Comfort found in the unlikeness of places:

As I was leaving Carnival in Rio, I knew I had to buckle down and make up time traveling.In order to accomplish this, I bypassed the 53 hour bus ride and bought a plane ticket from Rio to the jungle capital Manaus in the heart of the Amazon.This was not because I did not want to endure another knee-bucking trip rather working on my tan while sipping cocktails on Brasil beaches put me in a pinch for time.In addition, I was fed up with listening to my constantly complaining host who I was living with in Rio.While lying in bed nursing a terrible hangover, I made a snap decision to go the airport and buy a ticket to leave that day.

Here is a rough timeline leaving from Rio:

-Dropped off in the Rio International Airport at 1pm Saturday. Feeling great to get moving again even though there was some time left in Carnival. I waited in the airport watching old re-runs of T.V. shows, listening to my Ipod and searching for a blue Brazil national futbol jersey( that I never found) until my flight at 11pm.Time was going very very slow.

-Arrived in Manaus at 2am Sunday morning (actually 3am but Manaus is a hour behind). I was wired from the two tall espressos I had prior to boarding the flight.

-From the airport I immediately took a taxi to the bus terminal. Bad idea.I should have stayed in the semi-comfortable airport with nice seats, food and internet but a guy selling tours insisted that I leave.He was a local that said buses leave about 5am and I need to get there early to buy tickets because space is limited. I usually do not trust locals, for a good reason, but this guy was selling nothing I was buying and he was very knowledgeable about the area.

-Arrived in the bus terminal at 3am with major fatigue starting to set in.Unlike most of Brazil modern, air conditioned, and well maintained bus terminals Manaus's was awful.Erected in the middle of the industrial area of Manaus stands an over grown shanty with open exposure to the elements on two sides.There is dirt flooring or the janitor must have been fired a decade ago, the roof is made of tin which sounds like a marching band playing when it rains, there existed no security door so anyone passing by can freely wonder about and the place swarms with mosquitoes.

-Ok two hours to go before the first bus leaves… Cool. I can try and stay awake and crash on the bus.The hour hand on my watch seemed to be frozen because the hours were definitely not moving.I sat, in an upright position, with about 10 other people scattered around the place.Many of them it seemed that this was not a waiting area for the bus but rather a home.People had made make-shift beds out of wooden crates, pillows out of old newspaper and blankets doubling as mosquito nets.I unfortunately, was unable to find extra material to construct a cot or a make-shift domicile.Instead I sat in a plastic molded chair, with both of my bags strapped to my body for security reasons and tried to stay awake.My mind wondered all about.I thought about the recent dramas happening in my life, who the Seahawks should draft, about Obama's chances, how Coke-a-Cola has such a good distribution system and I even internally debated which is better, hanging your clothes from a line outside or putting them in a drying machine.I was bored and once again reminded about the persistent poverty in the world.

-As I waited for the place to open, I took my malaria pill and slapped at the flies who were circling over head.

-5 am came, closed.

-6 am came and still closed.

-7 am came, by then my head was ping ponging back and forth trying to stay awake. I am dead beat and starting to sweat.

-8 am.Finally, the place is beginning to open and I waited in line.I am informed that there is a bus leaving at 10am but it is full.Hopefully, I can wait and see if someone does not show up and I can squeeze on, which I am told happens quite often.I tell the man working for the company where I am sprawled out at and come and get me if there is space available.

-I go back to my seat and with major fatigue setting in I lied down on the dirt floor with my bag as pillows and fell asleep dreaming about the air conditioned bus.

-I pry one eye open wide enough to look at the clock hanging on the wall.s***, it is 11am and I am not on the bus. I zombie walk over to the company's counter and ask the guy what had happened.My "guy" (only guy who spoke English) working for the company said that there was space but he could not find me.COULD NOT FIND ME? I am the only blonde hair, green eyed guy that does not speak a lick of Portuguese and is sprawled out on the dirt floor with 50 lbs of luggage strapped to my arms and legs.He must have tried real hard to find me…whatever. I start swearing under my breath I search for another bus.The next bus is at 8pm so I drop of my bags and summon ever once of energy left and go walk around the city.

-I return back to the bus terminal before 8pm with only 2 hours of ground sleeping in the last 36.To say the least I am drained, cranky and ready for the overnight bus ride to re-charge. As I am boarding the bus, I scan over the numbers along the over head storage compartments looking for me seat.I am hoping to seat alone so I can sprawl out and not have to share the armrest (share?I never get the armrest).I find my seat and my eyes scroll down and lock eyes with my worst nightmare. It is a mother holding her baby in the seat next to mine----Let me just say this.I am a baby lover. I have seen babies from all over the world and I believe that babies are the world's cutest creation.----Yet, on an overnight bus ride a baby is my most feared enemy.They always cry, kick, scream and never talk in a 6 inch voice.Some of them use the seat as a bathroom which makes for a pleasant smelling bus ride.My heart does go out to the mothers because they are trying every known remedy to silence their babies but sympathy does not help me sleep any better.

-I sit down and slowly turn towards the baby and purposely make eye contact.I glare deep into the babies eyes with my intentions of intimidating it enough to be quiet for the duration of the trip.Like I feared, this tactic fails worse than the Bay of Pigs.9 hours of amplified baby chatter that not even gobs of toilet paper jam-packed into my ears can alleviate.

-The bus ride finishes and I am informed that I have to linger another 3 hours for another 4 hour bus ride to the board.I am zoning in and out on a regularly basis thinking about my favorite movie clips and whatever happened to good movies.

-During the ride I look out the window to witness the scenery change from Amazon jungle to savanna type plains.It is stunning and I begin to admire nature.

-I finally get off at my final Brasilian destination looking, smelling and feeling like a vagabond.I ask around to see where the boarder is. It is 3km up the road and I am asked if I had my yellow fever shot.Well I think he asked me that.Since I do not speak a lick of Portuguese I inferred from the man mimicking putting a needle in his arm that he was referring to the yellow fever shot required to enter the country.Thanking my lucky stars, I tell the man that I have a yellow fever shot.For people who did not have the shot, no worries, they inject you there.

-Stammering towards the border already grossed out by my general appearance, I glanced over to the dirt sidewalk in-front a cluster of small shanties.There next to people selling empanadas and used car parts, I see a make-shift area where people administering the shot in plain sight.Disgusting.The hygiene is questionable there but maybe not the convenience.I would love to be able to repair my car, get a quick bit to eat and receive a yellow fever shot all at the same time.That is just efficiency and you got to applaud that.

-I carry on to the boarder and see nothing but the pristine high plains of Venezuela.The view is very similar to what I have imagine the high plains of Africa look like as well (National Geographic).This makes the short hike a lot more pleasant.

Looming a mile ahead is the Brasilian-Venezuelan boarder and a giant poster of Hugh Chavez(the President of Venezuela. I must say quickly that I have never seen a giant poster of a President before at the boarder but more on that in the next blog).It is a pretty straight forward boarder, you get your exist stamp from Brasil and you get your entrance stamp from Venezuela.But entering Venezuela is a bit different.I have to fill out a tourist card and instead of waiting in a standard Q I had to go to a back room and speak with a Boarder Agent.This Agent asked me a bit more than the standard questions; Why are you here? What do you do? How long are you here? And his facial expressions were not of joy or happiness either.I was fully aware that our governments are not in the best standing right now and those feelings were definitely conveyed.

After the mini-interrogation is over, it is now late afternoon and I begin to look for transportation to the nearest city.To my delight, the city is 10 miles away and there is practically no one or nothing around me.More traversed boarders are equipped with plenty of taxis, bus, shuttles or other means of transporting people to and from but this was a very uninhabited boarder.So my only option was to timidly put out the thumb and try and flag someone down.

Not long after the thumb went out I got a bite.A middle aged man with a newer Toyota 4Runner pulled over.I am jubilant that I got a ride before dark and I hope he does not ask where I am from.

Right off the bat: "where are you from?"

I said proudly but wary: "US"

"Really? Hop in"

I threw my bags in the back and entered into my first hitchhiking experiences in one of Latin Americas poorest countries. Lets do this, I am cashew (Dane Cook line)

Driver: "Were in the states are you from?"

Me: "Seattle, do you know where that is at?"

Driver: "Yeah, I have a cousin who works in Dallas that is next to Seattle right?"

Just being glad to have a ride and not wanting to give the man a geography lesson because that might insult his intelligence, I said smiling "Yeah…kinda"

The ride was fun.We talked about baseball, since it is the most popular sport in Venezuela and a lot of American big leaguers have played or are currently playing winter ball here.I also talked to him about his family, Venezuelan food, beer, girls and his profession.I was thrilled to be speaking Spanish again but could tell that I was a bit rusty.

As it turns out, the guy worked for the government in the capital Caracas and was here to inspect some things.As many people know, Venezuela is one of the largest producers of oil in the world.This makes gasoline here extremely inexpensive, I mean 20 or 30 cents for a gallon.The price of gasoline is about 30 times cheaper here than the countries surrounding Venezuela.As a result, a considerable gasoline smuggling operation is currently operating around Venezuelan boarders.

Exciting for me, I happened to be in the car with the man whose commission it was to stop this smuggling.As he is explaining to me the ins and outs of what is happening here, he sees a suspicious looking vehicle and we begin to pursue it off-road.The car turns out to have nothing but this was a very exciting hitchhiking first experience.

The trip ends with the gentleman dropping me off on the door step of my hotel and we part ways.Feeling proud I think I need to do this more often.

This completed a 50 hour plus on or waiting for bus rides.I have had four of these mega trips; Equator to Peru, Bolivia to Argentina, Brasil to Venezuela and Venezuela back to Colombia.These trips vary from trip to trip yet, they always share the basic characteristics.They are lengthy, uncomfortable, and test my nerves and my personal hygiene to the limit.As Choquette, a man who has been there for trips like these, "After trips like these Evan needs a shower, food and a place to rest".This is true.I am highly irritable after trips like these but I am beginning to mellow out with age.

I wanted to write this piece to illustrate what traversing a massive region like South America is like but also to share one other tip bit that I have found about myself.

Traveling for 8 months now and covering the miles that I have the road for me, like other travelers, becomes home.It is not home because I desire it to be.It is not home because I am one of those travelers whose running from something or have a general distaste for home. I am not one of those travelers who feel it is more self righteous and feel cool saying the road is home. Rather the road has become home because it is familiar.In a world were cities, climates and cultures are constantly changing and friends are met, made and leave days later, the road stays the same.I have gained a level of familiarity with the road that I never knew I would or could gain.

For example, if the bus is a double decker bus and is traveling during the day to get a bottom level seat because the upper deck boils.If the trip has beautiful scenery and is not to hot then I need to book a top level because the views are superior.I know the precise eating and drinking regiment to put in place before a long trip to avoid going to the bathroom constantly.I know exactly where the best seats are with the most leg room on certain makes and models of different buses.I comprehend the how transportation company network their routes together for the greatest level of efficiency.I can identify which location is going to have the least amount of light, noise and security guards in an airport or a bus terminal in order to get some sleep without being bothered.I can sit and laugh at all the people who line up like cattle in order to board the bus/plane/train/boat.They leave their comfortable seat in exchange for sitting in a Q for 20 minutes while I sit calmly and wait until we are about to leave and then get on the bus (seems like a simple concept but most people can not wrap their minds around it).I make it my duty to initiate a conversation with the person I am sitting next to and my mission to make them smile and/or laugh.All of these and many more small travel nuances I have obtained during my journey.

This is the reason the road brings me comfort because I understand it.