This one time in Mexico, I was undressed by a dolphin.

That sounds worst than it is. I can only imagine what kind of Google results I’ll get for this post. DOLPHIN SEX!

During my first trip to the Yucatan with my ladies, I was able to be a little indulgent with my money. I had what some people like to call a “real job.” So the extravagant $200 price (including a photo CD) with Delphinus didn’t deter me, and I’m glad it didn’t. Plus that whole silly H1N1 thing was going on, and my friend Ashley and I were eager for a distraction.

Meet the dolphins.

I was a little nervous. Dolphins are cute and all, but damn, they big! We were given a safety brief and instructions, equipped with lifejackets, and introduced to these babies in the dolphin pool.

The whole thing took about 45 minutes, and the trainer instructed from her platform stretching across the pool. We were given techniques to make them sing, dance, spit water, and twirl in the water.

Lookin' a little out of sync there, Candice.

DANCE PUPPETS, DANCE!

Please don't fall on me.

The best part, however, was when the trainer instructed us to swim to the middle of the pool (one at a time), float flat on our stomachs with legs extended, and brace for the dolphins to push us through the water.

She warned that the force of water might push down our bathing suits.

I bravely volunteered to be the first, struck a pose in the middle of the pool, and braced myself. I was hardly prepared for the impact of flying through the water at 32989232 miles/hour. Down came my bikini bottoms while I struggled to keep my dignity intact.

My attractive face

Makes for a good picture though, right? Kinda like that time I kissed the Blarney Stone and smashed my head off the rock, perfectly timed with the photographer’s snapshot of me wincing in horror and pain.

God I miss Mexico.

True love.

*One of the reasons we went with Delphinus was because of their environmental campaigns and reputable breeding program. They come highly recommended!

Ah, Peru! The land loaded with textiles, delicious Inca Kola, and street peddlers galore. I’m not ashamed to say I dropped a few dolla dolla bills in Peru (except there they’re called soles, of course). I’m not ashamed to say I loaded up on tacky souvenirs to bring home and thrust into my friends’ arms while declaring, “HERE! See? I’m not a cheapskate!”

I learned how to master the art of haggling in Peru.

Do you want to know how I scored this sweet alpaca purse for $10CAD?

Do you want to know how I walked away with this FREAKISHLY COOL piece of jewellery for $25?

Can you guess what my favourite colour is?

Come closer, I’ll tell you.

I did. Absolutely. Nothing.

I’m pretty passive aggressive, unless you’re being a bitch. I’m also cheap. Did I mention that? The whole currency conversion thing never works in my mind, so when someone tells me something is 20 soles I think, “Shit! That’s a lot of money!” It takes some time for me to realize that it’s a steal. Like this bomb green scarf, for $5 CAD.

And I hate, hate, HATE haggling. I remember my first haggling experience: I wanted a black coconut ring in Mexico. The sweet-talkin’ vendor said something along the lines of, “20 pesos, but just for you.” I bought, I didn’t even argue. Just for ME? What a deal!

I still work by this mentality, mostly. But Peru was a bit different. I ran into the bathroom of a jewellery shop and then felt compelled to at least browse, and the blue ring above caught my eye. The lady chased me around the store after I turned down her price, and I hadn’t even tried to haggle. Finally she reasoned with me, and tossed in a magnet for free. I saved like $20 CAD, just for being entirely passive aggressive.

The same happened in the market in Cusco. The alpaca purse caught my eye and I inquired about the price. I decided 30 soles was way too much, and started backing away. The vendor called after me, asking, “How about 25?” The truth was I only had 20 soles left, and told her. “Fine,” she said, reaching for the purse. “Have it.” I think she was pissed. I, on the other hand, have a sweet alpaca purse.

So that’s it. Be passive aggressive, but friendly. Don’t bitch. God, I hate when people bitch. I have retail tales of terror from this year’s Christmas stint at a gift shop, so believe me when I say that most sales associates have no control over the prices of their products.

This might not be the same for Peru, but still, don’t be a bitch.

I visited Peru with Contiki. You should too!

The 30 Days of Indie Travel is definitely one project where I can’t do this handwritten blogging thing. And I’m not about to give up on the writing project yet, dammit! Although I did drop out of #NaBloPoMo. I don’t know what I was thinking. 

PS I just bought a bunch of Sharpies and Prismacolor pens. It was delightful.

Prompt #12: MEANINGFUL CONNECTIONS

Travelers meet dozens, if not hundreds, of new people on every trip. They may become friends, enemies, lovers, and resources; they may stay in your life forever or be forgotten the next day. Tell about a time you felt a powerful connection – for however long – to another person while traveling.

There are few people in the world I can’t get along with, especially in the blogging community. Everyone I’ve met has been exceptionally warm and welcoming, despite all the tension in the blogging world these days. But one of the best connections I’ve made is with Cailin O’Neil, someone I met less than two years ago but who has quickly become one of my best friends. She showed up at my doorstep in St. John’s one day and it was like we knew each other for years. Since then we’ve driven across Canada together, swung by NYC for TBEX 2010, and she’s cooked me many a meal at her house in Halifax. I miss her dearly!

Same goes for my Matador Network crew. We partied our faces off in Vancouver, and we’re all a little closer for it.

Prompt #13: HOME

For some people, no matter how much they love traveling, there’s always no place like home. Other travelers make their homes wherever they happen to be. Tell us about your home – where is it and why do you consider it your home?

Home will always be Newfoundland and Labrador for me; my heart will always be here, just maybe in different corners of the island. Bay d’Espoir is my true home, St. John’s is my current home, and Gros Morne is my future home.

Prompt #14: QUOTE

What’s your favorite quote about travel? Why does it stand out to you?

All that is gold does not glitter, not all those who wander are lost. - J. R. R. Tolkien

Because I like Tolkien. He’s rad.

Prompt #15: CITY

What is your favorite (or least favorite) city and what do you love (or hate) about it?

News flash: I love Montreal and want to live there. I want to eat bagels and smoked meat, drink beer, and party with beautiful men. I want to learn French and experience what it’s like to live within a vibrant, busy, ALIVE city. I’ve never know what it’s like to be anonymous.

Prompt #16: BAGGAGE

Mental baggage can weigh us down as much as physical baggage when we travel. How do you travel lightly – either emotionally or physically?

I drove across Canada with a giant suitcase, a duffle bag, a laptop backpack, a large purse, and several tote bags. Baggage. I have a lot of baggage.

Emotionally, I guess my jaunt around Nova Scotia after I was laid off from my job last year qualifies as travelling with baggage. It helped.

Prompt #17: PASSION

It’s easy to be passionate about travel, but does that passion permeate the rest of your life? Do you live and work with passion? Why or why not?

If my life and work weren’t infused with passion, I’d be as miserable as I was two years ago working in a cubicle. I still haven’t figured out what I want to do 100% for the rest of my life, but I’ll get there. I wonder if “professional beer drinker & traveller” is a real thing.

Prompt #18: BUDGET

Every traveler has a budget; for some it just might be higher or lower than for others What’s your style? What do you spend very little on and what are you always willing to pay more for?

I’m broke as shit, so the less money I spend, the better. I spend very little on accommodations, because I don’t need luxury and I have enough couches to crash on around the globe. When I do splurge, it’s on drinks, food, and the occasional excursion.

But I do enjoy being pampered every now and then. Especially poolside.

First of all, don’t use that expression. Ever.

Second of all, if you’re a single female, brush up on your Spanish. You will want to talk to every Argentinean man you see, because they are beautiful. Beautiful. Gareth Leonard documents this phenomena extensively at Tourist2Townie, but I cannot adequately stress the overwhelming abundance of man-candy in Buenos Aires. My head was on a swivel, and my loins were afire. Pretty much the whole time.

Creepy.

Buenos Aires really likes their nightclubs to come with blinding strobe lights. After paying 100 pesos for cover to a club named Asia, I literally had difficulty seeing. Some dude started dancing with me, and I still don’t know what he looked like. I kept screaming, “NO HABLO ESPANOL!” But it didn’t matter. I decided the scene probably wasn’t good for someone who has seizure tendency, so I fled.

There are bookstores EVERYWHERE, like on every corner. What is it up with that? Used books, new books, children’s books…fortunately, since I would have been tempted to stop in EVERY SINGLE ONE, none of those books were written in English. Whew.

La Boca.

It’s really hard to get by with just English. I stumbled through conversation with the occasional “de nada” and “por favour” and “cerveza!” but could not negotiate prices. I didn’t really mind though. In fact, it was delightful.

Argentinean drivers are fucking crazy.

The minimal arts scene I saw was incredible, and I could kick myself for not bringing back a few items from La Boca. I overdosed on colours.

I’m surprisingly good at tango. Okay, so we learned like, three moves in total, but considering I have all the grace and aplomb of a 90-year old woman…I did alright. And I enjoyed it. The tango show we were treated to later was overwhelmingly fast and beautiful, and I’m still shocked that the ladies never once nailed their partner in the nads when kicking between their legs. Can you imagine that sort of precision? I wonder if the men wear cups.

If only we knew what he was saying.

I love steak, but not when it’s leaking blood.

Eat pizza at Guerrin. Your life will never be the same.

I’ve decided that I can’t place one particular “vibe” on Buenos Aires. Two days really isn’t enough time, and the city’s so ridiculously big, I don’t even know where to begin. I’d probably never live there, and I’m sure I’d never fit in. But if I could spend more time wandering the crowded streets accompanied by an Argentinean man and eating heavy croissants for breakfast washed down with perfectly brewed coffee…I’d be okay with that.

Thanks, Contiki, for a little taste of Argentina!

At our hotel in Pisac, Peru, we were treated to a traditional Andean meal known as pachamanca. A hole is dug in the earth, and heated stones are placed inside. The food, a mixture of meats, vegetables, and herbs, is placed in sacking or cloth and slowly cooked in the ground in a sort of earthen oven known as the huatia (the word pachamanca is formed from two Quechua words meaning “earthen pot”).

The meal was delicious, and we may or may not have been buzzed from the high altitude and several bottles of wine, but my Contiki group and I were certainly not expecting the three shamans who showed up a short time later. Most of us were wrapped in blankets, freezing, and unprepared for the cold conditions of the Andes. I was wearing flip-flops, and was eager to get indoors…until the ceremony started.

Just because it's south of Canada, doesn't mean it's warm. Things I learned.

The shamans spoke to us in their native Quechua language, translated to English by our guide, Gaby. They proceeded with their blessing to Pachamama (Mother Earth, “Mother World” being a more direct translation), and then invited each one of us to come forward to participate.

I did not want to do it. Not even a little. We watched the first three members of our group go forward, and “wipe down” their bodies with special eucalyptus water in a ritualistic cleansing. The shamans asked each person to set their intention for the blessing. Then, using sacred items like crystals and stones known as Huacas, the shamans called on the forces of the world to help each person achieve their desired state.

I was nervous when my time came, and afraid I’d burst out laughing under the strain of embarrassment. But I didn’t. I felt instantly calm, and I believed every utterance from my shaman even if I didn’t understand a single word. I remember a feeling akin to jealousy over not having the same relationship with the earth—it’s how I feel my religion would be if I were brought up in a different part of the world.

I took the offering of coca leaf, blew against it to scatter the remaining bad spirits, and went back to my seat. We all held hands to finish up the blessing, and then everyone went around the circle hugging each other.

That's me on the far right

What intention did I set? “I just want a good night’s sleep,” I told someone. I was only half joking.

The absurdity of spending my Saturday night doing such a thing was not lost on me, and I went to bed feeling happier than I had in weeks. All good evenings should end with shamans and lots of hugs.

“Dude,” I tweeted from my hotel room. “I just got felt up by shamans.”

Based on my extensive culinary knowledge of South America (i.e. Peru and Argentina), I’d have to say I enjoyed pretty much everything I ate. I’d slap a small child for some ceviche right now, as a matter of fact.

Let’s start from the beginning.

INCA KOLA!

The cola of the Incas, brewed specifically by them hundreds of years ago. No—that’s a joke. Don’t quote that.

It glows in the dark, is the most popular soft drink in Peru, and tastes like cream soda. It is EVERYWHERE, and I requested it whenever the opportunity arose. After all, when in Rome…

Get really high from sugar.

INCA KOLA JELLO!

I can’t help but feel this would have been better with vodka. Inca Kola Jello shots.

CEVICHE!

Like sushi for Peruvians, this raw fish/seafood dish is marinated in citrusy juices and sometimes chilli peppers. I don’t know if anyone serves this in St. John’s. Anybody know? You mean there’s no Peruvian population in Newfoundland? Appalling.

DRINKS! DRINKS!

I bought a half-case of beer at a supermarket in Lima for less than $5 CDN. It set the theme for the rest of the trip.

Alexis' rum and coke...which was really just rum.

Who can forget the PISCO SOURS?! Mandatory at every dinner table in Peru. It’s a pisco brandy drink with lime and lemon, as well as a egg white to top it off. Yes, egg white. Comes with a high probability of drunkness.

ALPACA!

I didn’t eat any on this trip, actually. But I have in the past, and I can assure you, they’re delicious once you get past the fact they have eyelashes.

Delicious.

What does llama taste like?

GUINEA PIG!

I didn’t eat this one. I had caught the malicious stomach bug that had circulated our tour group, and when that grilled, marinated guinea pig was set down in front of me, my stomach lurched. I had to leave the table. I returned to cut off a tiny piece of meat, but could not deal with the smell. You know that kind of nausea, right?

Everyone else loved it, however…with the exception of Mike, who somehow managed to eat an eyeball. It was caught on film.

PIZZA!

At a restaurant named Guerrin in Buenos Aires, I had a religious pizza experience.

We were hungry. We had been flying all day, and I was hungover as hell. I was overwhelmed by the beauty of Argentinean men. And then, ‘lo and behold, waiters brought us the cheesiest, most beautiful pizzas I have ever seen. THERE WAS SO MUCH CHEESE. THE CHEESE WAS RUNNING AWAY FROM THE PIZZA AND OVERFLOWING ONTO THE TABLE.

I got a little emotional.

It was the perfect moment, just perfect. Even if I could go back to Guerrin, I’m not sure I would. I don’t want that memory to become skewed.

MEAT AND MALBEC!

Two things that go hand in hand in Argentina. We went to an asado, an Argentinean grill, where we simply selected the kinds of meat we wanted and the cooks grilled it right in front of us. Of course, since there was a language barrier, the cooks communicated by pointing to their various body parts as a way of asking which part of the animal we wanted to eat. Breast, anyone?

We developed a serious case of the meat sweats.

Pair it with Malbec, a lovely red wine, and you’re practically a full-on Argentinean. You may even be granted the gift of fluent Spanish. I knew I had made it when I could withdraw money from the Spanish ATM.

APPLE TINY AMOUNT!

One of the most bizarre dessert options spied on our menu at the asado in Buenos Aires. Apple tiny amount. The Argentineans allow no word to go wasted.

Thanks, Contiki, for broadening my horizons.

I’d like to think I’m not a jaded traveller. It’s a conversation I’ve had with other bloggers time and time again, and most recently, with Annemarie Dooling on our South America Contiki trip. You hit this wall where you no longer find things fascinating, or interesting, or even a little intriguing.

This hasn’t happened to me in the slightest—the opposite effect has occurred, in fact. I get so excited in new places, I succumb to shakes and nerves and wide-eyed typical tourist behaviour. I snap 300 photos of the same thing and then pose in front of fountains.

BUT those moments are always when I find myself someplace unexpected, like at Peyto Lake in Jasper. It’s never when you’re preparing for a “must-see” Bucket List item, and although I was excited about Machu Picchu, I was also preparing myself for a little disappointment.

There was none. No twinge of sadness, no regret, nothing to mar the moment.

Half of my Contiki crew awoke at 5 a.m. to prepare for a sunrise view of Machu Picchu. The rest of the group never made it to the early morning trek, being the unfortunate victims of a stomach bug. After we navigated the terrifying road of 14 switchbacks, we arrived at the site with daylight already spreading its way across the mountain.

We climbed stairs. We climbed a lot of stairs throughout the trip, our knees wobbly and calves aching, until we stood at a little plateau overlooking the ancient city. I couldn’t see a goddamned thing; we were entirely shrouded by clouds. I was tired, and cranky, and then suddenly with a few brilliant rays of sunlight, the clouds parted and Machu Picchu lay out for us in glory. I snapped 300 photos.

along the Inca Trail

We hiked along a portion of the Inca Trail to reach the Sun Gate, where the sun shines through on Machu Picchu during the summer solstice. From this vantage point and looking down upon the city, the enormity of what the Incas created starts sinking in. According to our lovely guide Gaby, nobody even knows for sure why the city existed, but the most popular theory is that it was created as a sort of resort for the king. The city could have held up to 400 people. The whole area radiates a certain kind of energy, attributed to either all the quartz lying around or some other ethereal force.

To the far right, in what looks like a valley, you'll see the Sun Gate

The sad part is that the Incas had limited time to enjoy their luxury before abandoning the site entirely. They knew the Spaniards were coming, and they knew the best way to protect their city was to abandon it.

Everything at Machu Picchu was built with Mother Earth, Pachamama, in mind. Gaby, who belongs to the Quechua people, says the Spaniards could never wipe out her heritage, because it isn’t tangible. “As long as we have the sun, the moon, the stars, our religion will not die.”

I cried. I cried a lot on this trip for one reason or another, but standing there that morning with a handful of other travellers all making a pilgrimage to one of the world’s most coveted, sacred destinations made me suddenly very aware of how blessed I am to have such a moment. I’ve been struggling a lot lately with travel blogging and making ends meet, so much so that I’ve considered going back to the office life. I know that’d be a mistake. For me, no house, no car, no closet filled with expensive clothing will ever equal the experiences I’ve had while travelling. Every now and then, I need a good trip to remind myself of this fact.

Or a punch in the face. If you ever hear me complain again, you have full permission to punch me in the face and/or ovary.

I can barely process everything I’ve done these past few days. It’s overwhelming, and I still have 4 days left! Tomorrow we’re off to Brazil. No big deal, just country hopping to Iguassu Falls.

But Peru has been amazing, and as I had hoped, this guided tour with Contiki is serving as a sort of gateway into South America. If I weren’t here with about 30 awesome new friends, I don’t think I’d be so happy.

I’ll have a million stories to tell when I get back, but here’s Peru in a few short highlights.

-Watched the sun rise over Machu Picchu. Arrived literally within 5 minutes of the clouds parting and the whole site being revealed. I still think it’s an elaborate postcard set up to look like a real site, because how can anything this incredible be real? Yes, I cried.

NEW FACEBOOK PROFILE PIC

-Was blessed by a shaman in Pisac…not the usual male company I keep on a Saturday night. He asked that I set an intention and I did. The ceremony was followed by hugs from everyone in the group. I don’t think I’ve ever gone to bed feeling happier.

-Descended about 394039403 ancient Inca steps in Pisac, while listening to a boy play some Simon & Garfunkel on his flute. “Sound of Silence” is universal.

-Rode a llama.

Added to my collection of "weird things I like to ride."

-Attempted to eat guinea pig (cuy), but wimped out due to my stomach bug not allowing me to actually eat ANYTHING.

-Drank too many Pisco Sours.

-Spent a million soles at a market in Cusco, which actually amounts to about $10 Canadian.

Cusco rocks.

-Got lost in Lima, developed a love for Inca Kola and ceviche.

-Went whitewater rafting, and the guide pushed me into frigid glacial waters at least three times. Laughed a lot. Swallowed some dirty water. Probably explains stomach bug.

-Wore a male friend’s briefs in the hot springs while drinking Pisco Sours at Machu Picchu because I lost my bikini bottoms. Decided I’m definitely a briefs girl.

The best is yet to come!

“Don’t you want to meet Wayne Johnston? He’s just standing there, looking all lonely.”

“No…no no no no no. No.”

I had anticipated getting my favourite author’s autograph the moment I found out I’d be attending the Writers at Woody Point festival. I tweeted about it. I posted it on Facebook. And there I was, no more than 10 feet away from him, and I couldn’t budge.

“Well, I’m going to talk to him,” said Sarah, a new friend. “And you have to come.”

I dutifully followed behind her as she struck up a casual conversation while I stood there clutching my newly purchased copy of A World Elsewhere and grinning like an idiot. I punctuated their conversation with head nods and laughter. His eyes darted to my book and he began reaching for his pen inside his blazer as I broke out into a nervous sweat. Mother of god it was hot. Ten minutes earlier I was wrapped in my jacket against the breeze flowing through the open windows of the Heritage Theatre, and suddenly there I was standing with weak knees and sweat pooling on my chin as I melted inside a piece of nylon.

Finally he turned to me. “Did you want me to sign your book?”

“Actually,” I said. “I want you to sign this one.” I hauled out my 6000-page Colony of Unrequited Dreams and thrust it at him. He was amused. “This thing has taken a beating,” he said. My pages were crinkled with water spillage, the cover creased and hard to open. I found it last year in an old take-out food joint in Cape Breton, an eerily fitting symbol of my sudden loss of direction. One specific page dog-eared to mark a mantra I had poured over time and time again throughout the past year. Funny, for I am no fan of Joey Smallwood.

Out poured the verbal diarrhea.

“There’s a part, in this book, where Joey Smallwood is on the train in Cape Breton, and like, he’s seeing everything for the first time and realizing how different Newfoundland is, you know? And I’m like, a travel writer! And this is exactly how I feel every time I leave Newfoundland!!! Omg I’m sorry for being such a fan girl!!”

Yeah, I said that. Fan girl. I could barely fucking breathe.

He laughed and signed my book, and then my new one, and then I leaped away like a deer in a meadow. Oh glorious week! Oh magical Woody Point!

“Magical.” Surreal. How strange to be in my own homeland, just eight hours away from my city, and feel in a different world. My heart aches for Gros Morne and Woody Point. There’s a story in all this, but I haven’t teased it out yet. To be part of this festival and community and its lack of formalities, reclined on the water taxi breathing in the salt air with the chatter of voices and the chords of fiddle music and the starry sky wrapped around my head. To cruise through fjords with heart hammering in excitement over what’s around the next bend. To sit in an art gallery with a bunch of strangers for an impromptu jam session until sunrise, with guitars and handsome musicians and the beating of an ugly stick. How have I only unearthed such a small part of this island? How lucky I am to be born where I belong.

There’s a story in all this.