Argentina Archives - Maggie InkMaggie Ink

Fancy-schmancy amenities on a backpacker budget

April 17, 2012

I read this article about the world’s most outrageous hotel amenities. They include all kinds of super-posh services that cater to one’s every whim and desire. Like a tanning butler. A fragrance sommelier. A soap concierge — you know, for all those moments when you really want to get clean, but you also need options.

It got me to thinking about my round-the-world trip. I didn’t get any of that fancy stuff! Nobody coddled me, wiped me or sprayed anything on me. At least, not on purpose. But that doesn’t mean my trip was amenity-free either.

None of these things included a sommelier, concierge or butler, but they were amenities all the same:

The Adventure Brew Hostel in La Paz, Bolivia.

Price pre night: $7

Amenities: CARBS! Microbrewed beers, a pancake buffet.

After a month of downing watery Bolivian brew, a free beer with actual flavor seemed like the most novel thing ever. And Saya beer is brewed on site by good people who know what they’re doing.

So what if the hostel showers were tepid and the beds were hard? I drank beer — REAL BEER — all night long. And in the morning, there was a free, all-you-can-eat pancake buffet waiting to sop up my hangover.

***

Ecolodge Sol y Luna in Coroico, Bolivia

Price per night: $14

Amenity: Hot tub. But it’s not what you think.

Backpacking is dirty business. Filthy, actually. One time in Bolivia I found a twig stuck to the back of my knee, and I had no idea how long it had been there. So when my friend and I saw an advertisement for Sol y Luna, it only took two little words to convince us to stray from our planned itinerary: Hot. Tub.

We traveled many, many hours out of our way. When we arrived, we discovered that the ecolodge had a very different idea of hot tub than what we imagined. It was a stone tub, situated outside in the garden. And it was filled by hand, one kettle of boiling water at a time.

But you know what? It was perfectly lovely. It would have been great anyway, but it was especially memorable since I hadn’t felt hot water on my skin in almost two months. The dirt floated away, the heat turned my bones into butter and I was clean for the first time in ages.

***

Hostel Estoril in Buenos Aires, Argentina

Price per night: $15

Amenities: Rooftop bar, free walking tours of the city, social events at night.

I made friends, I socialized, I felt safe. And I don’t know if there’s a more beautiful spot in Buenos Aires than this rooftop bar.

***

Red Chilli Hideaway in Kampala, Uganda.

Price per night: $6

Amenity: A pig as big as a sofa.

Why did they have a pig as big as a sofa? I have no idea.

Why did I find a three-legged cat on my pillow every night? I can’t answer that either.

***

Bodhi Villa in Kampot, Cambodia

Price per night: $4

Amenities: Movies, chill room, floating bar, bioluminescent plankton, illicit activity.

Bodhi Villa almost feels like something I conjured up in a fever dream. There were beaches, crabs, rope swings and Billie Holiday. A sprawling bar opened into a river dock. The scenery was slightly too bright and sharp and unreal, like looking through the wrong lens at the optometrist’s office. At some point, a chubby Cambodian man named James Brown put me on the back of his yellow Vespa and drove me through acres of pepper plantations.

Days were drowsy and often spent in the “chill room,” but the nights exploded with raucous live music. A group of strangers became my closest friends in the world. We drank together. We sang loudly and off-tune. We jumped off the dock and marveled over the neon clouds of bioluminescent plankton that swirled around our limbs.

I was there for days? Weeks? Whatever it was, it was much longer than expected. One morning I woke up and realized I might end up at Bodhi forever if I didn’t get out. I immediately booked a bus bound for Ho Chi Minh City, about 10-12 hours away.

Before I departed, a new friend handed me a sandwich and a joint the size of a lipstick tube.

I politely declined, “Oh, thanks, but I don’t think I want to bring any drugs across borders today.”

“What? You got big plans for the bus?” he said. “Just take it and remember Bodhi … If you can.”

***

Ringo’s Foyer in Malacca, Malaysia

Price per night: $4

Amenity: Bike tour of Malacca.

Almost every night, the owner of this hostel takes all his guests on a bike tour of beautiful Malacca.

It became one of my favorite memories of Malaysia. We carried bikes down skinny stairwells. The hostel owner strapped a radio to his handlebars and blasted Lady Gaga from the tinny speakers. And then we pedaled off into the night, through downtown, down ribbons of waterfront, all the way to a local restaurant that didn’t have a name or a real address. The excursion forged a camaraderie between all of us guests, and I saw things I wouldn’t have found otherwise.

***

Lazy Bird Guesthouse in Incheon, South Korea

Price per night: $19

Amenity: Love.

I arrived in Seoul around midnight. I was too tired to travel an hour all the way into the city, so I booked a night at a guesthouse that is located close to the airport. Everything about this place was marvelous. The owner’s husband, Jackie, picked me up at the airport. My bed was ridiculously comfortable. The shower was hot and strong. The wifi was fast. The coffee was brewed first thing in the morning. There were games, DVDs, a Wii, even traditional Korean costumes for dressing up. And I am not exaggerating when I say this was the cleanest place I’ve ever stayed. It was SPOTLESS.

The hospitality went above and beyond what I expect at a hostel/guesthouse. The owner, Liz, and I had long conversations about our travels and our favorite places around the world. We exchanged e-mail addresses. They took my photo for the guest wall. And then Liz and Jackie practically had to kick me out.

“We can drop you off the train station …”

“Thanks. Maybe in an hour or so.”

After some time passed, they tried again.

“Don’t you want to get into the city …?”

“Uh, yeah. Maybe later.”

Finally, they said I should probably go unless I was going to stay for another night. It actually made me ache to leave. The place felt just like home — only a nicer, cleaner version of it.

A few days later, I received a follow-up e-mail from Liz. She wanted to see how my travels were going, make sure I was safe and see if I needed anything. “Yes!” I was tempted to respond. “I want to pack you up and and take you with me!”

Shopping for weapons in Argentina

July 21, 2011

Pity the unlucky fool.

Everybody warned me that Buenos Aires would be dangerous.

Watch out for pickpockets! Liars! Thieves! Sketchy men in trench coats!

So I was on guard as soon as my bus hit BA city limits — even though I’d already spent three months backpacking around South America without any problems.

Even the owner of my hostel was the purveyor of doom. “Be careful out there,” he said, his mouth firmly set into a grim line. “Not safe for a girl alone.”

With that in mind, the illuminated streets transformed as I walked them. Elegant architecture leaned menacingly over the sidewalks. Each alley looked more shadowy than the last. Even the jolly cook at a nearby pasta restaurant looked downright criminal as he hoisted a fat knife to slice through sheets of ravioli.

When I happened upon a gun store downtown, I had no choice but to walk inside. I figured it was fate.

The walls were lined with glass cases that ran nearly floor to ceiling. They contained enough firearms to fuel several James Bond movies. Maybe a Jason Bourne one too. Several items under the front counter looked suspiciously like landmines.

It was a small, cramped shop, so I didn’t get far before a few employees descended and asked if I needed help.

At least, I think that’s what they were saying. I only know essential Spanish, like how to order coffee, ask for the toilet or say “Those drugs aren’t mine.”

“Hola,” I said to the shopkeeper, furiously flipping through my purse-sized English-to-Spanish dictionary. Unfortunately, the words I was searching for were’t listed.

“No hablo mucho Espanol,” I apologized. “Donde puedo comprar … pepper spray? Por favor?”

I got a blank look.

“Er, spray de pimiento?”

Nothing.

It was time for me to pull out all the stops. It was time for charades.

I gave an Oscar-worthy performance, playing the role of an innocent woman walking down the street as well as the brutal attacker who punches her in the head. Just as the thief is about to make off with her valuables, our heroine pulls pepper spray from her purse and shoots him in the eye, sending him kicking and screaming to the floor.

I looked up from where I was crumpled on the dirty, stained tile. I was slightly out of breath.

“Spray de pimiento?” I tried again.

“Ah,” said the crowd, which had gathered in a full circle around me.

One of the gun shop employees disappeared behind a curtain. When she returned, she handed over a plastic package of pepper spray.

“Mace,” she said.

Ah. Mace.

For the record, I was never attacked or pickpocketed anywhere in the world, though some thieves ransacked the luggage compartment of my bus in Thailand. And the only thing I had stolen? My pepper spray.

To hell and back

September 29, 2010

Call it divine intervention.

As soon as I heard about Palacio Barolo, my inner literary nerd rejoiced. An enormous building designed to pay homage to Dante Alighieri and “The Divine Comedy”? Yes, please!

Since the building is now filled with staid offices and busy professionals, I figured it would be difficult to tour. Or, at least, located far across town.

Turns out Dante was pulling for me, because I could actually see the building from my hostel. All I had to do was walk across the street, fork over 30 pesos and sign up for one of the afternoon tours.

With Europe in chaos at the beginning of the 20th century, the structure was originally conceived as a place to house Dante’s remains and keep them safe.

The Italians, however, didn’t go for that plan. Dante is the father of the Italian language, known as “The Supreme Poet” throughout the country, and Italy wasn’t about to ship his ashes to Buenos Aires. So they hung on to their beloved poet — which means the building built for Dante is actually Dante-less.

Even so, the monument is a masterful work of architecture and design. When the building was finished in 1923, it was the highest in all of South America.

The building’s 100-meter height represents the 100 cantos of the poem.

The ground floor ushers visitors into hell. When the sun catches the nine arches — one to symbolize each circle of hell — they glow with fiery reds and yellows. Sinister gargoyles form a ring around the room.

The next 14 floors form purgatorio, where tormented souls wait to escape the sorrow and misery of sin for a state of grace. (Aside: There are many law offices on this level.)

Each floor has 11 or 22 offices to mimic the poem’s cantos, which have 11 or 22 stanzas.

And finally, climbing from floor 15 to 22, you can reach heaven.

The view is divine. Of course.

Writing on the wall

September 27, 2010

Street art always reminds me of all the nights I spent scaling bridges, tagging buildings and scribing on walls with my crew.

No, that’s not true.

Though I’ve never been a graffiti artist, I definitely appreciate art — both lawful and unlawful — and applaud lovely bursts of self-expression. That’s why I was so intrigued by the Graffiti Mundo tours of Buenos Aires, which promote street art in the city.

Unfortunately, running out of both time and money, I didn’t get a chance to actually take one of the tours. So I set out to find some graffiti on my own.

On a side street in San Telmo, I stopped to snap this:

As I walked away, a young guy with spiky hair and a black leather vest yelled, “Chica!” I gave him a little nod and continued walking. “Chica!” he hollered again. I ignored him. Finally, he ran up behind me — “CHICA!” — and blurted out something in rapid gunfire Spanish.

I apologized and said I didn’t speak Spanish.

“You like the graffiti?” he said.

He introduced himself as an artist and said that neighborhood contained some fantastic examples of Buenos Aires street art. “Come with me,” he said. “I’ll show you.”

Trusting him, I went. And I’m so glad I did.

We wandered San Telmo for a couple hours, soaking in the vivid colors and designs.

The streets felt like those Russian nesting dolls, unfolding with one surprise after another.

I think graffiti art offers unique insight into a city — a visiually compelling way to understand its energy, politics and overall vibe.

Having a personal tour with an artist only made the day more beautiful.

80 days later

September 25, 2010

It’s been 80 days since I ventured away from home and set off on the road.

In that time, Phileas Fogg made it all the way around the world, while I’ve only been through one continent. But, oh my, what a trip this has already been!

In that short period of time I’ve:

Been cleansed by a shaman.

Learned to shoot a blowgun with an Amazonian tribe.

Got cuddled by dozens of monkeys — and bitten by one.

Slept (poorly) on 9 overnight buses.

Hiked the Inca Trail to Machu Picchu with my husband.

Seen mummies, dinosaur footprints and the world’s largest salt flats.

Stayed out all night in Buenos Aires.

Had a Bolivian woman urinate on my backpack.

Seen pink dolphins.

Drank pisco in Pisco.

Flown over the Nazca lines.

Attended my first football game.

Spent the night with a family on Lake Titicaca.

Answered the eternal question — can bikini bottoms double as underwear?

Nearly purchased a rum distillery.

I’ve learned a lot about myself while traveling, but mostly I’ve learned a lot about the world. I still marvel over the fact that every day brings me to streets I’ve never seen before, surrounded by people I’ve never met, in places I never knew existed.

Before I began this trip I wondered how travel would change me, and now I wonder how it won’t.

Here’s to the next 80 days!

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