My chilly relationship with Chile

It was bound to happen eventually. I was having such a great time. And as eventually happens when you're having a great time, shit happens.

For some people it happens literally, through bouts of diarrhoea that seem to swoop on my tour group at unexpected intervals. For another it came in the form of accidentally leaving their passport behind… with a border crossing the next day.

My downfall began on the drive between Ushuaia (Argentina) and Torres del Paine (Chile). We had what I like to call, a mystery camp. Let me explain. 

So you know how the South American content is massive? Sometimes city A and city B are so far apart, the tour bus will drive for as long as it can before stopping at any spot alongside the road that looks good enough for us to spend the night. 

One time we camped in the middle of a football field. Oftentimes we've camped behind or alongside gas stations. On this particular occasion, I couldn't even describe to you where we ended up. All I remember is a grassy field with fences behind some wooden buildings, maybe they were fully-functioning, maybe  they were abandoned. My mind seems to have blocked out what it could.

What I do remember (and what I'd do anything to forget) is the cold. I've never felt such freeze in my life. Despite having brought one thick, trusty coat with me, the same coat that served me well through a European winter, I was not prepared for this. This was a whole other level.

It was so cold I couldn't look at my iPhone without condensation obscuring the screen. My teeth were chattering. My joints were aching. My thermals and sleeping bag were futile. It was so cold I couldn't didn't sleep. 

And that was the beginning of my 2-week decline.

A dry cough from hell ensued, causing countless more sleepless nights. The hours I lost sleeping, I made up for in guilt - for keeping everyone around me awake with my uncontainable exorcist-level coughs. My nose, when it wasn't clogged with mucous, was a dripping tap. The skin around my nose peeled from the sheer amount of nose-blowing. 

On two occasions I forced myself to go hiking (one big, one small) because I couldn't bear the thought of not hiking at one of the world's most famous destinations for it. People come from all over the world to hike Torres del Paine. And there I was being a sick bitch. Resenting myself if I did. Resenting myself if I didn't.

My whole experience of Chile was shattered. I will forever remember the beautiful mountains of Torres del Paine as Torres del Pain in my Ass. I will forever remember idyllic Patagonia as Patago-and-fuck-off. I was that utterly miserable.

After so much first-world suffering, I couldn't wait to get to Santiago, where we booked into… wait for it… not a campsite... not hostel rooms, but hotel rooms. ACTUAL HOTEL ROOMS. WITH ACTUAL FLOORS AND WALLS AND CEILINGS TO PROTECT YOU FROM THE FUCKING COLD.

It was like a gift from the universe for finally starting to feel better.

But then the hotel room had bed bugs. FUCKING BED BUGS. At first I thought it was just a mosquito, so I let it go. I was already in a silk slip. I applied repellent. I sprayed my bed with bug spray. But then the succession of emerging new stings wouldn't let up.

Distraught and sleep deprived, at 4am I pulled the spare blankets from the wardrobe and slept on the floor.

I woke up with my neck, shoulders, arms, and face had swollen from bites. I went to reception first thing that morning to ask, on the verge of tears, to change rooms.

To think I had envisioned a good night's rest before a productive day of exploring the city. With only a 2-day stop-over in Santiago, I dragged myself to do a walking tour but struggled to give the city the appreciation it deserves. I was tired and teary. I was fed up defeated.

Perhaps the only positive thing that happened during my time in Chile was catching up with an old room mate from my year abroad in Spain. We had terremotos (white wine with pisco and pineapple ice-cream). The name translates into "earthquake," because that's how the ground feels after you drink one.

Apart from that my time in Chile went from bad, to worse, to "fuck this shit."

Chile, maybe one day we can start all over again?

Love, Noeline
xox

3 reasons why I'm not travelling solo

A question I get asked a lot, is why I chose to travel 6 months through South America with a travel company rather than alone - especially when I speak a proficient level of Spanish. Especially since after all - yes, it's more my travel style, and yes, it would have worked out cheaper. Here's 3 reasons why I'm not travelling solo.

1. Travelling is like any other addiction, sometimes you need to put the structures in place to keep yourself from overdosing and going broke.
   I love travelling so much, that had I gone by myself with the freedom to go at my own pace - I'dmost likely never leave. I need the discipline and structure of a planned itinerary to force me to pack my things and move on, from one city to the next. A pre-paid, mostly non-refundable cost structure also helps keep one from getting cold feet or jumping ship midway.
    
2. Lack of time, or maybe bad timing.
   The timing of my travel epiphany (that there was no better time than then to go now), didn't leave me enough any time to research, book and plan ahead far enough to ensure that point no. 1 didn't happen.
   
   During this time I was still working full-time, commuting up to 3 hours per day, and my Visa applications were causing enough stress and trouble in themselves.
   
   From experience, given the amount of man hours I put into my boyfriend and I's weeklong getaway to Vietnam and Cambodia  - I would have needed to quit my job a few weeks in advance so I could read every review, compare every hostel, analyse the pros and cons of every travel option to and from every city, compile a spreadsheet of plan A's and plan B's… you get the point.
    
3. I have things to come back for.
   People travel for different reasons. To "find myself" has never been one of them. The only thing better than having a strong sense of self-identity - is being content with it. As a result, I have nothing to "run away" from. Rather - I have reasons to come back to: my family, my friends, a debt of kisses owing to my loving boyfriend (hai bf!), plus a career in an exciting industry to resume.

So there you go. I thought it would be fun to go back through my Instagram and go through the last pictures I posted with some of my favourite people before having left.

Love, Noeline
xox

The last 'gram of my bf and I before leaving for South America. Yes, it's been tough being apart. But we've made it work!

Last 'gram before leaving with my fierce, strong, independent ladies. Sorry for the grains. It was dark and we were in a nightclub.

Last 'gram before leaving with my family and I at my quarter century birthday. Half-half birthday cakes rule.

2 months in Brasil

Brazil. They spell it Brasil. They pronounce it bra-siw.

Their currency is the real. But it's pronounced hey-ai.

It's the one South American country people don't realise doesn't speak Spanish. They speak Portuguese. So put your Spanish For Beginners away. Learn some basic phrases. Get guttural, otherwise they won't understand what you're saying.

It's the expensive South American country that no one warns your wallet about. One minute you're enjoying seafood meals for about $4AU in Venezuela, then BAM. Brazil happens; and you're parting ways with $30AU for a mediocre plate (and even then it was the cheapest meal on the menu).

If you want to save money, eat how the locals do: pasta, rice and beans (yes, all three, on the same plate) - with either beef, chicken or fish. For lunch and dinner. Every day. Sprinkle with a huge load of farofa (fried cassava flour). It adds more crunch than it does actual flavour.

Another popular alternative is por kilo restaurants: load your plate with whatever you want from a wide selection from the food spectrum, and an electronic weighing scale at the counter determines the price.

It's a country of contrasts - as much in its landscape as its people. The "typical" Brazilian person is hard impossible to define. It's not just the capoeira dancers of African descent, or the dazzling sambistas with big bums. It's as much the poor people in the favelas trying to get by. It's as much the "white" Brazilians with European heritage.

But if there's one thing I found to be true - it's their admirable ability (particularly women) to embrace their bodies, no matter the shape or size. If I could describe female Brazilian fashion in one word, it would be: tight. If I could describe their attitude, it would be: unabashed.

The world loves them and they know it. That's why they charge up to triple the price of accommodation during peak season (i.e. Rio Carnavale), and get away with it. The Rio 2016 Olympics will only turn up their spotlight.

Here's some pics...

Typical Brazilian meal.

Canoa Quebrada.

Olinda.

Olinda.

Salvador.

Olodum drum parade in Salvador.

Selfie with J.C.

Rio Carnavale.

Iguazu Falls.

Love, Noeline
xox

The two types of female travellers

Tour guide: There's lots of mosquitoes at The Pantanal.

Me: *Dresses like a nun*

Other girls: *Wears booty shorts and crop top*

-_-"

5 rules of the universe I've learnt while travelling

1. Your local currency rate, which was doing marvellously just a few weeks ago, will turn to shit just when you need to exchange money.

2. The person who is most scared of bugs, will also attract the most. Or maybe just notice them more.

3. The people with the smallest budgets will end up paying taxi fares double to triple more than what everyone else paid, because they wound up with the driver with almost no vision and/or no clue as to where they're going. But this doesn't become apparent until about 5 minutes in. And they're doing circles, asking other locals for directions, with the meter on.

4. In a tour group, there will ALWAYS be someone who is not quite "all there," and drive everyone insane.

5. This will happen to you. All the time. And usually at the most iconic tourist attractions.

Love, Noeline 
xox

Have you ever wondered?

Have you ever wondered that maybe the only reason some people get to act so carefree, are because of people like me constantly cleaning up after them?

Why I travel (and you should too)

One of my mother's fondest stories of me as a child goes a little something like this:

I was sitting in the baby seat with my parents up front (back then they were still together).

I would cry hysterically one minute, then be at peace the next.
Within moments I'd be crying again, only to calm down as quickly as my tantrums came.

After putting up with a few cycles of my odd behaviour, my mother figured out the pattern.

Whenever we were caught at a red light, I'd cry. Once we got going again, I was fine.

The loophole in this, was that she would shake the car seat whenever we were stationary, fooling me into thinking the car was still in motion - in which case all was good with the world.

Not much has changed now that I'm 25. Except I've upgraded from cars to airplanes.

I'm so addicted to the feeling of a plane during take-off, that I can’t afford to drive nor own a car.

That's right. I've traded-in the convenience of driving myself around to the local shops, so I can traverse the world instead.

Even when I was throwing up on the boat from one Greek island to next, even when I'd turned into a lifeless excuse of a human being whilst winding through the Atlas Mountains - at each of these moments I wouldn't have had life any other way.

Even when I was scammed in Thailand or bag-snatched in Vietnam, I'd never once wished I was back in the "safety" of my own home. Things like that can and do happen anywhere.  I have Australian friends who've had their belongings stolen, in Australia, by fellow Australians.

You don't have to be brave to travel, you just need to be realistic.

Forget your small town gossip and your small town drama. Forget about your "haters," and your ex-boyfriend's ex-girlfriend. Instead of buying another pair of Christian Louboutin heels, buy a ticket. Go somewhere new. Preferably a place that offers more than cocktails by a closed-off pool. Preferably a place that serves more than Western style burgers and pizza.

Do it, and realise that there's so much more to this world than "home". That there are people happier than you, with so much less than you.

Sending my love from Salvador (Brazil's most violent city).

Noeline

xox

Why introverts don't talk (much)

Most people do not listen with the intent to understand; they listen with the intent to reply - Stephen R. Covey 

It's common consensus to wait your turn. So in group conversations we introverts will wait. And wait. And wait: for that split second of silence for our opportunity - but there's often someone who comes in louder, albeit later, and "win."

Sometimes, if we're lucky, we'll have demanded enough attention to contribute to the conversation with a story of our own. Three sentences in, someone professes they know exactly how we feel; except that the version offered by their life experience is more interesting. They don't say it of course, it's just very brutally implied. Because they never let you finish. They're just that into their own spiel.

In fact, most loudmouths are so naive they wouldn't remember, let alone admit to interrupting us in the first place. They call it "connecting," "communicating" or "being social.

Except that their story wasn't even close to the point we were getting at. But it doesn't matter, because in the time it would have taken us to roll our eyes (key phrase: "would have" - because we don't want to be rude about you being rude) - the topic has been duly changed; and backtracking would reveal that we've been sitting on it the whole time, rather than paying attention to all the stories that have since been "kindly" shared.

"Successfully" participating in a conversation is a struggle most people probably don't know exist. It's as much an art as it is a fucking battlefield. If you've never felt it, you're probably the dominating person.

If you can admit or even suspect that you are, I challenge you to hold back slightly during the next social situation you find yourself in, and observe how the dynamic changes. Observe if you suddenly learn something new about someone in your group, and wonder why you never knew it earlier. Observe how many silences there are without you filling them in all the time. Observe how many topics are covered within a certain amount of time, without you changing it at very turn.

Think: how much do I know about these people, and how much do I impose on them about me?

You don't have to be rude about it, in the same way introverts like myself are often mistaken to be. But it wouldn't hurt to throw a question out into the open every now and then. Observe if they're taken aback by it.

Think: how much of your talking is a conversation, and how much is it a speech?

If you have an introvert or two in your group, you can't just put us on the spot. Good luck with that. We don't have as much experience telling stories, so apologies if it takes us a while to find our groove. Whereas your punch lines have practically been rehearsed from all the countless times you've told it, we're only now getting used to stringing sentences out loud.

But don't get us wrong, while you were talking, we learnt how to be really good listeners. Not just of words (forgive us for not being able to repeat back the story about your sister's dog's trip to the vet that turned out to be closed), but of body language. Watching the dynamics within groups is admittedly a hobby for us. We've learned to embrace being wallflowers, the view from here is great for people watching.

We question those of you who come across a little too happy, a little too all the time. We notice the faraway look in someone's eye when a topic close to their heart is casually bedraggled by the group. But we won't say anything. Your secret is safe with us. We make bets in our head as to how long new friendships will last between people who have just met. We have a pretty good hunch spotting the table of friends and the table of frenemies. The table of a happy family, and the table of a family trying to keep it together. We can spot the girl dancing like no one's watching, and the girl who hopes everyone is.

But we're also aware of how people see us. Women will most definitely be called a bitch or a snob, while the men who don't talk might be called shy (if he's lucky) or mysterious (even luckier). You should get to know us sometime.

Introverts have different outlets - and for me it's this blog. It's one of the few places I can fully express a thought or idea of mine without being interrupted or spoken over. I don't have to wait for someone to let me write. And the people who happen to come here, are the people who care enough to listen read it.

So thank you.

Love, Noeline
xox

But where are you really from?

Only in South America would people not question me on where I'm really from.

They have an evolved form of multiculturalism from that which is found in Australia.

Their ancestors might really be from somewhere in Africa, and my ancestors might really be from somewhere in Asia - but they get it. They just get it.

And it's beautiful not having to explain or defend my identity.

It's nice not being a novelty.

Venezuela: 1 country, 2 exchange rates

Unlike its neighbour Colombia which oozes in colourful colonial charm, Venezuela's buildings are a dull, tattered kind of modern.

Fighting through my initial disenchantment, I realised I'd been looking in the wrong place. Turns out the magic wasn't the street itself, but in the cars passing through it. Old, beat-up cars - or let's face it - pure shitboxes - were traipsing through the streets. I was surrounded by a patchwork of parts, broken indicators and masking tape where glass windows once were.

Cars that should have either been glorified in museums or retired in wrecking yards (I'm not sure which) were somehow still active, en masse,  in Venezuela. There are more bombs than there are cars made in the last 10 years.

Often upon questioning the roadworthiness of a car, there'd be a 'TAXI' sticker on the windshield. Still good then, I guess.

Were I a vintage car aficionado, I would have probably been frothing at the mouth.

I sorely wish I could have taken more photos than their political situation would safely permit me. Which brings me to my next point. Without getting carried away and turning this post into an essay on the political situation in Venezuela (I'll leave you to Google it in your own time) - let's just say they're going through a lot.

Things are so dire that basic medicine and supermarket goods like toilet paper and cooking oil have become scarce (read more). People will queue for hours at a stall selling a single product no longer available in the shops. All of a sudden their grocery run has turned into a days-long ordeal lining up at numerous stalls in order to gather just some of what they need.

Go to a restaurant, and menus are a graveyard of things that used to be served - as waiters reel off the handful of dishes you really have to choose from.

I even went to McDonalds for the first time in Venezuela - and they had "run out" of chicken, hot chips and Coca-Cola.

What is available, is expensive - driven up by inflation and a double exchange rate.

1. The official currency

This is what you'll get by taking money out of an ATM, making a card transaction or going through a legitimate, authorised money exchange vendor.

$1US = 7 Bolivars

2. The black market currency

This is what you'll get by exchanging US notes at the border crossings from men (shall we call them freelancers?) competing against each other to bring you the most competitive black market rate.

$1US = 110-150 Bolivars

This is great for tourists, but wreaks havoc of the national economy. Prices are adjusted somewhere between the official and black market rates - which still work out to be expensive for locals.

This makes tourists extremely high targets for theft - and flashing one's smartphone or digital/SLR camera around doesn't exactly deter that. We've been encouraged not to wear expensive looking clothes, watches or jewellery.

"If a hotel worker sees your camera lying around, they're probably going to take it so they can sell it. But can you really blame them?" - Venezuelan tour guide

Of all the things I came to witness, the most heartbreaking would have to be at the Colombia-Venezuela border crossing. In a country where petrol is cheaper than bottled water, boys as young as 6 years-old were siphoning fuel from Venezuelan cars to sell in Colombia at significant profit (read more).

As one of the world leaders in oil production - Venezuela should, in theory, be a thriving nation - not a starving one. However, years of mismanagement has landed them in a difficult situation… it will be interesting to see how they get out.

Next stop: Brazil.

I was lucky enough to try out the Coromoto ice-cream parlour in Merida.

2 scoops: "Lagrimas de Amor" (Tears of Love) and Café (Coffee)

Currently holds the Guinness World Record for offering the most flavours (more than 850).

On 26 December 2014, they announced they would be closing for the season due to a shortage of milk (read more).

Christmas at Playa Grande, Choroní.

Salto Ángel (Angel Falls), the highest waterfall in the world at 979m.

Nearly x20 higher than Niagra Falls.