Travellers are a strange bunch at the best of times, and even this early on into our voyage, we’ve learned which to avoid, which to plug for information, and which to follow to the local hot-spots.
Whether they be French, American, Japanese, local or, uh, canine, you can always find the use in a fellow traveller on the road.
Americans are ubiquitous. In a tour group, especially one that was booked through your two-star hotel, you can bet that there will be at least one pair of old ladies, who are fantastic cover for the inevitable tourist traps and scams along the way. They are always more than happy to buy bags full of crap so you can wander off to take photos or chat up the locals free of the guilt of not supporting the local tourist economy.
Of course, regionalisms must apply. In Bolivia, where the US is fighting on this perceived front of their “war on drugs”, Americans are few and far between, and the ones who opt to visit pay the $100 for their visa (for a point of reference, on the budget that K and I are on, $100 will last one person about five days here). By and large, every Yankee we’ve come across in Bolivia has been a delight (and all bias aside, most of the others are a-ok too!).
The ones who arrive at the border without this forewarning of this expense are great fodder for their pride, which refuses them to acknowledge that this is simply retaliatory. I seriously heard one justify it as “must be because of 9-11…”.
Oddly enough, the French seem to be most in tune with our goals and ideals while we travel. The two groups we’ve met have been fountains of knowledge, advice, and warning. They seem to have a knack for getting the inside scoop, at least in South America.
They are also one of those countries who encourage taking a year off like us. The Brits and Aussies tend to take a year to work or do something productive before allowing themselves the luxury of touring. Not so the Frenchies, who are more than happy to just go.
But, by far the most cooperative, helpful, and enjoyable comrade we’ve found has been a stray dog we met on the walk from Copacabana to Yampupata, who we dubbed Simon, because he was, after all, “de Bolivar”. I’m not sure if the locals would appreciate naming a stray after their national hero, but we allowed ourselves this little inside joke along the hike.
For two hours, Simon bravely warded off any stray cats, birds and butterflies that may have crossed our path. He kept us on the trail, and kept our pace up. He allowed us to make fast friends with local schoolchildren walking the dusty road home from their daily lessons, and all without asking anything for return. Hygiene forbade a pat or a scratch, and a lack of supplies did not allow for a shared morsel of food or water. We wanted to give him his shots, a good warm bath, and maybe some discipline training, and take him home.
D.
