On my most recent trip to Bolivia, I had a very bad experience with some very inconsiderate and vulgar tourists at my hostel.

I was staying in Samaipata, a small mountain town located on the backpacker tourist trail in southern Bolivia. The town becomes very quiet after 9:00PM as there are very few bars or nightspots for tourists to congregate. With nowhere else to get together, parties among backpackers often happen spontaneously at their hostel. Sometimes these parties last until the wee hours of the morning.

I had returned to my hostel about 11:00PM. Walking to my room, I passed by a group of young backpackers – both males and females - who were having a little party outside on the patio. Quite rowdy and loud - as evidenced by the number of empty beer bottles on the table, they were obviously somewhat inebriated. I greeted them goodnight, sort of an indirect way of telling them to keep the noise down.

Obviously they didn’t get the message as they continued on with their loud chatter and laughter. As I was trying to sleep as were some other hotel guests, I really thought these people were out of line. As the noise escalated, I bolted out of bed, went outside and told them very politely to keep their voices down.

I guess that was like adding fuel to the fire – as they got even louder and more raucous. Another 30 minutes elapsed (it was now close to midnight) before I bolted out my bed again, ran outside and told the young merrymakers to shut up already.

One of the young men - I recognized his voice as being Nate, the American guy from San Jose, California - retorted “Hey Old Man, Why don’t you go back to bed and put in your earplugs”. As he made his snide remark, the young British gals laughed hysterically like hyenas. Funny, huh? I wanted to shove my fist up his mouth but common sense prevailed as I returned to my room.

Well, the group did not break up their party until shortly before 1:00AM but not before singing in unison, Johnny Cash’s classic song “Ring of Fire”. Oh well, at least they sang it in tune!

Travel is very rewarding. Every day is an adventure (that’s for sure)
as you meet new people, have new experiences and visit foreign
and exotic new places. From my experience, there is never, ever a dull moment. That is precisely why I love to travel.

This short video entitled “Muy Picante” captures some of my most outlandish and humorous not to mention some of my x-rated moments on a recent trip to Brazil.

After watching this video, you might conclude that I have a fascination with dogs. Admittedly I have a special relationship with man’s best friend as well as other creatures. This traveler just likes to have fun!!!

I hope you are amused and entertained as you step into my world – the world of a traveler. Me abraca a me beija! ENJOY!

I traveled to Brazil thinking that I would be able to understand enough Portuguese to get by - after all the language on the surface is very similar to Spanish, in terms of the vocabulary and the grammar.

This was a rather naïve assumption on my part – I should have paid more attention to some of the many Brazilian songs in my I-tunes library and I would have realized that the pronunciation of Portuguese is quite different than Spanish!

I received my baptism in Portuguese shortly after arriving at Passo Do Lontra Lodge in Brazil’s vast Pantanal region. Call it Portuguese 101! I was in manager’s office at the lodge when I tried to make some conversation with him. I had learned a couple of basic phrases from a tour guide prior to walking into his office. So I asked him in Portuguese - Como Su Nome? (What is your name?) which is very similar to Spanish - Como se llama or Como es su nombre?

He replied - Mi nome is Hosheh (that’s what it sounded like) and I asked him in English (someone translated for me), What kind of name is Hosheh? That is a very unusual name, how do you spell it? To which he replied, R O G E R. OH, you’re name is Roger, I said.

Lesson One: The R in Portuguese is pronounced more like a guttural H. Can you believe that the correct pronunciation of RIO (short for Rio de Janeiro) is Hio!

Lesson Two: D in Portuguese is pronounced more like a G. For example – Buen Dia (Good day) is pronounced Bon Gia!

Portuguese has many other nuances – but bottom line the sound of the language is completely different than Spanish although many of the words are similar. EG. Daughter – in Spanish it is hija, in Portuguese it is filha, Son is hijo in Spanish while in Portuguese it is filho.

To the naked ear, Portuguese sounds very romantic - sort of a frenchified version of Spanish!

Funny thing - I met a young couple from Colombia who were fully bilingual in Spanish and English, and even they had a difficult time understanding Portuguese. However if you have 100% facility with Spanish, you’ll probably comprehend at least 60% of Portuguese after awhile – after all the Brazilians I met understood at least 60% of my Spanish!

Bon Gia from Hio!

One of the most miserable travel experiences happened to me when I was in Mexico. It was December 1973 and I had just spent an action packed week in Puerto Vallarta over the Christmas Holidays. As this was my first real trip to Mexico – previously I had only traveled to the border towns of Tijuana and Juarez – I decided to extend my stay an extra 14 days to explore the country. The plan was to take the bus from Puerto Vallarta on Mexico’s Pacific Coast to Merida located in the Yucatan Peninsula. The bus trip itself was very enjoyable as I got a chance to see Mexico’s many tropical landscapes – from the jungles of the Pacific Coast to the mountainous interior of central region to the lowland rainforests of the Yucatan Peninsula. To break up the long journey I stopped over in Guadalajara and Mexico City – Mexico’s two largest cities - and on the long final leg from Mexico City to Merida I layed over in Villahermosa, the capital city of the state of Tabasco.

After a long and arduous 14-hour bus ride from Mexico City, the bus arrived in Villahermosa at about 9:00PM. As soon as I stepped off the bus, I started sweating bullets. The weather was unbelievably hot and muggy even though late December is traditionally one of the more comfortable times of the year. In addition to the unbearable humidity, the air was thick with the smell of oil. Built on top of reclaimed swampland, just recently Villahermosa had become a major oil refinery center and this Gulf city was becoming a real boomtown.

Checking into a budget hotel in the middle of the downtown area, I was immediately greeted by a couple of bloodthirsty mosquitoes when I entered my room. To say that the room was infested with mosquitoes is an understatement. Walking outside into muggy evening air, I decided to look for accommodations at a first class hotel – I had to escape from the mosquitoes. I didn’t have much luck, as all the better (and more expensive) hotels were all booked up. That first night in Villahermosa was total misery – my room was like a sauna, and it seemed that the whole night I was occupied with swatting mosquitoes. I must have killed at least 20 of those bloodsuckers.

The following morning, I checked out of my hotel. Hopping into a taxi and asked the driver to take me to a decent hotel. Driving along the highway which leads out of town, I ended up at a lowrise bungalow affair which was surrounded by profuse tropical vegetation. After touring La Venta, Villahermosa’s famous archaeological park in the afternoon, I returned to my hotel. I didn’t fare any better in my new surroundings, as the problem with mosquitoes was just as bad as the first night. After another sleepless night of swatting mosquitoes and getting sucked, the next morning I was enormously relieved to catch a bus out of Villahermosa to Merida. Needless to say, I will not return any time soon.

(Continued from Part I) January 1996, Mali, West Africa After the minibus broke down about 2/3 into the journey from Bamako to Mopti, I was stranded with 15 other passengers along the roadside somewhere in the boonies of the Upper Niger Delta of Mali. Looking into the darkness surrounding me, I could see nothing but silhouettes in the distance of what could pass as primitive huts and the scrubby vegetation of the African desert. At least I wasn’t alone.

About 90 minutes later, the bus driver was able to flag down a large dilapidated sedan that was headed to Mopti. Opening the door, the driver motioned for me to get into the cab. Looking inside the cavernous rear compartment, I was shocked at what I saw – squished together on three narrow planks of wood were at least 17-18 passengers, packed as tightly as a can of sardines. Like many bush taxis in Africa, the upholstery had been removed as the back of the car had been retrofitted to accommodate as many people as possible.

After a moment of hesitation, I stepped into the car, laid my one piece of luggage on the floor and squished myself between two bodies. I had placed myself in a very precarious situation by riding in this ramshackle vehicle with so many passengers - the alternative however was to sleep outside in the desert until daybreak. Enduring the extreme discomfort of the seating arrangements and the various body odors that permeated the air, I gritted my teeth as the bush taxi slowly proceeded towards Mopti. At about 3:00AM (4 hours later) the bush taxi arrived in New Mopti. As the passengers unraveled their bodies and got out of the car, they made a prayer to Allah for their safe deliverance. Thank G_D - the ordeal was over!

Old town Mopti - my destination - was about another 30 minutes away across the bridge. Due to a recent series of armed robberies on the bridge it was too dangerous to cross at this late hour. Apparently I would have to complete my journey to my destination in the morning. Fortunately, I was able to find a comfortable room at a fairly modern hotel and slept like a log until about 11:00AM at which time I caught the scheduled bus to old town.

On my return from Mopti to Bamako, I rode the first class bus. The seats were comfortable and the trip took only 9 hours. Viva la differencia!

One of the most harrowing travel experiences that I have ever had took place in Mali in January 1996. Leading up to this, I had to deal with a rogue taxi at the Bamako airport who tried to hijack me (and gave me a good scare), and during my stay in Bamako I had to shake off some very persistent touts who were trying to attach themselves to me. Read on for my riveting story…..

From Bamako, the next stop on my itinerary was Mopti, an important port town and tourist center located on the upper Niger River delta. Upon the recommendation of the man who owned a crafts concession at the hotel, I decided to make this trip by minibus rather than the large motorcoach. It was a decision that I lived to regret. After being dropped off at the transportation center in Bamako, I boarded a large minibus with a capacity of 25 passengers. The bus delayed its departure for about 1 1/2 hours until it had a full load. Fortunately I arrived early enough to get a seat towards the front of the bus; as we left the terminal at approximately 11:30AM, I braced myself for the long 12 hour journey to Mopti. Hallelujah, at last I was on my way! Keep in mind, I was the only tourist on the bus - the rest of the passengers were Malians. Even though the official language in Mali is French, most of the passengers talked in their native African tongue which was completely incomprehensible to me

About 4 hours into the trip, we pulled into another large town where I had to board another minibus. Continuing the journey, the day soon became night and gazing out the window, the stark desert landscape of the African Sahel appeared very surreal in the darkness. The ride was somewhat uncomfortable but bearable, and throughout the journey the bus’s engine was making some unusual noises. At about 9:30PM, the driver made an announcement in French that I didn’t quite understand, but from all the commotion and groaning from the other passengers, I surmised that there was something wrong with the bus. Sure enough, the driver pulled the bus over to the side of the road and had all the passengers get off into the darkness of the warm desert night. As far as I could tell, we were in the middle of nowhere. To be continued….

While swimming about a ¼ mile offshore at Tenacatita Beach in Mexico, I happened to observe through my goggles some small semi-transparent floating creatures that looked like minuscule jellyfish. Not coincidentally, I felt a mild burning sensation on my arms, legs and upper torso as I navigated through these waters – apparently these creatures stung me repeatedly. Getting back to shore, I examined myself - it seems that a rash (small red bumps) had developed in the affected areas, especially on my arms and legs. After telling Raquel at Posada Tonala what happened to me, she said that the Spanish word for these little creatures was Mal agua, which literally means ‘bad water’. She suggested that I squeeze lemon juice or apply human urine to the affected parts, but I only laughed at her suggestions and did nothing. By the next morning, the rash disappeared. Just another day at the beach…

January 1996 Bamako, Mali After a short flight from Abidjan, Ivory Coast, I arrived on a balmy evening at the airport in Bamako, Mali. It was sometime after 8:00PM. After deplaning, I picked up my baggage and proceeded to go to the immigration checkpoint. I was little disconcerted to discover that there were no queues - it was sort of a free for all as people were jostling with each other to get to the immigration booth. I guess this is the way they do things in Mali. Finally, after a little pushing and shoving of my own, I got through and cleared immigration.

Walking out into the loading area and the warm desert night, a thick haze blanketed the airport. The atmosphere was surreal. While surveying the scene and pondering my next move, I accidentally let down my guard and put my luggage on the ground. Before I could blink an eye, two young guys snatched my bags and threw them into the trunk of a dilapidated black car. Trying to apprehend these jokers, I was shoved into the back seat and the car sped off. Scared and frightened, I tried to communicate with the driver and his cohorts to no avail as they spoke little or no English. For a moment, I thought was kidnapped. But that apparently wasn’t their game – the driver made an attempt to find out what hotel I wanted to go to. I protested that this wasn’t a licensed taxi and asked to be let out. In actuality, it was a rogue taxi. The driver insisted in broken English that he was going to take me to my hotel, so don’t worry. I was at their mercy - the only other choice I had was to jump out of the car.

About 45 minutes later, the taxi arrived at my hotel which was situated smack dab in the middle of downtown Bamako. After getting out of the car the driver tells me $60USD. I shook my head and told him ‘hell no’. We took the dispute to the hotel front desk. Fortunately, there was someone that understood English. I tell the clerk how I was literally abducted at the airport by this rogue taxi and despite these circumstances, I was willing to pay the driver the normal taxi fare but I refuse to get ripped off (The clerk tells me that the normal fare was about 15USD). After a heated discussion with the driver, the hotel clerk turns around to me and tells me to pay the driver what he wants in order to avoid any further problems. Shaking my head in disbelief, I reluctantly handed the driver the monies and tell him to get lost! Despite the fact that I was abducted and ‘robbed’ by this rogue taxi, arriving at my hotel safe and sound was probably worth the 60USD!

On my first day in ‘Mi Paraiso Secreto”, I took a stroll from my hotel to the beach, a short block and ½ from my hotel. Looking across the crescent shaped bay, the lovely gray sand beach seemed to go on forever. A popular weekend destination with Mexicans from Guadalajara (the capital of Jalisco), on this Saturday morning, La Playa was especially busy as it was part of a 3 day holiday weekend for all of Mexico - on Monday, all banks, schools and government offices were closed in honor of one the heroes of the Mexican Revolution. About 150 yards ahead of me, the beach was blanketed by a sea of plastic tables with attached beach umbrellas and chairs fronting the many beachside restaurants, most of them occupied by Mexican tourists and a smattering of gringos. Looking at the crowd of tourists ahead of me, it dawned on me that ‘My Secret Paradise” has not been a secret for some time now. Many Gringos in particular ‘discovered’ this small beach town after the big earthquake and Tsunami of 1995 walloped this area.This devastating event made the front pages of many newspapers around the world and put this town on the map.

Undeterred by the sea of tourists ahead of me, I eyed some reclining lounge chairs shaded by some large beach umbrellas just a short distance away. Vacationing gringos occupied a couple of them but at least 3 lounge chairs were vacant. As this setup was exactly what I was looking for , I decided to claim one of the lounge chairs and ‘chill out’ for the remainder of the day. I hesitated a bit after reading the small sign on the fence, which warned that the lounge chairs and beach umbrellas were for the exclusive use of the guests of the establishment, which in this case looked like a handful of beachside condos. After a little debate inside my head, I plopped down on the lounge chair and proceeded to pull out my beach novel of choice, Skinny Dip by Carl Hiaasen. I figured that the odds of being getting evicted for slumming on this private property were very slim as nobody would come out and check, and if they did, I would probably go undetected, as All Gringos look alike, don’t they?

About an hour passed by as I immersed myself into my novel. Periodically, I was approached by a handful of beach vendors offering their wares that ranged from pastries, cheap jewelry to hammocks and serapes. The vendors were not that aggressive;after telling them ‘No ahora’ (not now), they quietly moved on. By far, the most popular beach vendor was selling ice cream from a bicycle cart to the accompaniment of the popular instrumental tune, Alley Cat (circa 1962). To the left of me were a small group of young men who were very loud and annoying; I was tempted to tell them to ‘Shut the F**K up’, but common sense prevailed and I pretended to ignore them.

About an hour into my relaxation, a middle aged Mexican gentleman with a very surly look on his face approached me, who I deduced was the manager of the beach apartments, and in no uncertain terms he told me to get lost, take a hike. I thanked him for his hospitality. For a moment, I thought about offering him some money to rent the lounge chair for the day but common sense prevailed and I walked away quietly. Hmm, Now I always thought that all gringos looked alike; I guess I was mistaken.

While I was in the idyllic mountain resort of Sangkhlaburi for five days, I thought I would break up the monotony of “just doing nothing” and going on one of those all day ‘mini trek-adventures” which are very much the rage these days in rural Thailand. The tour was like a rollercoaster ride - it started out very slow, gradually picking up steam before hitting a stretch of many twists and hair-raising turns, then quietly easing back to the starting point.

It all started innocently enough as I boarded the small motorized boat with about 14 other passengers - mostly Thais from Bangkok on holiday plus two German dudes who I didn’t speak a word to the entire tour and a friendly Spanish couple in their late 30’s - for an easy boat ride across Vajiralongkorn Lake and Reservoir , the largest body of water in Thailand. Before landing somewhere on the opposite bank of the lake, we passed a partially submerged temple. Upon reaching landfall, we walked through the bush to a Karen Hilltribe Village where we had lunch and were entertained by a group of young children playing a game which resembled soccer. From there, members of the tour group hopped on the back of some elephants, as our mahouts navigated thru the rough, bushy terrain and across a fast moving stream. So far it was a piece of a cake

After disembarking the elephants, the adventure ‘really became an adventure” as we had to navigate across several streams with some relatively modest currents, being careful to avoid falling as we walked across some rather slippery rocks. A little treacherous but manageable. Several of the tour members fell into the stream, getting drenched in the cold water before being pulled up by some of our tour guides. I nearly fell several times, but I caught my balance each time and managed to complete this part of the journey unscathed. To be honest with you I was concerned somewhat about my gimpy right leg and about losing my prescription glasses (with sunglass clip-ons) more than anything else.

The adventure shifted into high gear on our bamboo raft trip on a jungle river. All the tour participants were asked to grab a bamboo pole and help our tour guides-raftsmen navigate. The river was by no means calm - there were places where there were some relatively modest rapids. Several times, I caught myself slipping on the bamboo floor of the raft but righted myself just in time. As my raft was the last one to depart, we brought up the rear for the most of the journey and I had the opportunity to watch several of the tour participants being thrown overboard. Despite the dunkings and spills, everybody was in good humor as evidenced by all the smiles and the laughter.

My oarsman was a rather reckless driver as he misnegotiated some rapids and ran into the riverbank, launching me overboard into the cold river waters. Fortunately my glasses remained on my nose, but I lost one of my flip-flops in the process; one of the young boys who accompanied us dove into the water and retrieved it for me. Some ten minutes later, my oarsmen rammed the raft into a clump of vegetation that jutted out from the riverbank. During this 2nd collision, my gimpy right leg went through two of the bamboo slats. Somewhat shocked about this the latest turn of events, I quickly righted myself, pulling my leg on top of the raft. Escaping serious injury (I could have broken my leg), I was asking myself - What was my driver smoking? I’ve read somewhere that we have tendency to laugh after averting near disaster - Well here I was laughing my ass off after nearly getting wiped out! Needless to say I was quite relieved when the bamboo-rafting segment was finally over - my right leg was still intact, I still had my prescription glasses and I still had both of my flip-flops. On the boat trip back to the hotel, it began to dawn on me how lucky I was to survive this adventure all in one piece.
The Great Hanumann lived to die another day!

Factoid: Formerly known as Khao Laem Lake it was recently renamed after Crown Prince Maha Vajiralongkorn