Intrepid Travel, one of those “off the beaten track” tour companies, is giving away free trips for signing up to their email list and letting them where you want to go and why.

Totally worth it if you ask me.

The 2008 Mongol Rally is underway, and the fun stories from the intrepid teams are starting to roll in. The best part is that the teams that have time to blog about the race are largely those spending the most time repairing their cars or recovering from hangovers, the folks who are cruising along smoothly – which isn’t the point of the rally – don’t seem to be stopping to tell the story.

A choice snippet from the Insane Nomads team about the type of shenanigans they are getting themselves into:

Day two started off bad, not only did we only set off from Antwerp very late (1 o’clock in the afternoon, still hungover), but we encountered several problems on the way. From running out of fuel (fuel gauge is stuffed), the engine overheated and ran out of oil several times, and just before we got to our final destination, we burnt five fuses due to a faulty alternator wire. We eventually arrived in Klenova at 5 o’clock in the morning, just as the rally festival ended. On the final leg we also noted something seriously wrong with the transimssion/driveshaft and knew then that we only had a hundred km left before whatever it was packed in.

Photo credit: Isabel Norte

[youtube=http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eVAccWTrnIQ&hl=en&fs=1]

Mostly this post is an excuse to toss up one of my favourite videos ever, but I think it is also worth talking about the fact that there really are different classes of adventurers.

I am not spectacularly badass. My mountain biking is tame, my skiing doesn’t deserve someone’s time to record it, and I’ve never been on a surfboard. I therefore am not the type of adventurer who can grab my gear, stare death in the face, and produce a YouTube hit as a reward for my efforts.

I’m the sort that takes an unconventional and potentially ill advised trip. Unlike ski expeditions and surf trips, there is no lack of experience excuse for this type of rough and tumble travel adventure. It’s the type of fun that nearly anyone could have; all it takes is a bit of money and guts. So what are you waiting for?

Going on a long roadtrip, cross-country or cross-countries?? One thing you might not consider packing that would be well worth the space–a hookah.

For the uninitiated, the hookah (or “hubbly bubbly” if you happen to run into an Afrikaner) is that oddly-shaped water-bubbling tobacco pipe. The molasses-flavored tobacco smoked through the hookah is called shisha. Middle Eastern in origin, shisha smoking’s popularity has grown worldwide in the past decade.

Light up a hookah at a backpackers place, and you will have no problem making friends. It’s the perfect tool for meeting new people, as well as the perfect means of chilling after a long day on the road. Hookahs come in all shapes and sizes, so unless you are doing hardcore backpacking, it is well worth the extra space.

Of course, tobacco is tobacco, so be aware of the health risks. The water filters out the addictive qualities–neither I myself nor anyone I know has ever felt any addictive drives from hookah tobacco. Like a lot of life’s pleasures, moderation is the key. I’m assuming that if you are a fellow adventurer, however, you will need little convincing.

November/December 2004 (Argentina/Brazil).

When you study abroad in your undergrad years, classes are definitely important. We do all we can to avoid being deported from wherever you are because of an F. We can all admit it, there are 2 core underlying motives of US (or perhaps all) study abroad students: to be merry (trashed) and to have fun (travel all the time). I studied abroad in Buenos Aires, Argentina for a year. Since the day I returned to the US, it has always seemed like a dream. I wish I could relate all the adventures of what seemed like decades, but that would fill volumes. This is just a short snippet: a short saga of being roaring drunk for 48 hours in a million-dollar bus.

The chain of events kicked in when two friends and I decided to venture to our northern neighbor, Brazil. Like civilized, normal people, our first step was to decide what we want to do there. We laid the options in front of us: the gargantuan waterfalls of Iguazu; the massive, urban enterprises of drug lords – Rio and Sao Paulo; the wild and vast jungles of the Amazon; and the infamous white-sanded utopias with caipirinhas and beautiful women. Of course, we went for the last option – the booze and the women. Destination, check. So far, so good.

The seasoned traveler’s next step is to plan methods of transportation. Our method? Picking up our backpacks one Saturday and just going to the bus station, hoping they are selling tickets somewhere in that direction. We found a few companies, all looking wonderfully oh-so-reliable in that South American way. Essentially, there were 3 options – the super luxury bus, the average coach bus, and the …well, I’ll just say the “affordable” option. We chose #3. Thus began our drunk, million-dollar busride.

As soon as we found out that the bus-ride was 48 hours, we immediately recognized the need to take action. Oh, those days of college youth. Armed with 3 bottles of wine each, we entered the hot, smelly bus with huge grins. Happy to find that we each had our own row of seats to ourselves, we whipped out our iPods, hip-looking journals that only idiot backpackers get sucked into buying, and thick paperback books that look impressive but fall just a bit better of airport mystery novels. Oh, and also the wine. We were ready. We left Buenos Aires at around 6PM.

1 bottle in…I mean, Hour 5. It was hard to keep track of how to measure time back then. We were engrossed in a tipsy card-game of BS. Things were going great. We were in high-spirits (literally) and practically had the bus to ourselves. We decided to stay up as late as we could so we would get as drunk-tired and could be asleep for the bulk of the second half of the trip which was bound to be awful. To our dismay when we woke up the following morning to a screeching halt at a bus-stop literally called “Paradise” (it was a tiny pond with some trees and port-o-potties), we realized we ended up passing out about an hour after the card-game.

Hour 15. We had a brief stop at the border of Brazil, Argentina, and Paraguay. It was a brunch stop. We drank gallons of water, drunkenly knowing that our bodies needed it. The bus also picked up some new passengers at this stop. I think there was a old Brazilian couple (in their 60s or 70s maybe) and three, jolly-looking Paraguayan fellows who were being sent off by a distressed old lady. They all kissed the old lady goodbye and then took about 6 gigantic rectangular things out of their van to load onto the bus. They appeared to be mattresses. They had a long talk with the bus-driver in Brazilian Portuguese, which we could barely understand. The issue got resolved though. We didn’t think much of it, especially after the 3 guys bought us ice cream. What great guys, we thought.

Hour 16. We decided to avoid the wine (as we were still drunk) for the moment, and became engrossed in our music/impressive cheesy books/trying to look hip by writing in a leather-bound journal.

Hour 17. We began to converse more with the Paraguayan guys. We talked about differences in Argentine and Paraguayan Spanish. Pretty much, it was just them ranting for an hour about Porteños (people for Buenos Aires) have their heads up their behinds. Putting aside our love for our host families, we smiled and nodded.

Hour 18. Boredom sets in. We turn to the wine and enjoy the scenery that is starting to turn from dusty roads to cool-looking mountains with occasional waterfalls.

Hour 19. Boredom starts setting in.

Hour 21. A bottle and a half in (cumulative count). The bus gets stopped at a roadblock by a few cops. One of the Paraguayan guys whose shirt was all messed up from having dripped his ice cream everywhere got up when the cops were asking the driver to check the luggage. The language suddenly shifted from Spanish to Portuguese. Some conversation ensued and then the cops shrugged and left after receiving what looked like paperwork from the Paraguayan guy. The cops saluted and we went on our merry way. We thought nothing of it.

Hour 23. We embrace the sluggishness that the wine brings and doze off with headaches.

Hour 24. 24 hours! Wohoo! Starts getting a little dark. We get stopped by another roadblock. This time cops on horses. We thought this amusing since we were in the middle of nowhere. The same thing happened. Cops came on the bus. The Paraguayan ice-cream guy talks to him. We leave without any trouble. Fine with us. Back to sleep.

Hour 26. Another roadblock. More cops this time. Same events ensue. We start getting annoyed and decide to have more wine. The forest is becoming thicker with lush green everywhere.

Hour 28. The dull headache starts becoming a pounding one. We start guzzling water but are still drunk. Only 20 more hours to go.

Hour 30. A gigantic roadblock in the middle of the night. This time, cops come on the bus with dogs. All 3 Paraguayan guys get up this time. By this point, though as drunk as we are, we start realizing that something is up. We all grumble to each other and, for the 2,459th time, try and find a new “perfect” position to curl up in the bus-seat. Gotta love that.

Hour 32. Middle of the night, cops come on and we all have to leave the bus. Cops and dogs search all over the interior of the vehicle. Nothing happens. They then attempt to open the hatch to the luggage and the ice-cream Paraguayan steps in front of him. Out comes a HUGE wad of Brazilian $$. Peeling off at least a quarter of the wad to the cop, he smiles and shrugs his shoulders. The cops quickly disperse without another word. We are mildly shocked, but didn’t think TOO much of it at the time with our slow heads. Bribing cops isn’t that uncommon in South America.

Hour 34. Cops. Wad of cash. They leave.

Hour 38. Breakfast stop. Less than 12 more hours left. One of my friends throws up. Not good. We decide to cut off the wine. We each only have half-a-bottle left anyway.

Hour 40. A barricade of cops. This time, the wad of cash doesn’t cut the deal. We look outside while the commotion is occurring. And then, after about 25 hours, we all kinda look at each other as the cops drag out the 6 lumpy mattresses that the Paraguayans had brought on. A cop takes a pocket-knife and slashes one open. We all fall off our chairs as bricks of white powder overflow outside the small hole. Common sense and some math. One brick = $ and a lot of jailtime. 10 bricks = $$ and who knows how much trouble. 1 mattress full = $$$$$$$ and oh-you-are-!@#$ed. You can only imagine our shock when we saw 6 of those. We all whisper to pool the little college-knowledge we have of drugs. We were all in agreement that we had been traveling for over a day with a millions of dollars of smuggled cocaine/crack whatever it was. I wish I had read up on my Brazilian law on complicity. One of my friends and I start semi-freaking out. The other one, so thunder-struck by the incident, decided to steal my Japanese heritage for the moment and whips out a camera to sneak pictures. I yell at him but he simply shrugs. He says, just watch, think about what’s been going on for the past day. I look out the window and all 3 Paraguayan guys whip out new giant wads of cash. Almost every cop then says something in their walkie-talkies. Then it hits me. Cops from Argentina to this point in Brazil had all been notified of this bus by the first cops that stopped us. Not that it needed to be reprimanded. But that it was a goldmine. Cops had been bribed for hundreds, maybe thousands of miles. After a long discussion between who looked like the chief of the police squadron and the ice-cream Paraguayan, lo and behold, we move on. Only one thing to do – more wine.

Hour 41. Our heads our pounding. The wine is gone. We all are about to jump out the window…the stench of our BO, the bathroom, and the ice-cream Paraguayan’s gastrointestinal quandaries become unbearable. We can’t sleep because our nerves are shot with what is with us in the bus. If 3 bottles of wine can’t quell nerves, you know you are in trouble.

Hour 42. We reach a big bus-stop. I will never forget this in my life. Two big white vans come skidding out of nowhere and sandwich the bus. The Paraguayan guys give the remainder of the wads of cash to the driver and start throwing the mattresses into the vans. The vans skid off along with the Paraguayans. The old Brazilian couple who has been with us since the Paraguayans came on are laughing hysterically. I join them and couldn’t stop laughing for probably 20 minutes. My friend throws up in the bathroom again. My other friend takes pictures a
second time.

Hour 43. We have to transfer buses. I wonder why.

Hour 43 – 46. Despite the new bus, we are borderline insane. Should have brought sleeping pills instead of wine. We start screaming at each other for no good reason. I start getting frustrated and end the conversation by asking them whether they’ve ever been on a bus carrying tens, maybe hundreds of millions of dollars for over 24 hours in the middle of nowhere while roaring drunk. They both decide that anything is worth it to be able to tell this story and calm down.

Hour 47. We see the ocean!

Hour 48. The saga ends. WE ARRIVE!! We cab to the hostel and then (after realizing our joints are practically numb), crawl as fast as we can to the beach. Taking a luxurious swim, we have caipirinhas and shrimp the rest of the day, watching beautiful women. And we all lived happily ever after.

We all take various methods of transportation all the time. Not just buses. Planes, trains, hitchiking….I swear, you just never know. I guess we were lucky that we were all safe and sound by the end. Maybe we’ll take the luxury bus next time.

- Mas U