Never judge a Russian by the way they look

My belly is asking for food. I'm thinking kebab, but Russian pancakes would be just fine. If my Jewish friends back in Brazil abstain from food during Yom Kippur, maybe its my time. But I'm not very religious, so forget it. How stupid, a 24 hours train ride and no food with me. It's not all my fault, how was I supposed to know that Russians don't sell food on their trains? They must have some vodka though, maybe I can get very drunk and sleep for the following hours. Nah, I could probably get raped, like I almost did back in Kyoto.

The responsible for the sleeping cabins, a Russian guy, said "nyet" to me when questioned about food, meaning no in Russian. There were some bananas at his cabin, he would be so kind to donated one of those to a hungry Brazilian guy, like me. But he's not willing to help and apparently is playing the game of love with the Ukranian lady next door. So unfair. She's very attractive: tall, blonde and blue eyes. I wonder if I can get some sexual healing too. Not a good idea, I heard russians can get pretty aggressive.

I'll leave my cabin once again, walk a bit and see if any good idea comes to mind. Let's see the train schedule, but its all in Russian. There will be some stops, maybe I can run out of the train, buy some food and come back. Too risky tought, I could probably end up lost in the middle of Ukraine.

The Russian guy leaves his cabin once again, I massage my belly in a sign of dispair. He looks at me, but ignores my situation. He's exactly the stereotype of the Russian vilan we see in movies: short, fat, bold and, of course, drunk. My ticket was sold by him just before departure time, but god knows if it was the fair price to pay. I was late, so I paid the €60 he wrote in my Ipod, as we couldn't communicate in any language.

Back to my cabin, the door closes, let's think a bit. A solution always comes up, just this time its taking too long. Some Tim Maia is playing in my ipod, bringing back good memories of Brazil. There, I had plenty of food. "Churrascos" were nice, we could eat a whole bunch of different meat and refresh our throat with ice cold beer. But I'm in Ukraine now, snow its all I can see outside.

Someone knocks on my door, what is it this time? Maybe is the border check or a gypsie broke into our train and is now ready to take my stuff.

Unbelievable! It's the Russian guy and the Ukranian lady, they bring me two bananas, two slices of bread, instant noodles, a bag of pretzels and a disgusting, very cold chicken. They saved me! I'll eat one banana and instant noodles for dinner, a slice of bread and a bag of pretzels for lunch and the rest, except the chicken, I'll save for the remaining part of the journey. I'll throw pieces of chicken meat through the window, leaving only bones on the plate, to avoid any kind of confrontation with my beloved friends. I'll be just fine.

The above were my toughts at a critical moment of my 24 hours train trip from Budapest, Hungary to Kiev, Ukraine. The train was operated by Russian Railway and nobody seemed very friendly. I just had the opportunity to really meet them after my stupidity of not bringing any food made me go after food and talk to people.

As I later found out, the Russians were tough just in the way they look, inside they were as friendly as us, Brazilians, but in their own way. They not only gave me some of their food, but later invited me to have some vodka. Altough we couldn't communicate very well, we had a good time and, at the end of the trip, I felt a little bit Russian too.

                            Picture: Goldfinger, the Russian vilan stereotype

                            Picture: My supplies for the 24 hours train ride, thank you Russia!

Peanuts is all we need: finding true happiness in Myanmar

Myanmar. Before visiting, I could only relate it with opium and dictatorship. The truth is that the country also hides unique treasures such as Bagan, a city the size of Manhattan, where instead of skyscrapers, you see more than 2.2 thousand temples. However, the country’s true beauty lies not in its scenaries, but in its spirit. As I once read in a guidebook, when visiting Myanmar, open your mind and you’ll come back with your heart full. Or something like that.

My experience started when myself, two Brazilian friends and a local guide went trekking in the rural city of Inle Lake, famous for its fishermen and their ability to use their feet, instead of their hands, to do their job. Anyway. We left for a 16 km walk up the city mountains, visiting villages and being saluted by cheerful kids who would shout “min-ga-la-ba!” (hello in their local language) and give us flowers as a welcome gift (one of our friends received more flowers than usual, probably a sign that its increased femininity stood out in our group).

Every little village or house we passed by had a different function within the community. The farmers, boat producers, silver and gold jewelry producers, and so forth. They were all very poor and worked with very little efficiency, but looked surprisingly happy and welcoming.

After several hours of intense walk, when my friend’s shirt was already black, rather than its original grey color, we stopped for some tea at a wooden house. The owner was an old farmer at his late 70s, who would communicate with us with the help of our guide, although with relevant limitations. This old man was laughing all the time and had a very enthusiastic smile, regardless of not having any teeth. He was the happiest of all. I double checked to see if he had any weed in his plantation, but apparently his joy was authentic.

He offered us some tea, very good indeed, and something similar to peanuts (which I regretted having tasted, as they were unpalatable). Our guide told us this man never left his village (more than 70 years!), so his entire life was based on his plantation (and the disgusting peanuts that would keep his body moving), tea and some differentiated action, which resulted in his 12 kids.

We were all enjoying so much the presence of the old man, we ended up having to rush out of his house to look for a proper bush to unload the respectable amount of tea we had with our newly found idol.

So after this inspiring visit, I asked myself, how can we be happier in the luxurious world we live in? I don’t know, I’m not a shrink, nor a communist and I have a lot of materialistic wishes in life as well. But it was rather revealing that a man could be so happy, living with so little. He never saw a Ferrari or a fancy apartment in his life, all he wanted was the minimum to maintain his life, he subsisted, he ate peanuts. However, he smiled more times during our short visit than any other man I’ve seen in the rich european countries.

I guess you shouldn’t be so frustrated or sad due to an unfulfilled dream of buying the coolest car or a pair of Louboutin shoes, because in essence, you don’t really need all of that to be happy.

In fact, as this old man showed me, we could very well live with just peanuts.

                             Picture: Me and friendly monks in Bagan, Myanmar

                             Picture: A kid scratching his little balls in Inle Lake, Myanmar

                            Picture: They eat a lot of peanuts everyday. Inle Lake, Myanmar

The Erg Chebbi and my life as an investment banker

The Sahara is one of the coolest places on earth. So when I found out in Marrakech that one of the highest dunes of the desert was only a few hundrend kilometers away, I had to check it out. Again, booking with one of the local tourist agencies was a rip-off, so I decided to do it my way. I bought a bus ticket and left at night for a 12 hours drive to Merzouga, entertained by the sound of muslim prayers along the way.

I arrived early in the morning and checked-in at a Riad, located at a short distance from Erg Chebbi (an erg with dunes that could reach 150 meters). Observing through the window of my room, it looked imposing, massive! I woke up at noon, had my breakfast and went straight to the dunes. The receptionist at the Riad told me I had to climb all the way to the top of the Erg Chebbi to have the real view of the Sahara.

I disregarded the fact that it was 1 pm (the time when the sun is almost right on top of our heads) and left for my journey to the top of the dunes alone, carrying only a 350 ml bottle of water. As I walked on the direction of the highest dune, I entered the sandy area and it seemed like it was going to be an easy task. After 200 meters of walking, I started to feel that the sand was a little too hot. I ignored that and kept walking.

As I walked further, my feet started to burn and I had to alternate my balance on my havaianas, to avoid sinking in the sand. The sun was at its full power and I had to take my shirt off to protect the top of my head (specially the parts where there's no hair left). I used part of the water to provide immediate relief to my feet. I then started to walk over the hilly part.

As my climb became progressively more difficult and the heat began to torture my conscience, images of my years as an investment banker began to pop in my mind. Each time the top of the dune fell, and my feet touched the deeper part of it, where the sand was hot as hell, I felt just like when a Director found a typo in one of my presentations or a wrong number in my model.

When I looked back to my Riad and it was too far to return, but the top of the dunes too close to give up, I remembered when I was 3 days straight without any sleep and I had to finish a major presentation for the next few hours, with the promise of a weekend off afterwards.

The mosquitos that were trying to bite me all the time felt like...well I’m not going to say who they remembered me of, but they were there, trying to take little pieces of me and making the way a bit more tough.

When I finally got to the top, I was severely dehydrated and full of blisters in my feet. But I saw the most amazing view of my entire life. At the top of the 150 meters dune, the greatness and quietness of the Sahara were incredible revigorating. It was too beautiful to be true. Although I can’t deny that the lack of H20 in my blood might have had an hallucinative effect in my brain, making it all look even more stunning, but who cares?

The same way I felt when it was time to leave my investment banking life. I was fat as a Buda and carried bags under my eyes so big and dark, that people very often taught I was wearing sunglasses. But the most incredible experience of my life was about to begin. And you know what? I had the opportunity to work with a lot of amazing people, learned a whole bunch of interesting stuff and made some good money along the way too, so it wasn’t all that painfull and, at the end, it paid off.

I guess in life nothing comes for free. We have to face a big Erg Chebbi each time we go after a dream and tolerate our feets getting burned during our climb, if we want to put our hands on the big prize.

At least, this is the way I see it now.

                            Picture: Watching the sunset over the dunes. Sahara, Morocco

Cliff jumping in Thailand: when is the right time to be a pussy?

I’m afraid of heights and I’m not shy about it. During my round the world trip I had to deal with my fear a couple of times. I usually had two options: i) face my fear and go for it; or ii) give up, run away and be nicknamed pussy by my friends. I usually choose option one, but sometimes, I later found out, it is better to trust your fear and just give up. This time was in Thailand.

If there’s a paradise on earth, Ko Phi Phi, Thailand, must be it. An amazing island in the middle of the pacific where backpackers from all over the world meet, party and, very often, try dangerous stuff. I got there with two of my Brazilian friends and we were particularly (not me, really) excited with one of the many tourist attractions that were being sold by the locals: the 20 meters cliff jump.

Going with one of the many local tourist agencies seemed pretty damn expensive, so we improvised. We asked for one of the boat drivers at the shore how much he would charge us to go there. It wasn’t much, so we made a deal. We would go the next morning.

Heading to the cliff, my friends started to display some kind of discontent or fear about what we were about to do. But this time, I don’t know why, I wasn’t feeling that afraid, maybe I’ve changed.

The boat was very slow, I could swim faster than that, but we got there anyway. The cliff seemed high and nobody was there at the time. Weird.

We climbed the rocks with a good degree of difficulty and we got to the top. My friends were shaking and we started to discuss who would go first. “Not me” “If you jump, I promise I’ll go after you!” we said to each other. We decided to double check with the boat driver “is it safe to jump?” I said; “it is up to you!” he replied. What the hell was this guy talking about? This cliff is famous and everybody comes here, it must be safe. “Is it deep enough?” I tried again; “just jump!” he answered.

I looked down, to the beatiful dark blue sea and I felt this was my time to be brave. I threw my havaianas and I saw it take about 4 seconds to reach the surface. Damn! It was high. As the place was very rocky and I was afraid of hiting my head I jumped the furthest I could. This ended up not being a very good Idea, as I lost my balance during the flight and hit with my back on the surface. It felt like concrete.

My friends shouted “good boy! How was it?!”; “don’t jump! Take me to the hospital!” I replied. My back was hurting a lot and I could barely swim. The boat driver was pretty insensitive and denied me his help, so I had to swim 10 meters to reach the boat. My friends went down and jumped from the 6 meters cliff, the place for the pussies. But this time they were right.

We all went to a local hospital, which lacked the proper equipment to analyse my back (x-ray, for example). A muslim lady touched my spine with her hands and diagnosed “its just muscle pain, you didn’t break anything”. She called a tuk-tuk (a motorcicle with a cabin) and we drove back to my hostel on a rocky road, where each bounce felt like a stab in my back.

I had to take pills and my friends had to help me with my backpack (there’s always a positive side) each time we changed cities, for about 2 weeks. After this day, I will always try to be rational each time I face my fears.

Sometimes its just better to be a pussy and keep going with your life.

Picture: Ko Phi Phi's famous cliff

The japanese saint

I said goodbye to my friends at the hostel and rushed to the metro to get a train to the most agitaded area of Kyoto, where I would meet a japanese friend. I was late. At the station, I started looking at the metro map and had a really hard time finding my way. Some japanese stranger probably noticed that and asked me: "excuse me, do you need help? where do you want to go?"; "I want to go to Shijo" I replied; "no, where do you want to go?" he asked me again. I had no clue what the hell this guy was up to. Luckly, rape didn't cross my mind at the time, otherwise I would've ran straight away. "I want to go to Bar Ing to meet a friend" I answered; "oh, ok, come!".

So this stranger bought a ticket as well, started walking and making signs to follow him. When we were at the metro he tried really hard to have a conversation with me, but honestly his english was poor, so we exchanged a limited amount of information. Anyway, he loved when I told him I was from Brazil; "good football!" he said with a big smile in his face.

When we arrived at Shijo station, he asked me to follow his lead and we walked all the way to the bar, where my friend was waiting for me.

That was it. "ok, goodbye", he said. My japanese protector then returned to Shijo station, without asking anything back (and yes! I didn't get raped). He was truly a saint.

Coming from the West, where everybody is so selfish and individualized, this was a very interesting experience for me, chocking not to say the least. This stranger paid for a ticket to go to a place he wasn't going at first, just to help a disoriented foreigner and, afterwards, left without asking anything in exchange.

This is a very simple story, but it makes me think a lot everytime I remember it. I guess that's the magic of travelling, specially if you visit a place where there's a relevant amount of cultural chock involved.

So maybe is time you rethink your next travel destination and try something different! You will be surprised.

Picture: Kyoto subway map

Picture: A "do not rape" sign at the Kyoto subway