Day 420: Pasto to Popayán

Our day, and night was rather uneventful. Pasto is a town to get in and out of. So after only one night, we left early in the morning to catch a bus from Pasto to Popayán and arrived with the rain. Another torrential downpour.

A little while ago, an infographic was being circulated about what different countries led in. Colombia leads in rainfall. At least we are at a lower elevation here than we were in Quito. That rain was cold. This rain wasn’t as cold, but we preferred to stay indoors during the rain. The interior of our hostel was nice and cozy though!

Day 330: I love you Prague, but you’re bringing me down (Thanks, Hostel Florenc)

Having lived in Prague for a year, I can honestly say that being a tourist in this wonderful (glorious, beautiful, fabulous) city is not the same. But perhaps, it had a lot to do with where we were staying: Enter Hostel Florenc, located conveniently practically inside the Florenc bus terminal in Prague. We hadn’t planned to stay here. Instead, we had made arrangements to stay in a studio apartment in the old town for our entire week (turned two) stay. That is, before the owner of the flat decided the price was in euros instead of dollars (as it was stated online). We tried couchsurfing. We tried AirBnB. But ended up at Hostel Florenc because it was the cheapest, included breakfast, and advertised decent wi-fi (something that is increasingly important for a girl trying to put up a daily blog post about her trip around the world).

I didn’t realize how tolerant Andrew and I have become along this trip until today. I mean, sure, I’ve chuckled at ourselves throughout incredibly uncomfortable bus rides through Africa. I continue to make fun of Andrew for getting frustrated over teeny cups of coffee that come with milk when he had specifically asked for black. He continues to make fun of me for getting frustrated over the lack of dipping sauce when I order calamari, or there’s no lettuce in my Greek salad, or the bed isn’t made, or his bag explodes all over our tiny room for the night… (I just asked him what he makes fun of me for, and couldn’t stop him from listing every. single. thing.) One of us gets worked up. The other rolls their eyes and laughs. We get over it.

But after one full week of staying at Hostel Florenc, a stay that included a missing camera (mostly our fault), a clogged drain in a dirty, shared bathroom, an oven-like room, 4AM wake up calls thanks to construction noise and dozens of buses starting up outside our window, internet speeds so slow they rivaled those in Africa… When we got back late last night, I opened my big backpack to discover its contents soaked – including the inside of a binder full of women electronic outlets, camera accessories, and the worst part: a paper bag full of ticket stubs, travel pamphlets, and one full travel journal… I could no longer tolerate Hostel Florenc and followed Andrew down to reception, completely disappointed with not only Hostel Florenc, but that our week long stay in Prague was not nearly as glorious as my year residing in the city had been. To try to make up for our disastrous accommodation, Andrew acquiesced to an afternoon of thrift and vintage shop hopping in and around Vinohrady and Žižkov.

After stumbling upon some fun stores in Budapest, I decided to put a little more effort into looking for fun thrift and vintage stores in Prague. I found some good articles and lists, did a bit of cross referencing, and tried to go to an area where it looked like the most were. (You can check all of the inks out here, here, and here!) We ended up starting in Vinohrady and I ducked into several hoping to find some new (to me) clothes that would fit into my budget.

First stop: Second Street Boutique

I found several things, but they were all on the regular priced racks and I couldn’t justify spending the equivalent of $10.00 on a second hand shirt. I didn’t realize the bargain bins were such a bargain until I had already been inside for fifteen minutes- if you go, head to those first! Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything. If I weren’t traveling around the world- living out of a backpack (and trying my hardest to stick to a budget) I would have bought a few things, but… if I bought something I’d have to give up that much of my daily budget annnd I’d have to figure out how to stuff it into my backpack… I walked out empty handed.

Second stop: Second Hand Fox’s

This was set up more like a boutique, which kinda meant there wasn’t tooo much to choose from. It’s right smack in the middle of lots of other choices, so it’s worth stopping, but don’t get your hopes up.

Third stop: Second Móda

Random stop in between other shops on the list. I went in because there was a giant (not exactly friendly in the end) dog I wanted to be friends with and it looked properly packed. There were piles. and stacks. and disorganized racks of clothes. It was great. But possibly too vintagey for this trip?

Fourth stop: Praha Thrift Store

This one reminded me most of my favorite back home. It was organized. It was full. There were even weekly discounts (although none applied to me). It wasn’t terribly expensive, but I just couldn’t find anything… I started to feel a little disappointed, but reminded myself it was all about the adventure of it instead of the final purchase today.

Fifth stop: Bohemian Retro

This was probably the most vintagey (and fun) store on the list. There was even a ‘man chair’ for Andrew and a lovely American (I believe it’s his wife’s shop) who had been living in Prague for awhile to chat to while I mulled over a bag and if I could take it around South America with me. In the end, I decided the bag wouldn’t work on the road and we headed back towards Old Town for some langosš (you can see him eating it in the video above) and a photography exhibit.

I was a little bit bummed that we went to sooo many places and I was returning back to Hostel Florenc empty-handed. And then I remembered that my bag got soaked the night before and if I were to get something fabulous, the way this trip has been going, chances are it something would have happened to it… It was a good day of distraction (from our hostel nightmare) and one that wasn’t as touristy as our other days in Prague have been.

The photography exhibit; Viktor Kolář: A Retrospective was nice- well, that’s just it- it was nice. It probably shouldn’t have been called a ‘retrospective’ in my very humble opinion, and that it wasn’t arranged in chronological order was a bit strange… Disconnects like these make me curious how the show was curated. But I always feel like I learn a bit more about photography and what I like and dislike when looking at others’ works, exhibitions, and even ‘retrospectives.’

Back at Hostel Florenc, we were greeted by the worst reception girl on the whole of this trip. Seriously, she was that awful. I’m jumping ahead a bit, (simply because I don’t want to talk about Hostel Florenc in another post) but the reason we stayed so long at Hostel Florenc in the first place (despite less than lovely conditions) was because all of the other women at the front desk were so nice! Apparently this woman (with bright red dyed hair I might add) was not in the same training session. When we went to check out and ask if the manager had anything for us to make up for my soaking bag (we were hoping for at least a refund for one or two nights stay) she muttered under her breath the entire time about how we left the window open (we didn’t) and it was our fault (it wasn’t). Had she simply followed the typical customer/hospitality rules of apologizing and being nice about an unfortunate situation, I would have chalked the whole thing up to the joys of travel… and our plain bad luck some times.

Instead, she decided to be a horrible person and I walked out in shock at how terribly she spoke to us before we left- after staying for (and paying for) eight nights! I was fuming as we crossed town to meet our couchsurfer host for the night (Thank God for him!) and if the hostel wasn’t located in such a crap location (in the middle of the Florenc Bus Station) I probably would have marched back in to give her a piece of my mind. Instead, I took to Trip Advisor and left quite possibly the worst review I have on this entire (nearly one year) trip.

They of course, responded and said I lied. While I fumed- again- at Hostel Florenc, Andrew laughed at how absurd they were and took to writing a Trip Advisor review for them of his own. A few days later, in Barcelona we met up with a friend of ours who had stayed in the same place and had a similar (terrible) experience with them as well. We commiserated. Andrew showed her our list of what we would include in our future boutique hostel/guesthouse (investors wanted). She approved.

We all agreed hospitality is key. All Hostel Florenc had to do was apologize profusely for the inconvenience. Perhaps offer a dryer. Maybe even some complimentary tea or coffee after I spent an hour trying to clean up a mess that wasn’t my fault. But noooo, they shot us dirty looks, talked badly about us under their breath, and didn’t even thank us for our week long stay! My only hope is that others stumble across our reviews and possibly this post so they realize it’s worth it in the end to pay more to stay elsewhere!

Day 286: Protests in Sofia

We’ve had some pretty interesting timing on this trip, to say the least. Most recently, we were in Istanbul right before protests got serious (and violent). We left Athens before protests and strikes began. But today, we seemed to arrive right smack in the middle of another country protesting their government. We actually missed them the day we arrived, as we were exhausted and didn’t stray too far from where we were sleeping, but we heard all about them the next morning over breakfast. I filmed the video above on the 18th. If you’re interested in this country’s battle with their government, you can read all about it here!

The reason we didn’t make it out to see the protests is because we were ‘up’ but not exactly ‘at ’em’ in Sofia before six in the morning. We had just gotten off our overnight bus, but were warned not to take a taxi in Sofia, unless we wanted to get ripped off. So, we walked. It was a couple of kilometers. Enough to wake a girl up after an overnight bus from Greece. We were hoping, but not expecting to be able to check into our room sometime in the morning. Unfortunately, we weren’t able to until around noon. Fortunately, the hostel was equipped with a nice lounge area, wifi, and a buffet breakfast (with drip coffee!) so we were able to eat and relax (as much as we could) until our room was ready.

When our room was ready, showers became the priority, followed by sleep. Some sleep, but mostly just kinda laying.

Day 210: Andrew goes to the doctor

We let Andrew sleep in, and then called the clinic. The doctor who spoke English (and treated Eben) wouldn’t be in the office until three. Eben and Annelies warned us it would be a wait once we got there. It probably wouldn’t have been as long had someone let us know we needed to sign up to see the doctor. Instead, they directed us to the waiting room and told us “ten minutes.” Like, maybe, they thought we just wanted to hang out for a few hours for fun. When we neared our third hour of waiting, I nudged Andrew to go talk to someone. He found a German dentist. Because, isn’t that what everyone expects to find in a Mozambican health clinic?

Turns out, the German dentist could speak Portugese and he was able to help get us into see the doctor. Less than another hour of waiting later, Andrew was on the examining table, and I was sitting across the doctor’s desk like a worried mother hen. Andrew described the accident, the swelling in his one injured leg, and now the recent pain in the other leg.

“What about your toes?” The doctor immediately demanded. My eyes grew wide and I couldn’t help smiling in that ‘I WAS RIGHT!’ kinda way. Here’s the thing: Andrew’s toes are gross. They have been gross for the entire three years (THREE YEARS) we’ve been dating. He has always blamed running. He used to run 10 kilometers several mornings before work in Seoul. He’s flat-footed. He blamed the running and his flat feet for the state of his toenails. Andrew avoided eye-contact with me and brushed it off with the doctor before he further examined him and ordered a blood test.

We waited. We got the blood test. We waited for the results. We were called back into the doctor’s office to find out something was off. He had an infection and the doctor was going to give him antibiotics and ibupofen and some cream for his toe-nails.

Seven hours in a Mozambican clinic suddenly felt like a small price to pay if it meant Andrew’s toes would no longer be as gross. Oh right, and his leg would stop swelling and the pain would go away.

We got back to our hostel, Eben, and Annelies after nine o’clock. They had dinner waiting for us. Really. They sat around the kitchen table with us while we heated up our dinner and shared the events from the doctor’s office with them. We went to sleep, Andrew thinking we were going to leave the next night, me thinking I absolutely didn’t want to rush anything.

Day 208: Mozambique Island to Nampula

From Mozambique Island to Nampula, it was only supposed to take 2 1/2 to 3 hours. It took us 8. EIGHT HOURS. The owner of the guesthouse we stayed at on Moz Island told us “Don’t worrry! Take your time! Stay for breakfast, relax, you’ll be fine! Once you get to the bus station in Nampula, there will be plenty of buses to choose from to go down to Vilanculos!”

He. was. wrong.

So wrong it hurt. So wrong that it reminds me to get on TripAdvisor just to tell him how absolutely wrong he was about a. taking our time to leave in the morning. b. not taking very long to get to Nampula. c. “plenty of buses” my @#$! No. No. NO. He was all wrong. The only thing he was right about was recommending “Ruby’s” for us to stay at once we realized there was no way we were going to stay at the only other option in town with prison bars circling the entrance to what you would have to assume is where drug deals go bad, women wake up in compromising situations, and creepy crawlies reside. Yes, we’re on a budget. No, you couldn’t pay me to sleep there. No.

Let’s start with our farewell to our lovely host on the island, shall we? After our ‘thank you’s, we walked down towards the bridge to catch the chapa to Nampula. We had to wait twenty minutes or so for it to fill up. No big deal. Standard. I had a seat (on my backpack), I didn’t mind.

We crossed the bridge and unloaded/reloaded and made our way towards Nampula. Twenty minutes later, we stopped. Turned around. Headed back towards the bridge. There, we waited for twenty minutes. Drove for a few minutes back, turned around, waited back at the bridge for another twenty minutes. No explanation given. Not even in Portugese. Give me chickens. Give me babies and children sitting in between my legs while I try to maintain balance standing in the back of a pick-up truck flying over countless potholes in the road. Sure. I can do that. It’s Africa. But to drive in circles, without windows that open, to sit and wait in the midday African sun… This is when I start to agree with everyone who thinks I must be crazy for not only choosing to do this, but dragging Andrew along with me, who, by the way, at this point was getting his knees bashed in by the seat in front of him and his foot was swollen. again. for reasons we still weren’t sure of after the accident…

We stop every several hundred meters to drop someone off, pick someone up. Our driver clearly could care less that he was driving a couple dozen people around. He would get out at the mandatory police checks, chat up the officers, get a drink… have a snack… He stopped at one point, climbed out of the van, and all of the men followed him and disappeared.

“It’s prayer time.” Andrew told me. The women and children, myself, and Andrew waited for thirty minutes in the chapa.

Then we had to change chapas. The first chapa charged us for our bags, something that only happens when you don’t know any better and can’t speak Portugese to argue. I got mad at Andrew for paying. It was maybe $1.00 total. But I was furious at the thought that we were being taken advantage of because we were foreign. Maybe we weren’t. But we hadn’t been charged for our bags in any of the other chapas OR buses we had taken in Mozambique, and after the four hour drive when it should have been less than two, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to give anyone the benefit of the doubt. Andrew was. He usually is. Half the time this infuriates me, especially in situations like this. I mean, how dare he be so calm and level-headed when the situation clearly does not deserve such a mature attitude!

I just read the previous paragraph to him. He responded, “Make sure you write that I don’t think we were being scammed.”

The next chapa pulled up and it was almost full, except for two seats- one in front and one behind the front passenger seat. Andrew climbed in front, and I got in the back. I thought we were ready to go and then our previous driver (the annoying one, from our first chapa) came up and pointed to the space in between the front seats and the row where my legs, and three other passengers’ legs were squeezed into a three seat row were. He counted in Portugese, explaining to our new driver could fit three, four more people there.

I debated springing out of my seat to tackle him down onto the pavement below. A man (medium build) and then a mother with a baby tied to her back and child (maybe six years old) climbed in. Facing us. It was tight. Eight people, technically sitting in a space designed for three.Not counting the man collecting money, standing in the row to open and close the door for those getting in and out of the chapa along the way. I cursed myself for thinking that previous bus and/or chapa rides were the worst. Because, I should have known… they can (and will) always get worse.

The chapa left the parking lot only to pull over shortly after. An older woman climbed into the front with Andrew. I thought we were in the clear, and then the chapa pulled over again. The mother (with the two young children) sitting, facing me protested. She pointed out her six year old, asking where he would go. The newest passenger would hold him. It was decided. He climbed in. He tried to put his legs in between mine. I shook my head. I had reached my limit. There was no where for my legs to go and I wasn’t about to attempt to make room for someone else’s legs to go in between them. He pointed again to my legs, stepping on my toes the entire time. I shook my head again. He gave up, but still managed to squeeze in between me and the poor girl next to me. It was the worst chapa ride for me yet.

The medium sized man got out and I heaved a sigh of relief thinking the last hour or so of the trip would lead to feeling my legs again. That thought went out the window when another mother with a baby strapped to her back got in. Ten. Ten people in a row for three. I gritted my teeth and willed my knees to work if/when I could stand again.

Around dusk, we arrived at “the station.” It was little more than a dirt parking lot littered with garbage and random buses and chapas parked or idling waiting for their journey to begin. I fell out of the chapa and immediately we tried scouting out which bus could take us to Vilanculos. We found one, it left at three in the morning. We walked across the street with our backpacks to check out the guesthouse there. We decided we simply couldn’t stay there and grabbed a taxi to take us to the hostel/guesthouse that was recommended to us. Our driver had never heard of it before. He pulled over and asked for directions. The locals had never heard of it before. We were frantic. And then I just told our driver to go in the direction we were told it was in, because surely there had to be something there, right? Luckily, I spotted it.

I ducked in. It was expensive. I mean, for a dorm bed, it was expensive. I tried to ask if we could just hang out on the porch until two in the morning, when we had planned on taking the next bus down to Vilanculos. We couldn’t. I asked if we could get a discount, as we were only going to be there for less than six hours. We couldn’t do that, either. By this time, Andrew was nervous I had been gone for so long. He started shouting outside of the bushes/gate dividing the guesthouse from the street. I ran out. It suddenly all seemed so ridiculous. We were so stressed out. I had already gotten upset with him over $1.00. A DOLLAR. His foot was swollen. I didn’t want to pay $20.00 for less than six hours in a bunk-bed… We were tired, it was going to be another 12-18 hours on a bus to Vilanculos…

“I think we should just stay the night, we’ll figure it out in the morning. None of this stress is worth it.” I told him. He agreed. readily. We checked in, put our bags down, got Andrew a beer and sat down to take a deep breath.

“You guys look like you guys have been dealing with AFRICA today…” Or something like that (I can’t remember exactly), another guest at the hostel said.

“Yea, what gave it away?” I said, quite wryly. He (Eben was his name) chuckled and we told him about our day. He shook his head knowingly and told us about fleeing Mozambique Island by way of an expensive taxi to go directly to a hospital because he was having an allergic reaction on the island.

“I think we saw you at one of the cafes on the island!”Annelies, his wife mentioned.

“Did you have braids?” I asked, remembering her, mostly for her hair. Not many white girls traveling through Africa had braids like she was sporting…

“YES!” She laughed and cracked a Predator joke and I knew we would be friends.

We ended up being in the same dorm room, just the four of us, and stayed up too late chatting (Andrew and I somewhat deliriously, I’m sure) about our travels before falling asleep happy to be in a bed for longer than six hours and to have met another wonderful couple along the way.