was she here if that had just happened? The unspeakable. Will and I blundered through the rest of our lesson, and then began our walk home in the burning afternoon Sun.

Halfway home we passed Liliana's house. Elvis, her older brother, was outside, looking forlorn. He apologised for his absence from school that day. He had been working, looking after the farm. That was his future now. As we passed the door he ushered us towards the room where his father lay. My first encounter with death, the inevitable end of things. I don't know why, but I felt strange that it should be on a sunny afternoon. I always thought of cold when I thought of death. We did not linger in the house. In Britain, we shy away from the dead, we do not look at them. It is as though we feel it is a defeat.

Questions swirled in my mind as I walked home, smashing my preconceptions and putting in their place flimsy foundations of things I had never thought about. How much do we take for granted? How lucky we are, to have safety nets when the unspeakable happens? For all I know, Liliana's Dad may have been struck down by an illness we in England deem trivial. How many times are we blessed by the NHS in our lives? Even when our time is up, we have a place to go, and be at peace in the end. But Peru is a poor country, with no NHS. Liliana's father (I never knew his name) had a cold table.

We did not speak much on that walk home.

Death is normal here.

Trains, Planes and an Imbecile (Part 2)

One of the main problems with the London underground is the lack of toilets. In fact, in that sprawling network of tunnels, where millions of people are transported every day - such a massive volume of people - there is a complete absence of toilets. Not one.
Two of the main problems with alcohol are that it makes the most nonsensical, ludicrous ideas seem veritably plausible and really quite clever, and that it makes one urinate far too often. Hence, being on the London Underground whilst under the influence of alcohol is inadvisable.
With my head spinning as the train zoomed (I know trains in England have never zoomed, and never will zoom, but I'm being dramatic) towards Heathrow, my bladder decided it had had enough, and gave up. I needed to piss - then and there. I was fidgeting like a child caught short, doing the desperate man's shuffle as I searched the carriage frantically. No toilet. I wasn't in London often, and this seemed insane. I looked for some sort of stealthy corner where I could do the deed, but everywhere I went I was greeted with stern stares. I had to think quickly, but being drunk was making that difficult. I narrowed down my options: get off the train, or humiliate myself in front of these strangers, and possibly traumatise some innocent people. I chose the former option, but my plan of action couldn't have been more poorly executed.
My intention was to jump off the train at a station, quickly piss in a corner, amd, once relieved, hop back on the train, with no one the wiser. It was a flawless plan.
So, as the train pulled into some random suburban station I announced loudly, "Don't worry, this bag is NOT a bomb," before stepping onto the platform. No sooner had I done this than I heard the familiar hissing of the doors, and the rumble of the train pulling away. I turned around and my jaw dropped. Before me was an empty railway line. And I still needed a piss.
I took stock of my situation. I was drunk, I had a plane to catch, and my backpack, containing all the items that were to be my life for the next 7 months, was travelling across London unattended.
I set off at a sprint, looking for someone who could help me out of this ridiculous situation. I found one of those help points and jabbed maniacally at the button. Earlier in the day I'd commented to my friend how much of an utter moron you'd have to be to ever need a help point.
There was a crackle, followed by a man's voice on the other end of the line.
"Hello," he said, warily, as though he knew help points were reserved solely for idiots.
"Left my bag on train!" I blurted out incoherently.
"Why?" came the exasperated reply.
"Err, because I need a wee," I said. I was so embarrassed, I felt like a humiliated schoolboy.
"Right," he replied, as though this was an everyday occurrence. He directed me to his office, and when I finally got there I explained I needed my bag back desperately, as I was leaving the country in a few hours. Luckily, he called ahead a few stations and the staff there secured my bag. After thanking my hero graciously, both for getting my bag back and finally letting me use a toilet, I made my way to the next station, where my bag was waiting, along with a rather displeased looking Fat Controller type chap.
"Why?" he asked sternly.
"I don't know," was the best answer I could muster. Not even an attempt at an excuse.
"You could've brought the whole of London to a standstill!" he added.
I laughed. He didn't. "Sorry," I said, still not really understanding the severity of what I had done.
"it's okay," he said, changing his tone. "Just be careful in the future." I felt like I was being lectured by one of my old teachers. "Where are you going?" he asked.
"Peru."
"Aaah, travelling," he said, and I thought I was finally gaining some respect.
"Yeah, and teaching," I replied.
He coughed. "You...teaching. Very...good?"
"Yeah. Okay, goodbye and thankyou very much," I replied courteously, ignoring his complete lack of faith in my ability.
"Bye," he said, "and say hello to Paddington for me!"
I forced a laugh and as I left the station, I made a promise to myself to throttle the next person who told me a fucking Paddington bear joke.
There were no more dramas on the way to Heathrow. I spent a few hours there trying to sleep, but gave up and played cards with a lovely old American lady.
I left for Lima at 7am on 7th September 2004, still very much a boy, with no conception of how the world we inhabit really works.

Trains, Planes and an Imbecile (Part 1)

6th September 2004

The alcohol slowly diffused into my bloodstream, and the veil of drunkenness was lifted as I tried to accomplish what I now know is the impossible feat of getting comfortable in Terminal 2 of Heathrow Airport. Three more hours to wait.
Countless cocktails and my first encounter with snakebite in Walkabout a few hours earlier had now triggered a question that I asked myself over and over again - What the hell was I doing? Of course, I was already fully aware of the answer to the above question, but it had taken a healthy dose of alcohol, and a frantic train ride to Heathrow to realise the impact that the answer was going to have on my previously simple, sheltered life.
I was about to fly half way around the world to Peru, with six people I had only met once before. Once in Peru, (which conjured up images of grinding poverty, and mysterious culture before I arrived)I was going to teach English in a rural school for three months, before embarking on the most popular backpacking trail in South America; Southern Peru's gringo trail.
I was the first of our group to arrive at the airport, about four hours before we were scheduled to leave. However, events that night could easily have conspired to prevent me from ever leaving jolly old England.
I had travelled from Lancaster to London that morning to say my farewells to some good friends, and instead of opting for a quiet last night, preparing for my first long-haul flight, I was (easily) co-erced into a drinking binge.
We had spent the day chatting about nothing much whilst wandering around London, sucking in the atmosphere. The London Eye, Westminster and The Tower Of London were amongst the last sights of England I saw, instilling me with a sense of patriotism and wistfulness.
So, after meandering down the south bank, we went for a meal at TGI Friday's, and this is where I first put my foot on the slippery slope to disaster. I had a cocktail to wash down my burger and chips. One cocktail soon turned into two, and then three. And TGI Friday's cocktails are more akin to buckets than glasses. All feeling very merry, we paid the extortionate bill before moving on for "just one more."
We arrived at Walkabout, where I was kindly allowed to store my stupidly large backpack. Unshackled from having the equivalent of a hefty child strapped to my back, I completely let myself go. Soon we were all extremely drunk, dancing and having a good time. The fact that it was 11pm and I had a flight to catch at 7am didn't matter anymore. I was blissfully unaware that my cavalier attitude and over-indulgence would lead to me being punished severely later on.
I vaguely remember a conversation I had with a complete stranger as I staggered ungracefully around the dancefloor. "I hear you're the adventurous traveller who's off to Peru?" he asked. "Yep!" I boasted, proudly, although at that point I wouldn't have used the words adventurous or traveller to describe myself! "When do you go?" he asked. I checked my watch. "Fuck. I have to leave for Heathrow in ten minutes."
"Cool. How long are you going for?"
"7 months," I replied, and sat down before I fell down. That statement struck me dumb. I suddenly realised that I would be 19 when I returned to England. That I was going to miss my friends and family sorely. That I know absolutely fuck all about Peru. The unknown stretched before me like a daunting, gaping chasm, and for that moment I was terrified. Considering the longest time I had left Lancashire for previous to that night was 2 weeks, 8 months seemed like a very long time. Luckily, I was confusing a moment of clarity with a moment of weakness.
We finally managed to drag ourselves away from the bar, and set off for the underground. I remember standing on the platform, waiting for the train to come and sever my ties with all that I knew...

The Real Voyage Of Discovery Is Not In Discovering New Lands, But In Seeing With New Eyes.

When I taught English in Peru in 2004, the village Will and I stayed in, called Pacaran, seemed a million miles away from Pilling, the village in Lancashire where I had lived for my entire life. Geographically they were completely different...Pilling is a wet (perhaps too wet!), flat, fertile place, famous for its potatoes. Pacaran, by contrast, was a dry, rugged village set in the Canete valley, two hours south of Lima, in the foothills of the Andes. The villages dotted along the valley hug the Canete river, where the nearby land is fertile enough for mangoes, papayas, avocados and other mysterious fruits we deem exotic to grow.

But after spending three months in Pacaran I did notice similarities between the two places. The church and the bars were both the focal points of village life, with the vicars and landlords being well known and well liked. Pacaran was essentially a village that I imagine Pilling would have been like a century ago. The roads were unpaved, and the rumble of a car passing through was an event. Everyone knew everyone else, news spread so fast that Twitter and Facebook would be envious, and there were feuds and friendships that resonated through the entire community.

Many of the villagers spent one day a week in the coastal town of Canete, but few ventured the 200 kilometres or so to Lima more than once a year. This reminded me of a story my Grandma told me about an old neighbour she had called Abe Jenkinson. When she and my Grandad bought their plot of land in Pilling in the 1970s, they asked Abe what he thought of Lancaster, the nearest town, about 10 miles away. "Been there once," he replied in his almost indecipherable broad Lancashire accent, "Didn't think much of it." People like Abe don't exist in this country anymore, in the age of cheap flights and long commutes. But in Pacaran, the valley and, for a few, the capital, represented the geographical experience of practically everyone. Flor, our host, was the only villager who had ever been abroad.

So, it was with a sense of guilt that I would talk to Juan, Flor's son-in-law, about all the places Will and I would go to on our weekends off. Juan was a combi driver, and spent his days ferrying people up and down the valley. Often he would drive us to Canete, where we would hop on one of the huge buses that cruise down the Panamerican highway. Juan had never been on one of those buses. He was unable to be a traveller in his own country. Wealth shrinks distances that seem colossal to the villagers.

I hope this does not come across as patronising...my intentions are solely observational. The chasm between the developed (horrible term - as though we in the West have somehow reached some state of perfection) and developing worlds is startling to see first-hand. But, I was somewhat envious of the social cohesion that wee sacrificed in Britain for bigger houses, faster cars, and the impulse to fly the nest and settle elsewhere, in the mad dash for property and money. It is interesting to see what we threw away, and whether what we have got in return means we lead more fulfilled, happier lives. In Pacaran the community was, although poor, far more intact than it was in Pilling. There would be a party involving literally everyone every weekend, for no reason other than to have a good time. In Pilling we had a Coffee Feast once a year. Once a year to bring a village together is not enough, and it had nothing to do with coffee, or feasting!

It is a Gap year cliché to say that people in developing countries are "happier" than those in the developed world, and it can sound like spurious hippie nonsense as happiness is an unquantifiable state of mind, but the people of Pacaran were more relaxed, at ease with their lot in life and more amicable with those they lived around than their counterparts in Pilling. I believe that goes a long way to becoming truly fulfilled and happy, and it is a shame we are losing that cohesiveness in British communities. It has not gone - it would be alarmist and false to claim there is no community in Britain - but we are sacrificing it slowly for selfishness and greed. I guess sacrifice is the wrong word...and Pilling is no better or worse than Pacaran...it is just a difference.

No More Age Of Discovery?

The map is filled in. The 20th century saw the last of the Earth's great wildernesses, with the exception of the deep ocean, conquered by man. But the innate restlessness of our kind could not be sated. Bruce Chatwin said of Patagonia that it called to him because it was the last place that mankind settled...still to him a kind of 20th century frontier. But 35 years on from Chatwin's wanderings in the wilderness, Patagonia is high on the hit-lists of intrepid backpackers...I don't blame them, and I will soon be one of them. We set foot on the moon in 1969, and apparently now, in the infancy of the new millennium, we have our sights set on Mars.

But we cannot all be astronauts. What of the desire in normal men to seek new horizons, and that primal impulse to explore? The impulse that sent impoverished men like Francisco Pizarro across the Atlantic to eventually conquer an empire. Or Captain Cook across the globe to strange, uncharted lands. In the world of the GPS, how do we find the unknown?

Some people have decided, it seems, to try and improve on the past achievements of pioneers, in increasingly bizarre and meaningless ways. It started with Scott, whose Antarctic expedition became a perverse sort of race with his other competitors, and since than exploration has become some sort of ego-massaging sport. Recently Jordan Romero, aged 13, reached the summit of Everest. Why? Fuck knows? It's madness. the kid sounds like a wanker, and he'll never shut up about it ever again! Other bizarre records, or "triumphs" are being undertaken every day. Who can be the first man to walk across the Sahara, without turning left? Who will be the first toddler to circumnavigate the globe in an armchair?

Others, as I mentioned above, have turned to the stars. Since the moon landings, people have paid attention to all our excursions into space. It is as though we are collectively willing mankind to discover something new, and push the boundaries of where we know, as well as what we know. Incredible stuff, but I do think we have more pressing matters to deal with here on Earth, it's a colossal waste of money, and as the American government are at the forefront of space exploration, it will probably all end in some sort of inter-galactic war!


I know I may come across as snobbish, like I want to hog the world for myself, but that is not my intention. I fully understand why people travel, and I applaud them for it. But I do genuinely feel a pang of sadness knowing that there is no corner that I can uncover, and nothing I can discover that is new in Patagonia, or anywhere else. Or maybe I can't fill in a map, but I can discover a place for myself? The world will always be big enough for that, and that is a heartening thought.

We carry within us wonders we seek without us.

I am happy to say that my friends and family have been incredibly supportive of my eccentric travel plans. My parents kindly kitted me out with invaluable equipment, and Tasha's family have been equally enthusiastic. It is an encouraging thought, that when you set off halfway across the world with nought but a backpack on your shoulders, you have the blessings of your nearest and dearest.

However, the one question most strangers ask when I tell them my wife and I are going to travel around South America for an indefinite period of time, with no set route, is why? Or rather a veiled "why?", lurking behind some innocuous question or statement.

It is a question that I cannot answer, and have no reason to, but I often offer them some perfunctory response. "Why not?" I sometimes blurt on my more irascible days. Or, feeling pretentious, why not fire off a quote from wiser men than myself. "i was not born for one corner; the whole world is my native land," said Seneca. Or Byron, "the world, which is a curious sight, and very much unlike what people write." I believe wholeheartedly in both these sentiments, but neither answer the question: why?

There is no answer to that question that can be pinned down in one eloquent sentence or fixed in the permanency of words. Every day I have a different reason to go. Sometimes I have no reason. The reason is impulse, desire, wanderlust, a hunger to see new things, speak with new people, retrace old steps from 5 years ago. It is the desire to see alien landscapes that set off sparks in the imagination. It is selfish and selfless. It is wanting to experience poverty and luxury in a matter of hours. It is the Sun, the sky at night with no street lights, where galaxies swirl above. It is humbling oneself, making the world big again, and learning patience. It is new food, new thoughts, new dreams that could not be born at home. that is why we travel. If you have to ask why, you do not understand. This does not make we who travel aloof; it just makes us different.

Itinerary

Our itinerary for our South American adventure is dictated by two things. The first is our budget. We want to live frugally but not be stingy, so as to see and do as much as possible before our bank balance nears the dreaded zero and the long flight home beckons. But being too strict with a budget, restricting your spending too much, will inevitably restrict your enjoyment. So I anticipate splurges, days of luxury to balance out days camping for free in the unnamed wilderness. Days waking up and mourning that wasted 100 pesos, but at the time, spending it felt so good! I anticipate that, and relish it.

The second, more important thing to consider when planning a trip around an entire continent, is Mother Nature. In a wild land like South America, she will hinder you, and timing is everything. that is why we aim (roughly) to head to Patagonia during the Southern hemisphere's spring, and make our way North, into the Peruvian Andes, for the Andean dry season. I am certain our timing will not be perfect, but at least an awareness of the region's climate and weather is necesary if you don't want to be caught out.

We are lucky, that the third factor that often plays a part in backpacking, that of time, does not play a part in our planning. We have a one way ticket, so our time in South America is dictated by how long our money lasts, not by the date on an airline ticket, or a distant monday morning, where an office chair awaits at 9am for the return to work and the "real world." This to me, being unshackled by time, will be the ultimate freedom.

I have had experience of time constraints during a trip before. Last time I was travelling in South America, in 2005, I had meandered through Bolivia into North Eastern Argentina with my friend Will. As I had initially travelled out to Peru with an extortionate Gap Year company (more on those another time) I had booked the default flight, returning from Lima. this left me tied to a time and date that I had to be back in Peru. It constantly nagged at the back of my mind, getting stronger with every mile further from Lima. I felt like a child who knows he has strayed to far from home, and will be called back any minute. it essentially closed the open road that lay before me. So, Will, who had the foresight to arrange his flight independently, carried on to Buenos Aires. I, bound by time, made my way back to Peru, a lonely 3 day bus journey of retraced steps and dreams of "what if". I will not make that mistake again, hence the one way ticket. To be able to ignore time is a luxury rarely afforded in our world.

So, with these factors considered, our itinerary can be as loose and freewheeling as the climate of the area determines. An exciting prospect.

Preparation.

Two months and counting until I return to South America. Two years of arduous saving, preparations and fantasising over landscapes and stories in books, about to come to fruition. Excited? Definitely. Nervous? Definitely.

It is strange. 5 years ago I travelled to South America with a group of people I didn't know, to teach English in rural Peru before backpacking around the famous gringo trail, and getting as far as Mendoza in Central Argentina to the South, and Montanita on the Ecuadorean coast to the North. Back then I was an immature, impetuous teenager, with next to no experience of foreign countries, and no grasp of Spanish. I was flinging myself fearlessly into the unknown. Yet for some reason now, returning to a place I have a degree of familiarity with, accompanied by my wife, and able to speak Spanish, my apprehension is greater.

I think one reason for this is that my expectations are greater...as i mentioned above, I have been working for two years towards this trip, and I want it to be incredible. I have also pored over books about the countries we are visiting (first stop, Argentina!) and this perhaps has led to me over-thinking the trip! Another reason is that now, as a (mostly) responsible adult, I am much more concerned about the impact of tourism on developing countries, and being an ethical tourist can be difficult. It is difficult to know whether the money you spend will help, or help to impoverish the people you meet along the way. With tourism burgeoning worldwide, and the problems of climate change looming, this pressure on the individual to act, spend and think responsibly will increase as the 21st century runs its course.

But my nervousness and apprehension is far outweighed by my own excitement and fervent imaginings, and the enthusiasm of my beautiful wife Natasha. She has never travelled to South America, and I am sure she will love it. We have a modest budget, a one way ticket to Buenos Aires...and heads full of dreams!!!