Two Old Boots and a Backpack

By Wendy Stackhouse

long before the internet has dragged the entire world, kicking and screaming, into everyone’s lounge rooms, wendy and carol, desperate for some excitement, decide to find out exactly what lies beyond their four walls. two out-dated guide books accompany the fifty year olds as they backpack haphazardly around the continent of south america. cockroaches the size of rats, brothels masquerading as hostels and a mugging on ipanema beach are the least of their worries. relying more on a shared sense of humour than good judgement, they circle the country on buses driven by kamikaze drivers, cattle-ships full of randy bulls, trains with fictitious time tables, and increasingly sore feet. at the end, will life ever be the same again – and what is more important, would they want it to be?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Wendy Stackhouse
• Release date: Sep 15, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987404312

Wendy Stackhouse

A backpacker since my teens, I see no reason why, now I am retired, I should confine myself just to luxury cruises or five star hotels. They are enjoyable now and then, but there is nothing to compare with the friendship and variety of people you meet at a hostel, no matter where you travel.

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Prologue:

Rain fell heavily on the day the envelope came. A grey film clouded the windows and mirrors as I backed the car down the steep incline of my driveway. The buzzing of the motorbike ceased like a mosquito just before it stings, and the mailman waited for me to reach the roadway. He paused as I wound down the window then passed me a buff coloured envelope. The two-stroke engine fired up again and he zoomed off to make his next drop. On the way over to my friend’s house I glanced several times at the letter lying on the seat beside me. I did not need to open it, the words ‘Family Law Court’ in bold type above the address revealed the contents.

Seated in the lounge room, coffee cups beside us, I waited for my friend to finish complaining about the stressful shift she had last night before saying quietly The envelope came this morning.

Carol put her cup down beside her. How does that make you feel?

I’m not sure, a bit numb at the moment. I thought of my fifteen year marriage and the separation that lasted for the next fifteen until I finally pushed for a divorce. I pictured the envelope on the car seat containing the unopened Decree Nisi. I did not expect this emptiness in the pit of my stomach after such a long time. Can you remember how you reacted when your marriage officially ended?

There was a pause before she answered me. Strange as it may seem, despite wanting to get as far away as possible from him I kept thinking about all the good times we spent together. The day my Decree came I drank cup after cup of strong black coffee, huddled on the settee and sobbed my way through a box of tissues.

This reaction revealed a side of Carol I had not seen before, she rarely spoke about any happy times with her ex husband, and I found it hard to imagine my stoic friend curled up in a heap bawling her eyes out. She no longer kept in touch with her ex, whereas I moved in the same circles as mine and we had remained good friends. Over the years since our separation we had both been involved with other people, though I could not bring myself to move in with anyone else, or let them move in with me.

In one relationship that lasted several years, I would take a few clothes and toiletries in a small bag when I stayed for the weekend. Those same bits and pieces returned with me when I went home, despite him clearing out a drawer and hanging space for me in the wardrobe. I would not leave so much as a toothbrush at his house, and a great sense of escape overtook me when I opened my own front door, despite having spent an enjoyable few days dining and dancing. When the relationship ended the relief that washed over me at the thought of no longer packing and unpacking that bag far outweighed the thoughts of not seeing him again. That is not to say I did not get involved in any more relationships, but I rarely stayed overnight. I had started to realise I was happiest in my own home, not having to cater to anyone else’s needs or moods. The serenity of singledom appealed to me more and more, prompting me to finally file for the long delayed divorce. It was more than time we both set off on our own paths, I knew I would not marry again but I wanted to free him to make that choice.

When he eventually agreed it was the right thing to do I felt more than a little bereft. This man had been a big part of my life for nearly thirty years; we had raised two sons together and now shared grandchildren. If he remarried I could not expect our close friendship to continue. In the natural order of things he would gradually become little more than a stranger to me, which is how it should be. This thought saddened me more than I expected it to. The Decree Nisi was not just the end of our marriage, but of a friendship I valued. I turned to Carol. I think I need a complete break from everything. How about taking a long trip somewhere?

Funnily enough I’ve been thinking about getting away from everything for some time. Carol surprised me with her reply. All I seem to do is go to work, sleep, and go back to work again – life has to hold more than that, I’m not ready for the knacker’s yard yet. A complete change of surroundings sounds exactly what I’m looking for too – the further away the better. Let’s see what holidays we have owing to us.

Together we worked out that we would each be able to take almost four months leave from work.

Would you consider backpacking? I asked, knowing from my own experience this was the cheapest way to eke out a limited budget.

Carol’s mouth wrinkled at the corners. As long as you don’t expect me to stand by the roadside, track pants rolled up to my knees and a thumb stuck out to entice truck drivers to give us a lift!

A graphic picture of us both waggling our half naked legs at passers by flashed past me. God no, I put in quickly. I was thinking more of staying in budget hostels and using public transport to get everywhere. No one in their right minds would pick up two old boots like us. Visions of trekking through jungles, rafting the Mekong and climbing Mount Kilimanjaro diverted us, and though both in our ‘middle years’ we agreed fifty was the new thirty and anything was possible. Adventure beckoned, and never once did we consider muscles which responded like well-oiled machines in our twenties might be a bit rusty through lack of use thirty years later. I was soon to realise that perhaps we should have.

In the following months we worked as many extra shifts as possible in the hospital where we both nursed, to boost our savings for the trip. We aimed to have at least $8,000 (Australian) each, which, after spending $3,000 on return airfares and some internal flights, gave us a budget of about $50 a day to spend.

That will be heaps I said blithely to Carol. Everything is so cheap in South America. We’ll have enough for accommodation, local transport, and maybe a few souvenirs.

We had chosen that diverse continent after crossing off jungle treks, river rafting and scaling snow covered mountains. Unbeknown to us at the time we would wind up doing most of them anyway, and seldom by choice. Carol, long fascinated by Erik von Daniken’s book ‘Chariots of the Gods’, wanted to visit some of the sites of his ‘Our ancestors came from Outer Space’ theories. Peru, home to most of them, also boasted the fabled Lost City of the Incas, Machu Picchu, a must-see for both of us. Another long held dream we shared was floating down the Amazon on a riverboat as we lay in hammocks gazing at the stars. For myself, I wanted to search for neon pink dolphins as they burst from the murky depths of the Amazon, listen to the music of Andean pipes, and experience the thunder of calving glaciers in Patagonia.

Carol gave me her copy of Chariots of the Gods with notes pencilled in the margins. Include all those sites in the itinerary and I don’t mind where else we go. she said, knowing my love of lists and organisation.

With such a generous brief, I spent many happy months immersed in ‘The South American Handbook’ and ‘The Lonely Planet Guide to South America’. In the days before the internet replaced entire libraries, they were both not only invaluable resources but also among the few travel books available about the vast continent. The corners of every page had curled up long before I had the final itinerary planned down to the last bus stop, train ride and backpacker hostel. I made numerous lists of what to pack for glacial to equatorial climates, how much to spend in each place, emergency numbers, and addresses to send postcards to. After many discussions we agreed on February as the best time to go, to coincide with the Carnival of Rio.

On Friday the seventh of February, 1997, five months after my divorce became final we boarded a plane to South Africa – a halfway stop to our ultimate destination, South America.

1. Hold it down, you Zulu Warrior.

It takes eleven hours to cross the Indian Ocean from Perth, Western Australia to our nearest land mass, Africa. South African Airlines, the only carrier for this route, make a two-day stopover in Johannesburg before their ten hour flight to South America. They offered us a free plane ride anywhere in South Africa for those two days, and for some inexplicable reason we chose Durban.

On arrival at Johannesburg we collected our backpacks and stumbled tiredly from the International Airport over to the Domestic Lounge. I hoped the uncomfortable weight of the bag on my back was not a foretaste of what was to come in the months ahead.

The small plane we boarded soared above white ribbons of water winding their way through the Drakkensberg Mountains towards the Indian Ocean. Beneath us lay the Valley of a Thousand Hills, where two centuries ago the legendary King Shaka Zulu united many smaller tribes to form the mighty Zulu Nation. In the process he inflicted as much bloodshed on his own people as on the numerous tribes he conquered. Through the windows we picked out scattered Kraals with their round beehive huts dotted throughout the now peaceful valley, before landing in Durban.

After a short taxi ride from the airport we stood in front of the first place on our four-page itinerary, the Durban Backpacker’s Hostel. The comatose drunks sprawled over the steps near the iron grill that covered the metal studded door had not, however, been on the list. This did not look like the usual haunt of two middle-aged psychiatric nurses searching for dolphins the colour of Sixties lipstick and Landing Pads for von Daniken’s spaceships. Not having come this far to be put off by minor mishaps, we hoisted our overstuffed packs over our backs and edged up the steps, shoulder to shoulder. The clang of the doorbell brought a scrawny looking backpacker to the door, which he swung open with such force we fell over each other into the lobby. After he’d signed us in he showed us to our dormitory, and once inside we collapsed on our bunks, thankful to be within the safety of four walls.

Carol was the first to speak. Did you notice those women hanging around the doorway next to the hostel? As I nodded, she added We are right in the middle of the Red Light District, perhaps we should move to a safer area.

Don’t you think that’s a bit drastic? I replied, reluctant to admit I had made a huge mistake when I’d booked this place. We’re only here for two nights. Her brows drew together in a frown and I knew she wasn’t happy, but after a few moments hesitation she nodded agreement. Over the next four months there would be many times when our ideas differed. Both determined people, we quickly learnt our long friendship would not survive the close proximity of travel unless we were willing to compromise. Like me, Carol had lived by herself for some time, making her own decisions without having to refer to someone else. This would be the biggest test of our friendship so far.

Having decided we had over-reacted a bit about the safety issue, we refused to let it spoil our sightseeing. We pulled fresh clothes from our packs, showered in a cupboard-like recess and set out eager to sample the delights of Durban. A single policeman patrolled the streets as we stepped warily around the inert drunks lying across the pathway to the beachfront. Stalls on the ‘Golden Mile’ sold beaded headbands, necklaces, and mass produced wooden safari animals to the discerning tourist. Plastic-banded watches priced at a few dollars made me recall the warnings in both guide books against wearing expensive ones when travelling. Instead they advised buying a cheap ‘throwaway’ that would not attract thieves. A green heart-shaped watch became my first souvenir, which I can safely say no one ever tried to steal at knife point throughout the whole trip. In fact that useful little time piece ticked away for several years after I returned home.

Later we tasted the local speciality Bunny Chow, a fiery curried mince cleverly baked inside a crusty roll, and gravy running down our chins pronounced it ‘yummy’. The afternoon mellowed into evening, and the tables spilling out across the pavements from the numerous cafes lining the beachfront soon filled up with late-night revellers. Lured by the insistent beat of tribal drums we followed a group of locals up a narrow wooden staircase to a door on the veranda above some shops. Without hesitation we too entered to find ourselves in a large, dimly lit room with about fifty people seated around a dance floor. The only light in the entire place came from candles flickering in jam jars on the tables.

It looks like we’re about to find out what really goes on behind that Green Door. said Carol, referring to the old Shakin’ Stevens hit of the eighties.

As long as it’s got nothing to do with those spears! I jokingly replied, having caught sight of the sharp weapons wielded by the dance troupe stomping along in time to the drums. The feathers covering their brief loincloths moved hypnotically to the swaying of their hips, as did the long silken threads of their fringed arm and ankle bands.

I had barely finished speaking when one of the dancers, a tall grinning African, ran straight at me, waving his spear in my face. Seconds before the steel blade brushed my cheek he stopped dead, and then from behind me hands shot out and propelled me into the middle of the room. The entire crowd followed, and later I caught sight of Carol leaping around, another demented frog in the pond. The pace of the music did not relent until the band took their break. The only non-locals in the room, we were invited to sit at a table full of other exhausted dancers and join them in downing bottles of ice-cold Durban Pale-Ale. The atmosphere and company made it a fitting end to our first night in South Africa.

Following a suggestion in the ‘Lonely Planet’ we boarded a rusty ferryboat next morning for a budget tour of Durban Harbour. Huge container ships lined the wharf, blocking any view the smoke from the ferry’s diesel engine had not already obscured. The choking fumes hurt our nostrils and made our eyes water, putting an end to further exploration.

In the afternoon an ancient Zulu wearing the full regalia of his tribe pulled us along the seafront in a two-wheeled brightly painted cart called a ‘Ricksha.’

How can we let that poor old man pull both of us? I said to Carol, thinking the combined weight of two middle-aged overweight ladies was too much for his long skinny legs to bear. These sentiments lasted the few seconds it took him to straighten up between the shafts and launch into Zulu Warrior mode. After a massive leap upwards which sent the cart and us tipping backwards, he came down with a violent bump that jarred our well-cushioned rear-ends. By the end of the ride the numbness in both our generous backsides from his unexpected and frequent high leaps had us staggering painfully back to the hostel.

Later that evening I opened the narrow window of the dormitory to let some air into the stale room. Across the corrugated iron rooftops directly below me lounged a group of shabbily dressed teenagers. Beckoning Carol over, I spoke to her in stage whispers.

They’ve just passed small white envelopes around and one of them is collecting money from the others.

Carol responded by grabbing my arm. Quick, move away before they see us. She carefully pulled the window closed and we both dived nervously onto our bunks. Heads buried ostrich-like beneath the sheets, we spent our last night in Durban longing for the morning and our flight to Rio.

2. The Girls from Ipanema.

In thickly accented English, the clerk at the accommodation desk in Rio Airport asked us to wait while he tried to find a hotel. Earlier he had told us our budget choice either no longer existed or was full; it was difficult to understand his rapid speech. Heads aching with tiredness we leaned against the desk as he made calls in his native Portuguese, shaking his head each time he replaced the receiver. Before we could resign ourselves to sleeping on an airport bench however, the only other customer at the desk turned and spoke to us.

How about sharing a room with me? said Pippa, a young nurse in her twenties who, as it turned out also came from Perth. The black smudges beneath her eyes and the flattened blonde curls clinging to her face mirrored the exhaustion on our own faces. They don’t have a single or a twin, but they’ve offered me a triple. We could help each other out by sharing the expenses. What do you think?"

Without hesitation we accepted Pippa’s offer and together we piled into a taxi. An hour later we pulled up outside a graceful old building overlooking the sea. The Flamengo Palace Hotel appeared well worth the forty dollars a night each. I had a sneaking suspicion my optimistic allowance of ten dollars daily for accommodation might suffer a few more knock backs before the trip was over.

The concierge greeted us with a cheerful Hola, a marked change from our previous welcome mat of incumbent drunks. Once we completed the lengthy forms (which we later found were required by every hotel in the country) he directed us to the lift. First to enter our large room, I headed straight past the three single beds with