How to Travel the World for Free

by Michael Wigge

  I am sitting in Stefan’s apartment and trying to plan my journey, when suddenly, his stove and chimney catch fire. The chimney is probably not completely made of fireproof material, as within half a minute the apartment is engulfed in flames. We run off to quickly get water from the shower, but the water supply has just been turned off in the entire city (as so often happens in Peru). I run frantically to a neighbor and get a fire extinguisher. We try to spray it but it doesn’t do anything. I then run into the street and explain to a cop in Spanish that a fire has broken out in the apartment, but since I am in a panic, my Spanish is much worse than usual. I repeat again and again: “Fuego! Fuego!”

  Unfortunately, in this context it only means a light for a cigarette. Incendio is the word for an actual fire. The cop only patiently repeats that he doesn’t have a light and that he gave up smoking a year ago. In my distress I grab him by his uniform and pull him toward the apartment. Over the rooftops one can hear Stefan shouting, “Incendio! Incendio!” The cop now understands what the problem is and calls the fire brigade on his mobile phone. Meanwhile, the fire has spread almost to the entire apartment building. I suddenly remember my bag with all my belongings: passport, video cameras, recorded tapes. Dios mio. I hold my breath and run through the fire, and luckily find my bag undamaged.

  Panting, I come out of the apartment carrying everything out safely. Outside, I stand to the side and watch as the cop rips open all the windows, causing the fire to spread further. Stefan is standing and gasping at the doorway; he has probably inhaled too much smoke. He is spitting and coughing over and over again. Suddenly, one of the neighbors beckons me. She has a large bathing basin in front of her. Running toward her, I grab the heavy basin, carry it up one flight, and pour the water on the fire. The fire truck arrives and does the rest.

  Stefan now has a fire extinguisher in his hand, which works, and extinguishes the last of the flames. I come to learn how relatively lucky we were in our misfortune. The fire broke out at eleven o’clock in the evening; what would have happened if it had been one o’clock in the morning when we were asleep? I help Stefan sweep up the mess. The apartment is now unlivable: the ceiling is half burnt, the floor is covered with soot and burnt pieces of wood, and the kitchen wall with the sink and cupboards is completely destroyed. At three in the morning we bid farewell to each other, both of us still visibly in shock.

  Totally blurry-eyed, I try to make my way the next morning to the train station in Cusco. The Andean Explorer is a luxury train and the eight-hour journey costs $220. This is ten times as much as the cost of the bus journey for the exact same distance. Every passenger at the station is checked for a ticket. I am checked immediately and sent away in an unfriendly manner, so I drag myself to the bus station and notice for the first time that a part of my backpack is burnt. What a harrowing night! I decide that I will make use of this stroke of fate to get at least a free ticket to Puno. I tell the ticket sellers about my five-day trek, about how I was not able to enter Machu Picchu, and about the fire in Stefan’s apartment. Both of the bus employees watch and listen to me silently, then exchange glances and start smiling. They give me a free ticket without asking any further questions.

  The bus travels at an altitude of between 11,000 and 13,000 feet. I see a chain of snow-covered mountains, pastures with llamas, and then finally, Lake Titicaca, which is the world’s highest crossable lake at a height of about 12,500 feet. But I am not able to enjoy much of the attractions. For one thing, I am totally wrecked physically. For another, I don’t know how I am going to get any further on my journey. In order to get information about some opportunities, I ask a tourist couple on the bus if they could briefly lend me their Lonely Planet travel guide. The woman gives me the book.

  “Of course,” she says with a smile. “By the way, we can also talk in German. Tell me . . . don’t we know each other from Cologne? Don’t you have a friend by the name of Kristina?”

  “Yeah, that’s right. We met years ago over a beer, right?”

  “Exactly!”

  It is said that after every low there comes a high. This is exactly what happens now. I tell my story to Hedwig and her husband, Cicki, and we quickly make a deal: they will take care of the costs of my food and my stay in Puno and buy me a bus ticket to La Paz, Bolivia, if I chauffeur them around for one day through the area. I am saved!

  The chauffeuring turns out to be driving a pedal boat. While Hedwig and Cicki are smooching in the back of the boat, I pedal over the huge lake. It is hard work, but it’s fun. I row both of them to one of the famous Uru islands. The Uru are a tribe that lives on self-made reed islands—their houses and boats are made out of reeds, and at times, reeds are also a part of their diet. We visit one of the islands and I get an opportunity to talk to the president of the Urus. While nibbling on a reed, he answers my questions.

  The Urus moved out to sea even before the time of the Incas because they could safeguard themselves quickly and effectively against their enemies with their maneuverable reed islands. Nowadays, there are a total of forty-two reed islands with over 2,000 inhabitants. As one walks onto an island, he can feel himself sinking a couple of inches into the soft reeds, and it feels like one’s stepping on a cushion. Every year new reed layers are laid on the floor because the reeds gradually decay in the water.

  The president also tells me that reeds are used not just as food but also as medicine for various diseases. Despite their passion for reed, they are not reluctant to accept modern technology: solar panels, engines, televisions, and a radio transmitter are used daily in the village. He tells me that part of the Uru system now also involves living off tourism, but on the more remote islands, one still lives off the barter system. The inhabitants on these islands make reed products and in exchange can get everything that they need for living.

  “On which islands are the people happier?”

  The president thinks about this question, and then says that tourism and money naturally bring some disadvantages because of the changes to the culture. But he finds it more important that the Urus, who make a living from tourism, now have enough money for education and medicine.

  Hedwig and Cicki invite me to dine with them several times and also give me twenty dollars. With this, I can afford two nights in a hostel and can still buy a bus ticket to Bolivia.

  13

  A KINGDOM FOR A GUINEA PIG

  The next morning I am sitting, with two liters of Coke and two liters of water in my lap, on the bus to La Paz, Bolivia. At a height of 11,800 feet, it is the highest capital city in the world. When we reach the border, my stomach starts growling: I haven’t eaten anything since the previous evening. Unfortunately, I don’t meet any other generous couples from Cologne, only a drunk Brit who invites me to go boozing. I decline with thanks.

  By the time I get to La Paz, I have gone twenty-four hours without food. I immediately begin my search for nourishment, asking a total of thirty kiosks, shops, and restaurants in and around the bus station for donations, but am met with no success. A shopkeeper advises me to go directly to the German embassy, since he considers my endeavor in Bolivia pointless.

  Statistics prove him right: Bolivia is the poorest country in South America. The average citizen here earns less than $350 a month. However, Bolivia is rich in natural resources: 50 to 70 percent of the world’s lithium is found here, and the gas deposits are among the largest on this continent. But most of the residents of the plateau, where La Paz is located, see very little of the wealth, which also explains the victory in the election of the socialist-backed President Morales. His aim is to achieve a better distribution of money between the rich East and the poor West.

  The people appear to me to be withdrawn and calm, quite different from what I saw in Colombia. I become very nervous because my hunger is growing; a pain spreads in my stomach. Luckily, the Coke and a pack of coca leaves, which I chew regularly, suppress the feeling of hunger a little, but the panic remains: Should I abandon my attempts here? For emergencie
s, I have brought my credit card. The trip should not end with me starving in Bolivia, but if I use the credit card even once, then my journey and story would come to a close. The question here, naturally, is not one of survival but of the goal to bring this project to its desired conclusion.

  Meanwhile, it has become dark and it is no longer advisable to wander through the city. Driven by fear, I decide to go back to Peru. Since I am physically exhausted and totally starved, but don’t want to end my project here by using my credit card, I see this as the last way out. I go to different ticket counters and relate to them that I am traveling to the end of the world without money and that I am simply at the wrong place in Bolivia to continue such a project.

  Both of the first two clerks whom I address immediately agree with me but send me away without a ticket. The ticket lady at the third bus company also shrugs me off at first, so I go a step further and tell her that I haven’t eaten anything for almost thirty hours. When she shakes her head the second time, a man, who is sitting at a computer behind her, intervenes. He seems to be the boss and says something in Spanish that must mean: “Come, let’s take him along. He really has nothing!” This assurance is my biggest success in Bolivia.

  Since the bus departs very early the next morning, I sleep on a bench in the bus station of La Paz—or rather, doze away in a halfsleep. I feel worn out, I am in a bad mood, and I am no longer hungry. The reason is probably a secretion of adrenaline or endorphins, or my stomach has simply switched over to emergency/survival mode.

  The bus is overfilled because currently there is a strike for more socialist reforms in La Paz, and only a few coaches are running. I stand in the aisle. The seated passengers, who boarded the bus in other cities, are having their lunch. I look around to see if someone has something left over—not a chance. However, a man has reclined his seat and is sleeping, and the bus steward has simply placed his lunch on his thighs without waking him up. This is my chance! I gently wake the man up and ask him if I could possibly get his lunch. He looks at me totally dazed; my Spanish only explains the situation in bits and pieces and he is still quite sleepy, but after a second explanation he agrees and gives me the tray.

  I have never been without food for almost forty hours in my entire life; never before have I been so happy about a meal. Although I no longer feel my hunger pangs, I devour the rice, mashed potatoes, piece of meat, and the small gelatin dessert. I am delighted that I trusted myself and asked the man for his food because the five-hour bus journey becomes a nine-hour one. Due to the strike, the bus driver has to turn off the main roads and drive on dirt roads. Suitcases and bags fall from the overhead compartments, and finally, all of us have to disembark because the bus either cannot or is not permitted to drive on a stretch of road. We wait for another bus for at least two and a half hours in the middle of the plateau. I look toward the horizon and see quite a long traffic jam on the other side of the road toward La Paz. The strike has simply frozen everything.

  Arriving finally in Puno, I am still starving. With not a single minute to waste, I run toward the city center where the shops and restaurants are. To my delight, a generous restaurant manager offers me a free meal. Since I’m in Peru, I decide to order the Peruvian delicacy dish: guinea pig. On a plastic tray, my order is served to me with the head and feet still intact, along with a side salad. I sit in front of the restaurant and devour the whole guinea pig—satisfying, although the texture is slightly tough.

  Afterward, I head to Puno’s fruit market, located in the harbor. Some of the women in the market still remember me from my last visit a few days ago. I tell them about the dead end in Bolivia and about going forty hours without food. After hearing my story, every single lady at the stalls starts offering me fruit. Overwhelmed and full of gratitude, I collect all the fruit into a cardboard box. The story quickly spreads around the market and soon, even without a word, I am handed an assortment of bananas, tomatoes, apples, potatoes, onions, and pears. After about an hour or so I have canvassed all the stalls in the market and filled the large box.

  The fruit and vegetables would probably sustain me for a week if I had a refrigerator, but clearly, I do not. I decide to go to the bus station and try selling the extra produce. In no time I sell everything and earn seventeen dollars. With this money, I can now buy a bus ticket to Arica, the northernmost city of Chile. After the Inca trail, the disaster of Machu Picchu, the apartment fire in Cusco, and going almost two days without food, things can only, only get better from here.

  14

  THE

  MADMAN

  At the bus station of the desert city of Arica, the aunt of a Chilean friend picks me up. She has an empty apartment on the second floor of her house, which I am allowed to use. Every morning I get a sumptuous breakfast; every evening I am fed steaks and other delicacies to compensate for my weight loss in the last two weeks. Both nights I sleep for twelve hours, something I haven’t done in months. My laundry is washed, and for the onward journey the aunt packs a plastic bag full of groceries and drinks. It is forty-eight hours of complete well-being. Unfortunately, I can’t stay any longer since I now have only twelve days to reach Ushuaia, in Tierra del Fuego. La Paz and the victory lap through Puno have consumed an unbelievable amount of time.

  I stand on the corner of a street at the town exit with a large cardboard sign, on which I have written sur (“south”). Huge sand dunes are present all around me. Hitchhiking goes well from this point. I never wait any longer than thirty minutes for a lift. Sergio, a truck driver, takes me along through the Atacama Desert. It is the driest desert in the world. It only gets one-fifth the amount of rain that the extremely dry Death Valley receives. The reason for this is that the eastern winds from the continent bring dry air along with them. The Pacific Ocean lies to the west but, because of the extremely cold Humboldt currents, the winds from this direction are mostly rainless. The temperature fluctuations in this desert are also extreme: day temperatures of around 86°F and night temperatures of around 5°F are not rare. I am happy to be able to cross the entire desert with Sergio and not have to sleep in a tent at night.

  On the road, Sergio tells me stories about his life. He has two families: one in the north in Arica and one in the capital city, Santiago de Chile, which lies about 1,200 miles to the south. He laughingly says that, according to him, it is completely acceptable for a truck driver to have a family on both ends of his route. For the next 600 miles, random cultural topics pop up in our conversation: the big blonde women in Germany, women in Brazil, cigarette prices in Germany, and, naturally, German beer companies versus the ones here in Chile. During the ten hour drive, we pass huge sand dunes and the desert seems to be endless. After Sergio drops me off, I am taken along to Santiago de Chile by other trucks, vans, and cars. In thirty hours, I cover over 1,200 miles.

  A foretaste of the end of the world: The Atacama Desert in Chile.

  It is spring and the temperature in Santiago is moderate. I head toward the city center where the streets are filled with people. I have very little time for sightseeing, as I have an appointment with Reinhard. He is one of the managers of Antarctic Dream, the shipping company and travel agency that has agreed to take me to Antarctica at no charge. The Antarctic Dream offers luxury cruises for passengers who are mostly millionaires coming from all over the world. He explains to me that for the ten-day trip my role is to assist the expedition leader. “And I expect nothing but your best performance,” he adds, and I know he means it.

  On that same day, I travel on a minibus from Santiago to Buenos Aires, Argentina, over 600 miles away. Earlier, my friend’s aunt had given me a care package to take along with me for my journey. The package included an envelope with 25,000 pesos in it—almost fifty dollars. Grateful, I am able to use thirty dollars of this money to buy the ticket for the minibus. I actually have enough money for the long-distance bus, but I want to save some, thinking this very economical and smart. Later, however, it turns out that this is actually a bad decision. The driver o
f the minibus is very unfriendly and reckless, and I can hardly enjoy the view as we drive over passes that are 13,000 feet high. Speedy Gonzales here is keeping us on edge: speed limits don’t seem to exist and the extreme left curves keep me hanging on to my seat for dear life. I sit directly behind him and cannot keep my eyes off the speedometer.

  Finally, I can’t take it any longer. In a calm tone, I simply point out that he is traveling thirty miles above the speed limit: “Señor, hay 70 y no 120 kilometros, por favor.” He immediately yells something back at me, and even turns around and actually lets go of the steering wheel to wave his arms in the air for emphasis. After he turns around, there is total silence from everyone. The old man to the right of me looks at him, equally as shocked as I am, but we don’t dare say a word.

  Feeling vengeful, the driver inserts a cassette into his tape player, adjusts it to full volume, and systematically tortures us with the strains of Elton John, Meat Loaf, and Chris de Burgh. Just when we are nearing another bus, a car cuts in front of us from the other lane. The people in the car wave at us wildly; the driver of the vehicle starts flashing his headlights. Our driver won’t allow this, so he steps on the gas pedal. We pass the car by an absolute whisker. In the background, I can still hear the car honking madly.