3 ways I survived long-distance

The surviving started before I even left the country. It began about two months beforehand, when I told him my plans about going to South America. For half a year.

We'd already been doing medium- distance thing for a while now, ever since he moved from Sydney to Newcastle for a work opportunity he couldn't pass up. And there I was daring to put even more miles between us. Miles and oceans and time zones.

1. Why

The first thing he needed to get straight was "Why?"

Why now?

Why by yourself?

I answer all the above in a previous post here.

2. Set behavioural expectations

For some people, long-distance relationships are an easy-ticket to open relationships. If you're one of them, say so. If you're not, say so. Set an agreed level of behaviour so there's no second guessing if they'd approve you doing a, b, or c with x, y or z.

3. Set communication expectations

Facetime

Skype

Email

Text

Whatsapp

Viber

Facebook Messenger

Snapchat

Postcards

Snail mail

Agree on preferred methods of communication. If it's a combination of the above, specify which ones, and how often. Get your sim cards and logins sorted so you're not sending messages to an account they don't regularly check or can't remember the password to.

On top of calculating time differences, you also need to account for differences in internet access itself. The traveller will have it intermittently, while the stayer will have it almost constantly. Does that mean they don't have to message the other person everyday? Maybe yes. Maybe no. Just make sure you set the expectation. Don't assume you're both on the same page. Like I did.

At the start of my holiday I went days and days camping without internet access, expecting to arrive at the next hotel (motel, Holiday Inn) to a bunch of long messages about his days. Messages to the same mundane effect as what we'd normally exchange on a daily basis. What we had for breakfast.  How our morning coffee tasted. How our sleep was. How our day at work went. What's cooking for dinner. Yada, yada.

Although boring - what these messages would have ultimately indicated was that he was at least thinking of me.

Meanwhile, my heart would beat with giddiness typing in complicated wi-fi passwords, expecting my phone to be inundated with alerts once connected. But to my dismay, there was often nothing. A few lines, if I was lucky. An "I love you" or "I miss you." They came across as unfeeling, robotic. Yet what I really wanted to know was how his haircut went. Did he get his mobile bill sorted? Did he submit his assignment on time?

In my mind, if he had stopped confiding in me about the little things - he must have also stopped confiding in me about the big things. Left to draw my own conclusions, I started jumping to worst case scenarios. Was I replaced by another female real-time listener?

I was only a few weeks into my holiday, and couldn't believe we were already falling apart. Especially after leaving on such a high note believing we could make it work.

I brought it up by comparing (i.e. complaining) that a female friend on the tour was practically flooded with messages by her significant other.

He defended that he actually did have stuff going on. Work dramas. Housemate dramas. MBA dramas. But he chose to keep them to himself so as not to ruin my holiday. I mean, the nerve! How dare he care about me so much as to censor the things that were going on in his life!

Seeing things from his perspective, I had to set the record straight. Just because I was on the other side of the world, didn't mean I wanted to stop being there for him. After all, supporting each other is one of the fundamentals of being in a relationship. If that stopped, what was the point of staying together? I had to reassure him that within reason, just because he was having a bad day, did not mean I would impose a bad day upon myself. 

Once we got that sorted, we settled into a rhythm.

We Facetimed when my internet access allowed it to. When it was slow we'd Whatsapp instead. On days we weren't live streaming, he now sent me messages - everything from the banal to the bizarre. In turn, I drafted emails (i.e. rants that kept me sane) to him while on the road. I'd send these in bulk when I finally got the chance, providing him with some not-so-light reading material. Before leaving each site from which there was internet, I gave him my itinerary for the next few days, and approximately how long it would be until the next biggish town with probable chance of wi-fi.

Now I've been back for almost five months, and needless to say we're glad to have each other back. Caught in the cross-fire of my personal dreams to travel South America, my time overseas served as a survival test for our relationship. Instead of drifting apart and setting us back, we feel like we've gone up a relationship level (or two). It allowed us to prove our commitment to each other - and with it the confidence to overcome the remainder of obstacles that life will throw at us.

Wishing each other a good morning from Brazil, and a good night from Australia.

Love, Noeline

xox

Life post-Peru

This time three months ago I touched down in Sydney airport after spending six months in South America.

For those of you post-holiday depression wankers dreamers, that’s the equivalent of 13 #ThrowbackThursdays ago. 

In some ways, it’s almost like I never left. I’ve settled so deep into the daily grind that my “new” job of two months feels anything but. I’ve re-joined the gym. I recently paid $50 for four drinks and barely bat an eyelid, because damn it that’s Australia for you.

Like a post-break up letter I never send, I guess I haven’t felt compelled to write a holiday wrap-up because in other ways, it didn’t feel over just yet.

I’ve gotten into the habit of saying “ciao” instead of bye. And just when I think I’ve shaken the last grain of sand out of the boots I wore in Huacachina, Peru - there’s more. It seems you can take the girl out of the sand dunes, but you can’t take the sand dunes out of the girl’s shoes.

My initial reaction when people say “Welcome back!” is “Huh? From what?”

Meanwhile they’re gawking at my skin tone. My tan-on-tan apparently reached such epic proportions I came back looking like an actual Inca (thanks, Mum). Or maybe that was my strategy all along: to stock up on 50 Shades of Tan before the Australian winter. 

Lima, Peru was the last stop. The city is so incredibly touristy, but made for a good transition back to western life: burgers, big breakfasts and hot showers. 

Three return flights later, here's what I've been up to since arriving back in Sydney...

I spent the first week in hideout with my boyfriend. Yes, we made it. Yes, it was fucking hard. But we’re as strong and great and happy as ever. We’ve also become accidental long-distance role models to our friends. This topic needs a whole other blog entry in itself (watch this space). 

The following two weeks after that were a whirlwind. I went into job-seeker mode. I submitted applications, and had interviews galore. My new boss found me on LinkedIn, and within a few days I was employed again. I’ll write another blog about the saga (so yes, keep watching this space). However, can I just say, it’s totes amazeballs how many job ads you find that are actually 3-in-1 roles offering entry level salaries... plus admin duties "as required." Pfffffft.

To finish, here are the top FAQs I’ve received. 

“What was your favourite place?”

“Can I pick 3?”

“Umm, okay.”

“1: Cartagena, Colombia. 2: Buenos Aires, Argentina. 3: Machu Picchu, Peru.”

“Did you go to Rio Carnavale?”

“Yes.”

“Was it crazy?”

“Yes.”

“How many people did you travel with?”

“It was kind of like a hop-on hop-off budget tour for 18-35 year olds, so the group size changed all the time. We were about 8 at our smallest, and 30 at our biggest. Some people did the whole 6-months like me, others just a few weeks.”

“Did you all get along?”

“We became family. We loved and hated each other.”

“Was it safe?”

“I was lucky enough to pass as a local so people didn’t bother me. I never felt in danger of my life. With that said though, some people on my tour did run into trouble. Like getting pick pocketed. One guy was bashed for his iPhone. Another guy tried buying coke, only to be stirred up for more money than the initial price quoted. Turned out the coke was fake.”

“Where do you want to go next?”

“Central America.”

Love, Noeline

xox

Lake Titikaka, featuring a most adorable baby.

Lima, with my mate. 

4 days trekking later, Machu Pichhu :) 

Sandboarding in Huacachina.

Un-Boliviable!

With its contrasting landscapes, here's 3 times beautiful Bolivia literally took my breath away.

1. Salar de Uyuni
It's out of this world. It's like being in a dream.

2. Death Road
No place like Death Road (aka the World's Most Dangerous Road) to ride a bike for the first time in 12 years. It's 64km of mostly downhill dirt road, and only 3.2m wide in parts. Tested the theory that once you learn, you never forget how. Worst thing that could have happened is that I plummet up to 600m to my death. But I survived!

3. La Paz.
Where Christianity meets witchcraft. Witch doctors are highly respected. I had my fortune told for the first time by one. His predictions were eerily analogous to my personality.

Love, Noeline
xox

I left my heart in Buenos Aires

B.A., I'll be back one day.

Love, Noeline
xox

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.