Best website for the skint yet culturally eager Londoner

This may be me. So this may become my favourite cyber-corner for a while. YAY.

http://www.timeout.com/london/aroundtown/features/6274/London_on_a_budget.html 

Notes to self

Note to self: please for the love of god remember for once not to travel when so incredibly hungover. Or if travel is already scheduled, then please don't get so obliterated that you want to throw up in the car on the way to saying goodbye to the grandparents. 

When I am in this miserable state and have to take a plane, or any form of windowless transportation, I have, what only can be described as panic attacks. I was having the smoothest 3 hour flight from London to Helsinki a few years back, yet I was unable to detach my mouth from the paperbag, breathing heavily and probably freaking the shit out of my neighbour. This is due to the fact, that for some reason I become (only when battling the aftereffects) acutely aware that there is no fresh air on board and I am enclosed in this space where there is no exit and I am breathing the same stale air as a 100 or so other people do. The more I think about this the more aware and panicked I become and it takes only minutes to reach the bottom of the downward spiral, where the sane part of my brain is screaming (almost inaudibly for the one that went berserk) to stop being so moronically childish.  I usually turn all three air-conditioning nipple-thingies towards myself on full, and while I freeze my ass off I have the vague impression of fresh air caressing my face. 

This was of course no longer a problem when the flight was delayed with 3 and a half hours. Note to self:  WIZZAIR sucks!!! Just because they rob maybe less from you, for the idiotic idea that you have to PAY for your checked-in luggage, (which can be a miserable 15 kilos) it is so not at all bloody worth being stuck at Ferihegy 1 for 4 hours, which can, with the best of intentions, only be described as mind-numbingly boring. 

As usual I bought the Economist, but my still alcohol hazed mind could not process it faster than at the rate of a page/30 minutes, so I gave up and bought The Reader by Schlink. Moving as it was, it didn't make for the best travel-reading. Its moral complexity left me breathless and deeply in thought and an airport and later a psychotic screaming and kicking child behind me, did not quite provide the relaxing atmosphere I would have required for reflection. 

When I, of course, missed the last tube, I ended up with one of those talkative cabbies. Naturally, when I told him where I was from he told me he was starving. After a day like that I almost cried from pain hearing this. But he went on telling me that he wouldn't be here if it had not been for a Hungarian man. His Polish father was in a camp and was in the Death March when he was 14 or 15. When he could not go on and laid down in the snow, a man lifted him up and told him he needed to live. So the cabbie's father was dragged up and survived. So did the Hungarian man, who is around 90 now. And the cabbie was born, to tell me this story, take my breath away and give me a lot more to think of than when I started out for the day. 

Note to self: everything happens for a reason.

New Beginnings

Well, hello, and welcome back. It has been a while. How've you been?

For a bit more than 10 days now I am sleeping in a bed and in a room on my own after three and a half months of sharing with boyfriend, friends, sister, parents and of course the occasional random strangers. At first it seemed awfully quiet and strangely relaxing not having another heartbeat close, no sounds of breathing. Also, I tend to worry about me snoring and pissing off others (except when I'm wasted, then of course I'm hardly capable of giving a shit) so I can finally have guilt free dreams. 

Being home is always blissful, for the first days. There is usually a viewing planned for the extended family, where they come around, eat, hang out and pat me down and try to comprehend why I do the things I do within the space of a few hours. This also frequently involves telling me that I have lost weight, which is more often than not untrue, and I think it's because they remember me as chunkier than I actually am. At Christmas I made the mistake (after some wine and Jagermeister) of ranting about my adventures in the Chiapas jungle interspersed with a cleansing ritual, which just added to my already ready-made profile, that everybody remembers how darn cute I was when I was a kid, but now I am just plain weird. 

So it's been good to be home, but I've gotten quite lazy here. I started with doing vigorous yoga and running around organising and sorting out stuff, and putting stuff here and there, and typing and faxing, and feeling real productive. Now I even have time to update my blog about a bunch of bollocks, which will essentially boil down to the following:

I am moving to London. After a lifestyle, which can only described as bumming about on an international scale, I plan to take a break for a while, move in with the boyfriend, research my thesis, get an internship, eat healthy, do some exercise, generally settle down and be a boring knob. Sounds like fun? Yes, and beware, I plan to write a blog about it. The good part about it is that I have a feeling I will be inclined to fuck this idyllic picture up, or at least bump into some more or less seriously entertaining difficulties on the way. 

Much ado about nothing

Finally my bags arrived. Really should have not been nervous about this whole situation at all. Should have just trusted the disorganization and looseness of Hungarian administration. Got my bags, stood around with the young lady at customs, waiting for my keys that I left at their care, in case customs wanted to mess around. My dad kept the girl busy by asking idiotic questions about Christmas shifts. Then we walked out. Bless chaos.

Mate de Coca what is your position?

The last time I was arriving from Peru, I entered the EU in Madrid. I had a small bag of coca leaves on me, which I completely forgot about and I panicked. So I figured honesty is the way forward, I marched up to the X-ray lady and asked. She literally laughed at me and said it was no problem. Never felt less rock'n'roll in my life, freaking out about a bag of coca leaves.

So this time around, naturally, I assumed that it was fine. Now that I am sitting at home and trying to figure out EU or national policy regarding the issue, I am finding it more and more difficult.

What happened was the following. My two backpacks remind behind in Amsterdam, as lay-over was 45 minutes, I wasn't really even hoping for them. So after I registered with lost&found I was required to get a paper signed and stamped at customs. When I said I was coming from Peru, the dude asked me if I have coke (no), coca leaves (no) or coca tea in my backpacks. The latter I had and I said it so without thinking. Remember when I thought honesty was the way forward? The guy's eyes rounded and he let out a pitying sigh. In a subject, where he was an apparent authority, he started explaining to me that this is what they make cocaine out of and the natives chew it in order to get out of control and absolutely high. When I tried to rebuke his ridiculous explanations, all I got in exchange were rolling eyes and smirks.

I have to return to the airport to go through some procedures and testing of the coca tea to determine the level of alkaloids. I have been researching my counter-arguments since I got home, but besides the beautiful sounding cultural-anthropological arguments, which, at this moment worth crap, I cannot find anything comprehensive on the legal or policy aspect. The list led by the over 300 pages long Community Register of Food Additives that mentions cocain one line, around page 78, which allows 'decocainized' leaves, but further inquiry will leave you bouncing between three useless documents that quote each other.

Actually, as we speak, M. and I are doing massive Skype date-research in order to find some answers. It seems that in Spain the stuff is legal to bring in the country, if you dare to take a chat website with the name cannabiscafe.net seriously. I am mostly left incredulous by the fact that after a few hours of constant looking, it still seems impossible to find any reliable and comprehensive explanation on a national or international level. I have learned that there is the UN Single Convention from 1961 that prohibits any use of coca related products. This is a fair enough answer for me until I remember that not so long ago (2007) the UN enacted a little something called Declaration on the Rights of Indigenous Peoples, where some paragraphs practically head-but the aims of the Single Convention.

An article by Joep Oomen highlights briefly some of the cultural, historical, policy and even medical issues surrounding the debate. Nevertheless, he is not providing me with a clear answer on the question of mate de coca. So far I have the following options:

• There is a supranational European consensus on the legality or illegality. If it is legal then Hungarian customs are pulling my leg, which I am hoping for, or if it's the latter then I'm screwed.
• Decocainized tea is legal. Yet to find out if the tea I brought belongs in this category.
• There is no distinction between cocaine/coca leaf/coca tea. I am going to jail.

M. just sent me the most comprehensive document so far on the 'esptupefacientes' not allowed to be brought into Europe.

Hoja de coca Un kilogramo de tintura de hoja de coca que contenga 0,1% de cocaína, o sea  

1 gramo de cocaína, debe considerarse equivalente a 200 gramos de hoja de coca. 

 Un kilogramo de extracto líquido de hoja de coca que contenga 0,5% de cocaína,  

o sea 5 gramos de cocaína, equivale a 1 kilogramo de hoja de coca. 

  

I guess what it really tells me that I do have to go back to the airport and have 'my coke' tested. As ridiculous and pointless as it seems. Bummer. 

I have received my first comment on this blog. Thanks to my sister. Cheers Jules. No pressure or anything, all of you, but if you feel like it, do comment on what you read, at least I won't feel like a psycho just ranting into cyber space.

Lima has been very good to us, we just have been very bad to Lima. We have not done a single thing here, except eating, sleeping, partying and shopping. Bad, bad travelers *slap on hand and liver*

Yesterday, we went to see Avatar in 3-D, which actually was the best ever cinema experience of my life. I am probably never going to the movies again, this cannot be topped. I am not at all a movie-goer, I cannot, for my life, remember the last time I was there. Not in Mexico, not in Spain, definitely not in Poland ... it must have been at least a year ago. Anyhow, Avatar was fantastic, and I urge everybody to go and see it. It's entertaining, it's emotional, it even makes you think a little bit.

I am leaving tomorrow, I am so torn. I am envious of Cam going to Cuzco for at least a month, at the same time I cannot wait to get back to snow covered Hungary, just in time for Christmas and the thought of the upcoming travels makes me shiver with joy. I am like the kid in the candy shop, so I am just letting it go and see where the wind takes me. I have a feeling this might be my last entry for a while, as I have nothing debaucherous or travelous to report. It has been a pleasure to be granted your attention I hope you have had a good time traveling with me. So long now.

It feels like our little raft of tied together backpacks with the two passangers finally reached the calm waters of traveling. We are in Lima, in my dear dear friend's, Amabel's house, sleeping in a real bed, under a real duvet, eating healthy food and sleeping normal hours.

After we collected some minimal motivation to get off our butts, we went to see the Christmas lights in Medellin, and for the first time this year the sight of the colourful fountains and numerous Santa Clauses, the sound of Jingle Bells pouring from the loudspeakers and the smell of Christmas sweets gave me the tingles of The Spirit. This lasted for about a quarter of hour, and as the crowd was shoving us from side to side, we felt it was time to get out. On our walk home we decided that we are still capable of mustering up some minimal social skills and mingle with some of the hostel crowd, so we purchased the smallest bottle of rum and some energy drinks we could find. Smallest it was, because we promised ourselves that we would only have a few drinks, some delightful small talk and then go to rest.

As we stumbled home around 7 in the morning, and decided it would be the best of ideas to have the last beer on the terrace of the hostel, it was rather clear our planned had failed miserably. We met some wonderful people on the way and ended up in a rather dodgy part of town, in a club that, from the outside, looked like somebody's house. The inside was partially open, and had a clear underground feel to it, with the local characters, the graffiti on the wall and the classical oldies that was occassionally and randomly disturbed by some songs by Kylie Minogue and that Lemon Tree song.

We got ourselves together by 1 o'clock and rallied ourselves up for some sightseeing. Went to see Pablo Escobar's grave in the Cemeterio Montesacro. As a cemetery it was one of the oddest I have seen, with no tombstones, but plaques laid down on the ground, so you are literally walking on people's grave. Pablo's resting place was nothing breath-taking, he is buried alongside of some family members. Visiting him, to me, was somehow the end of a long journey, which started with buying a random shirt in Italy from Puta Madre that said 'Pablo Escobar - Cocaine' on it, and I decided to do some reading up on what I was exactly wearing. I read my first book in Spanish about him and the situation in the early 90s in Colombia, Noticia de un secuestro by Márquez. So it was only natural to come and pay my respects.

Next, we wondered into the center of town to check out the sculptures of Botero, with the guidance of El Doctor, a 50 some year old GP, one of the most wonderful characters I encountered on this trip. After admiring the curves of all sorts of creatures, we took the cable car up to Santo Domingo, which is a normal form of transportation for the locals of that area, which admittedly looked very much like slums. Cam, due to her fear of hights, was completely terrified, but of course this could not prevent her from partaking in any sort of activity involving swaying little boxes 50 or so meter above the ground. On the way down I found some rum in my bag from last night so she took a swing from that, to calm herself down.

The sunset from Santo Domingo was beautiful, admiring the second biggest city in Colombia light up its normal and Christmas lights underneath our feet. As this place did not seem like a very common tourist destination, naturally we attracted quite some attention from the locals, which culiminated in noticing that a little boy, standing behind Cam, was pealing off her sunburnt skin with the greatest of attention.

Our bus was scheduled for half 10 that night, so we wondered home, made some wonderful egg-cheese-tomato-olive sandwiches and while we were devouring them on the terrace we spotted Sam, whom we knew from Panama City. He was with the lovely Danish couple, whom we took much liking to as well, yet seemed to be constantly missing them since we got on the boat from Panama. So impulsively we decided to stay for one more night and finally catch up with these great people. The night turned out to be a bloody debauchery, needless to say, but here I will not dwell on its details, it was a shameful step one step too close to the edge.

We arrived to the bus station at 3 in the next afternoon, without having slept a second. I have left Camden, half dead, guarding our numerous bags at the entrance, while I staggered to the appropriate box to try to reschedule our ticket. It went a lot more smoothly than expected, and before we knew it, at half 4, we set out onto our 10 hour journey towards Bogotá. Cam was out soundly, while I kept waking up, because it seemed like we were constantly stopping in the middle of nowhere, picking up and dropping off people, it was just odd that the best quality road between the two main cities was of dirt. Took the taxi straight to the airport, where we attempted to sort out our financial situation while waiting for the flight at half 6. It wasn't the most productive idea ever.

Arriving to Lima, was like a breath of fresh air. Although still not sure, what the time was and where exactly we were, we stumbled into the arms of Sergio, who took us home to finally clean up and try to put on a human appearance again. We just hung out and rested for most of the afternoon, then met up with Ama, and went to see a short exhibition of an artist, whose name I now forgot, but he was a mix of Peruvian political satire and Roy Lichtenstein. Grabbed some bar food and some Maracuya Pisco Sours and dived into a few hours of catching up, that was later joined by Sergio. We were supposed to go to a house party after, but Cam and I were still beyond exhausted, so by midnight we were safely and soundly in bed. As we discussed in the morning, both of us had the weirdest, most random and rapid dreaming ever, as our brains were probably trying to catalogue all our experiences in one night, where we were finally having a normal rest. Because who knows what will happen tomorrow.

The last time I was visiting the Escardos, I brought some pálinka and some paprika. They still have some of the sweet paprika left, so tonight I am whipping up some gulash for 6-7 people. Woooooo Gulyás Leves night!!!