Butch Cassidy, Che Guevara and More Salt than a Sailor’s Mouth: IE, Viva Bolivia!
Last night, round about 10 pm, my partner in crime and I took a bleary eyed break from organizing and obsessively weighing our backpacks and made a run for the border.
What more reverent way to christen today’s departure to South America than drive- thru, soggy pseudo-Spanish goodness? Ole!
After months of my consuming campaign work (we’ve been interacting solely in political mudslinging slang for weeks - IE, “You can’t afford my travel companion’s risky ideas and radical agenda. But there’s a better choice - my blog will stop the partisan bickering and vows to accurately represent *your* internet values.” etc. etc.) and his general overworking, we decided to hit the road and get back to what really matters: Chicken buses, cold showers and intestinal Russian Roulette.
And so we spent weeks painstaking planning the voyage (Read: we haven’t exactly opened the guidebook yet and only just booked tickets last week) which susses out to something roughly along these lines: Fly in to Santiago, Chile and head north to a train graveyard and over the salt flats into Bolivia, where we’ll spend the bulk of our time. Swing over into Peru, paddle the emerald waters of Lake Titicaca (it’s ok to giggle), trudge up Machu Picchu and fly home from Lima about three weeks from now.
When not siesta-ing or consuming shots of Pisco Sour with the locals over still painful war stories, I’ll stop by the old blog to bore you with relatively uninteresting South American factoids, requests for traveling sponsorships and sanctimonious observations.
Doesn’t it feel good to be back?!
Tags: Travel
