Day Three: Optional Extras

Having taken another “options” vote over dinner the night before, it was not such an early rise on our third morning, with another bus set to speed us through our first leg for the day. I am not sure if this was the reason why we ended up at Santa Theresa’s only club, drinking surprisingly good, but strong, cocktails until the early hours, or if it was the two for one cuba libres (rum and coke) at the restaurant before that egged us on, but I had to admit that my gashed knee and ripped pants enjoyed the momentary rest.

Heading , we got out to follow the train tracks all the way to Aguas Calientes, at the foot of Machu Picchu. Again it was an easy flat stroll through the selpa, and we arrived well ahead of schedule. Not much more than a final destination/resting point for hikers and tourists alike, Aguas Calientes is a reasonably charming town, with its chalet-style restaurants and hotels and train running through the middle. Unfortunately though, it is also filled with expensive food and drink and an inordinate amount of framed dead insects (butterflies and tarantulas).

Again, I blame the “options” voting system here, when I say that either wisely or unwisely, I forwent a siesta and instead followed some of the boys up Putucusi mountain for an early side-view of Machu Picchu. Eder had already warned us that it might not be such a good idea – not only after last night’s festivities, but also after a patch of rain came through during lunch to wet the many wooden log ladders on the climb. But stupidly, none of us were deterred from the 1900 or so stairs (so the Israeli guy ahead of us counted), which came in the form of an extremely slippery, seriously rotting, 25m-at-its-longest stair – conveniently missing several rungs along the way.

It’s no wonder, with my relatively petite legs, that I almost didn’t make it up. But with Eder adamant that he would hold my foot as I heaved the extra bit over gaps, there was no turning back. Besides, I didn’t come all this way just to shop for preserved animals. Little by little, we eventually made it up the unrelenting stairs to have our first taste of what we would see tomorrow morning. The impressive, but not-so-ancient remains of the Incan city lay open in front of us, clouded over by the passing storm.

Day Two: On The Up and Up

Our next day came much to soon – not because of the 6am start, but because of the damn rooster who started calling out at 3am. (I thought they were supposed to come up with the sun?) At least there was a hearty breakfast of pancakes, omelettes, paw-paw juice, and the best bread in Bolivia (very croissant-like) to keep me focused on the task ahead. Just to be sure, I filled up on coca tea to keep hopefully induce further alertness.

Our trek started on a flat road that led out of town, taking us past the abandoned train station – covered over like its adjoining village by a landslide almost 10 years ago – towards the river. Following its pleasant route between the mountains, we continued past the bend, taking in the view of the nearby peak with its white iced fringe. But the climb up started soon though, as we near the path of the Incans, and I thanked God in between stifled breaths for our frequent stops - cursing my low blood pressure every other.

Remembering that this was meant to be the “easiest” part of our journey, I was a little fearful when we finally arrived at our first stop and my lungs and legs were stuffed. Sitting down to rehydrate and snack on empanadas and bananas, our cameras were kept busy by the sideshow combination in front of us. Tied to various stakes around the balcony area were a wild pig, a picuro (badger-looking animal) and a monkey, who were all obviously very used to putting on a show for passing traffic. I really wasn’t sure what to make of the whole scene, except that I was pretty sure this wasn’t part of the original Incan pilgrimage.

Neither was the homemade chocolate displayed on the table in front of us, handmade by our hostess, which tasted so bitter and strong without the usual milk and sugar. But with a dot of her organic honey, which she claimed was the secret to her younger looking skin – and, at the 55 years she tells me, I would have to agree she is miles ahead, er, behind, native comparisons – I am treated to a much more pleasant experience.

Buoyed by the sweetness, but still a little worried about the next “harder” part of our climb, I approached Eder for some advice. Thinking about it for a moment, he called for a bottle to be brought over and offered me some alcohol to sniff. Perplexed by this apparent solution, which I had only ever seen used on weightlifters and boxers, I was hardly relieved to be leaving again. But as we set off again, the slow up and down of the next part of the trail turned out to be completely manageable – even without all the breaks.

The walk was so easy in fact, that only an hour and a half later we arrived at our lunch destination, before the group ahead of us had even eaten. Such was our luck, we ended up waiting in hammocks for them to finish, before settling down to our own three courser of guacamole, bread, chilli dip, stracciatella soup, chicken spaghetti bolognese and pineapple jelly. And with only a few more hours of walking left in the day, it was back to the hammocks for an afternoon nap. (Nothing says Inca Trail like a full-bellied siesta).

On the final leg of the day – supposed to take two hours, but taking us just over one – we passed by another group on the chain bridge – the Danish girls I had stayed with on the Isla del Sol – before arriving at the hot springs. But before we got wet, Eder explained that we had a few options to choose. Given the setting sun, if we were to walk to our hostel in the Santa Theresa, we would have to leave in just under half an hour, but if we chose to take a taxi bus there, we could stay until dinnertime. And, with the steam from the 35 and 40 degree waters rising in front of us, our choice was a bit of a no-brainer.

The heat is a welcomed treat for our soon-to-be-sore muscles and is the perfect accompaniment to a few cold beers. (It’s now that I start to understand how easy it was for the English girl I met to have ‘missed’ Machu Picchu – too hungover to make it out of bed on the last day).

Day One: Downward Madness

Picked up early than I expected, I was a little flustered after being shoved immediately onto a waiting bike. Particularly when everything was around the wrong way for my comfort – brakes, gears etc – and the rest of the group, I later realised, had been collected by car or had strolled to our meeting point. It didn’t bode to well for the next four days, I thought, where I would be climbing my way through the selpa (high altitude jungle) with thirteen others.

Of course it was the usual false start, and almost an hour before our minivan finally starting moving out of the city, retracing most of yesterday’s steps back to Ollantaytambo. Here we stopped to go to the toilet and get some snacks, and I armed myself with some more essential supplies of moisturiser (the altitude robs your skin of everything). We then got back on the road to climb up into the mountains and and zig-zag our way to our biking spot.

Again, it was not long before the journey left me nauseous - particularly because the driver specialised in speeding up around the corners – and I felt like I was on a slip-shot propulsion ride at the Royal Show. I really couldn’t see the logic in it all, unless he was trying to send us over one of the precipitous edges and force an early retirement.

After much head-bowing and closed-eyed concentration, we got to our starting point for the bike ride and dismounted to be given our wheels (I say that in the most literal of senses because most of our frames were being held together by hose-pipe and gaffer tape). Unlike my previous efficient encounter with the Death Road, we were left to pick an upturned bike and hope that the gloves and helmets fit. I don’t think any of us really got a perfect match – least of all the other Australian girl in our pack, who lucked out on getting something to protect her hands.

Similarly, our descent was started with no real instructions and I was glad to have already conquered Bolivia. I feared though, for the other members of my group, knowing that many of Peru’s roads are rumoured to be worse. And the path we were on was certainly a forerunner with its u-turn bends and snaking blind corners. Add in some speeding cars, trucks and other cyclists, and faulty brakes, gears and handlebars, and you might imagine some of the peril.

Luckily the first part was a bitumen road, in moderate condition, and those of us who either didn’t have brakes or didn’t use them, cruised down easily from 4300m. A few stops later, each one calling for more and more mechanical assistance (I think the idea of maintenance hasn’t reached Peru yet, and so quick fixes are the norm) and we were seated with our packed lunch of cheese rolls, fruit and various sweet and savoury biscuits.

But as soon as we were back on our bikes, the menacing gravel appeared, threatening to send each of us skidding into the watery roadside trench. Again, there were no instructions, and no real guide either, after he (Eder) was forced to swap bikes with Dutch guy Eric, whose brakes and gears had both given up. Needless to say there were a few minor mishaps, some preliminary baths if you like, but we were definitely more fortunate than the other group who had a more serious broken-in-half mishap.

Our ride finished quite early in the afternoon, not taking the five hours we were originally told, and we piled into the minivan, unsure what would fill the rest of the day and night. But like much of the rest of our individual travels throughout South America, it is beer and conversation that warms us up after our freezing cold showers, sending us to bed in anticipation of our first day of hiking.

Sightseeing in the Sacred Valley

It seems I can’t escape my confusion with money and I had to race off first thing in the morning to get more out to pay for the hidden entrance fees on my tour. Apparently all I have paid for is the bus and guide - the agent I bought my ticket from obviously forgot to mention the other 70 Bolivianos (AUD$35) I must produce to get into the National Park areas.

I eventually get back onto our cozy tourist bus, and we pick up various people around town, almost filling all of the velvet blue velour seats. The street sellers are already clustered around the main square, Plaza de Armas, and its lesser sister-square, trying to convince anyone who looks remotely like a foreigner to buy their jumpers, scarves, batteries and massages. People complain about the aggressiveness of their tactics, but I have been to Bali: I have seen much worse.

Our first sight is Sacsayhuaman (pronounced “sexy woman”) - the Incan walled complex – which, at only a few kilometres out of town, we pass by without stopping. Our tour guide takes this marker though, as an opportunity to begin a short history on the Incans. We are told that over 8 million of them existed at their peak, but that contrary to popular belief, most of them were not killed in battle with the conquering Spanish, rather, forty per cent actually died in the sixteenth century from syphilis (although various other web sources say it was a combination of smallpox, typhus and influenza).

We are also told how gold was not seen as important to the Incans (only used for decoration of tombs, temples and ceremonies), but that it was a different story for the Spanish, who immediately used the Incans as slave labour to extract it for trade and wealth. We then start our descent into the Sacred Valley where maize covers the fields of almost all available space, providing ample fodder for local beer production, and company for the many scattered cacti.

Our first stop is at the pueblo C’orao – which in Chechuan means grass, and was the original Incan place for llama sacrifice. But all we find here is a typical souvenir market, set out in eight identical rows, and a scruffy looking man selling photos with his glazed llamas (who is a bit too quick to remind me that I have to pay for the privilege of each shot). A sign behind him announces the opening times as Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday, and I suddenly realise why these are the only days that tours are available too.

I get back on the bus with another pair of colourful llama legwarmers - who can resist their fluffy warmth? – and we pass through more villages that have been hit by successive earthquakes (1350, 1650 and 1950), strangely consistent in their devastation. Eucalyptus trees spread themselves once again across the unfamiliar landscape and our tour guide informs us that they were planted in nineteenth century to stop the effect of erosion, during their six month-long rainy season (October to March). We are also told that people chew the leaves too, for its medicinal properties, but I can’t help but smile when I think of all the koalas that do the same, and drop out of trees completely high.

As we drove on, I looked out at the mud-brick adobe gateway leading to nowhere, at the steppes climbing their way to the top of monstrous deep-wrinkled mountains that frame the sides of the valley, and breathe it all in. We stop at Mirador Taray to get the best view of the Sacred Valley, which, at more than 200km long, was so named because the Incans believed it to have the most fertile soil. The Urubamba River twists and turns its way throughout the panorama, all the way to foot of Machu Picchu.

Next we arrive at the town of Pisac – 32 kms from Cusco – self-proclaimed on an entering wall mural as the artisanal capital of Peru. But it’s really just another larger winding market, and so the only thing I buy is food. I taste my first wholemeal empanada which is definitely the worst I have had yet, and take a further punt on an alfajore-look-a-like that tastes more like a hammy Tartaric acid than dulce de leche. I guess the fertile soil hasn’t really been put to such good use after all.

Fortunately there is choclo (literally “corn”, but a savoury version of our sweet vegetable) and fried cheese (much like haloumi) at the next archaeological site of the Incans and where are told that the terraces carved here formerly produced a range of hot (fruits, coca leaves) and cold (potatoes, barley and wheat) goods at the bottom and top levels respectively. But the relentless snaking path starts to hurt my head and tummy soon and I can’t help but curse the intelligence of the Incans for not realising the beauty of tunnels. Add to this the inane repetition of Blondie’s “Call Me”, which is apparently the only song the driver has, and I am well and truly ready for our ‘typical’ Peruvian lunch.

That is until I saw the garish orange-clad Pocahontas-esque girl waving us down at our destination. Now I am not sure if it was the clip-on black plaits that she wore, or the looks that she copped from traditionally dressed locals that put me off, but I was not really in the mood to pay 35 soles (AUD$18) for an all-you-can-eat banquet being served to pan flute renditions of the Beatles and Phil Collins. The restaurant next door, with its 8 soles (AUD$4) three course menu was, in my book, much more authentic.

From here we head to our final two destinations – Ollantaytambo, the incomplete gatekeeper town of Machu Picchu and Chinchero, a former Incan town - believed to be the birthplace of the rainbow - transformed by the Spanish when an adobe colonial church was built on its former ruins. I can’t resist bargaining for some carved wooden kitchen tools before scoffing down another choclo and cheese combo, and a meat stick and heading back to the bus. It will be an early start tomorrow, and a few heavy days of walking, with the start with the Inca Jungle Trail and my pilgrimage to Machu Picchu.

Inca 101

Arriving way too early in the morning to check-in, Andy and I are left doing the only thing that a traveller can at 530am: Facebook. A little while later, I feel ready to brave a shower, which luckily is hot, and I head to conquer the bag room, which is stuffed full of backpacks from those already up at Machu Picchu. Knowing that the clock is definitely against me, I head out straight away to check the local scenery and organise my own tour.

Like most of the travellers here, I haven’t booked six months ahead for one of the coveted Inca Trail spots – which only allows 500 people per day a day, including guides - regulated to protect the significance of the ancient path. Instead I must opt for one of the other ‘alternative’ routes that run almost every day of the year. Following on from my recent biking exploits, I am instantly attracted by the four day Inca Jungle Trail that involves a day of mountain biking before two days of hiking, hot springs and a final climb for sunrise over the fallen dynasty.

Figuring I probably need at least a day to sort myself out, I find one such place, which will give me a student discount and keep me safe from the horrors of tenting for only USD$125. I also spy the Sacred Valley tour for the next day, which I think will be a good way to absorb some preliminary Incan history.

I wander further down the hill towards the San Pedro Markets to grab one of their famed juices and trail through the fresh cheese, caviar, chicken soup kitchens and obligatory alpaca goods. Throwing caution to the wind about my baggage allowance, I indulge in some strong coca chocolate - ready for my next role in the States as Aunty Collette – excellent for making fresh hot chocolate.

After here I make my way towards Avenida del Sol to the Cathedral and Convent of Santo Domingo, built on the site of the Incan House of God (Suntar Wasi), their Coricancha Church and the palace of Incan Wiracocha. Here I am amazed at the accuracy of Incan construction – with stones being perfected moulded together in angles, without need for cement or binding. I can fully understand why it took more than 100 years to construct.

Finally it is about time to check-in (the weird booking ‘system’ at Loki’s Hostel means that I basically have to wait for someone to leave before I can get in, despite my reservation), and so I stroll back, stripping down to my t-shirt when the overhead sun starts to burn away the layers of cold I have amassed in the last few weeks. I eventually make it into my room and promptly fall asleep only waking later to confirm my tour in American dollars, and finish my night with a beer and a plate of chips in the Loki’s bar.

Us and Them

(These moments seem to grow in number the longer you are away)

Sitting the next morning on the ferry back to Copacabana I am witness to one of the horrible things about being a visitor in a foreign country. Having almost completed our journey back across, one of the owner’s does the rounds to collect our tickets. But it seems there are a few people aboard who haven’t bought them – a half-Australian, half-American couple and another German couple.

I suddenly remembered pieces of an earlier conversation of theirs where they said they would just try and bluff it back, not having left enough money to pay for the trip. And with no ATMs on the island, and only one that will work today at 230pm in Copacabana, I can’t at least partially understand - we are all out of money. The Danish girls we have been with have been forced to eat tomatoes, cucumber and crackers for three days, with only 10 centavos (5 cents Australian) between them. The English girls have 10 Bolivianos (AUD$5) to last until they get to La Paz tomorrow morning, and I have had to borrow 50 Bolivianos from Andy, just to make it back.

But despite all this, we have all still scrapped enough together to purchase our return tickets (albeit at the doubly-inflated return price of 20 Bolivianos). And now we must listen to the complaints of these others who have chosen to eat well instead of set aside the appropriate cash. So when they started trying to bargain their way back for half the price, I got really annoyed.

You wouldn’t do this back home, I thought, so what makes it any different here? Worst still, I hear one of them exclaim: “It’s only $2, what’s the big deal?” And I can’t help it when my mouth opens to clear the embarrassing air that has settled upon our boat. “It may only be $2 for you, but for him, it’s his livelihood,” I bark back, mustering all the disgust I can in my voice.

And so, despite all my equal moanings about changed prices, dodgy tickets and false information, I somehow knew this was different. It was the attitude of the two couples that really offended me. Clearly they were here just as tourists (talking of renovations plans for when they return, and what holiday they were going to book next), not as travellers. They were exploiting their position as affluent foreigners to make their own rules. They were not accepting the experience as it is – flaws and all. Why did you come here if you are not willing to take it all in? I thought to myself.

Hours later, on the bus again to Puno and I am reading Rolf Potts collection of travel stories - “Marco Polo Didn’t Go There” - struck by the distinction he continually makes between the experiences of the tourist and the traveller. And I realise that even with only eight days to go, I must make a choice to accept whatever this country, and the next, throws at me: stolen credits, wrong information, smelly buses. It is all part of being here, it is all part of being in Bolivia.

An Un-God-ly Climb

It was another early bus ride out of La Paz – but this time I opted for the more expensive, but less-people-and-smells, ‘tourist’ bus. Clearly working on Bolivian time, it arrived late and we ended up hanging around in the city centre for even longer. But with the many street stalls around, and my breakfast-less tummy grumbling, it was easy to hang some money out the window and score some cheap empanadas to pass the time.

Eventually our half-full bus drove steadily through rural towns where cows, llamas and chickens were all feeding off the grass, tied to stakes, and small crops of quinoa and wheat pushed themselves between shack-houses. We travelled towards our lakeside destination, Copacabana, via a curious water crossing at San Pedro de Itiquina. Needing to pay a 1.50 Boliviano (30 cents Australian) charge, we all had to get out of the bus, and watch as it was taken backwards across the water on a barge, with us taking another smaller boat, after paying for the tax.

Somehow we managed to lose a person in this short space of time but after driving around for a few minutes, the driver decides they are not worth waiting for any longer, and so we leave. Climbing up further on the other side, the day is remarkably warm, despite our 3800m height, (the lake which we are driving around – Lake Titicaca – may or may not be, depending on which section of Lonely Planet you read, the highest navigable lake in the world). And I am surprised once again to see Australian eucalyptus trees everywhere.

The experience is a bit like driving through country Victoria – somewhat of a Mount Hotham before the last lot of bushfires – there a chill is still in the air, but it is eventually no match for the warm sun above. Of course the journey is not the three and a half hours we are told, rather it is about five hours before we get the full way up to the winding roads that wrap around Lake Titicaca.

We eventually arrive at the top of Copacabana, and I can only assume it is for the benefit of the taxi drivers that we are thrown out so far from the main plaza. And with my growing collection of bags, walking is not really an option anymore, so I share a taxi with an English guy Andy who is nice enough to take one of my bags for me. We head straight to a tour office and grab our onward tickets for the ferry to Isla del Sol, before settling down for a quick bite at a local restaurant.

I opted again for the three course lunch special, which at less than AUD$3, more than amply fills me with soup, barbecued meat, salad and chocolate-covered banana. So good! We then trudged ourselves down to the water to wait to board our trip to the supposed birthplace of the Incan Sun God, and are entertained by a band playing various pompous tunes for a fiesta that is going on further along the bay.

Finally we got on, and I am instantly greeted by the owner who laughs at the size of my bags and takes delight in informing me of the 250-plus stone steps that will greet us at the other side. Apparently Lonely Planet didn’t think it was important enough to mention to would-be travellers. Hmmmm…Strangely enough too, as we coasted along to the island, my phone started to work for the first time in almost a month - in the middle of the lake. So Bolivian.

But unfortunately by the time we had arrived the driver had squashed any plans we had of trekking to the other side of the island to see the museum, and had instead offered to take us on a walking tour of the island, and to carry my bags up the stairs. Bugger the tour I thought, I would just pay for the luggage!

And when we get to the other side I am glad to have the extra help, as I still struggle to get up with just my handbag and heaving lungs. After about half an hour we reached the top (something tells me that this place will never be overwrought with tourists), completely knackered from the climb, and settle in to watch the amazing view. It’s just about the only thing to do here.

I look out as donkeys haul cloth packs stuffed full with goods up the bumpy paths, and traditional women in their knitted tops, full skirts and bowler hats attempt to sell a small collections of their handcrafts to the few guests. And before the sun sets and the cold sends us inside to play cards, I guess it is just as well that we are only here for a night.

D-D-Death Road

I was pretty tired and nervous when I woke up the next morning to take the bus to ride down Death Road. Having spent so much energy just trying to pay for the ticket, I was not sure if I should have read it as a bad omen and chosen to watch the Chuletas (traditionally-dressed women wrestlers) instead. And when the Scooby Doo Dodge van pulled up outside the hostel, I was almost back in bed.

But despite all this, and the knowledge that I was about to ride down a road that at its peak killed over 300 people a year, I jumped in and was soon shivering away with the other four people in my group. Sitting alongside the snow-caps at more than 4800m above sea, our starting off point was nothing more than a flat piece of dirt with a few potholes. It was here, in this bare desolation, that we were handed our gear and I cursed myself for not paying for the extra comfort of knee-pads and wet-weather gear. Eyeing off the other two couples kitted up in their polar fleece and clear plastic, I stuffed my jeans deep into my socks and took a deep breath. But getting onto my bike, I was instantly surprised at the ease with which the doubled-up suspension took care of the bumps and jumps in my path. If only I had known about these bikes in Melbourne, before flattening myself against its gauged tram tracks.

Next up were the instructions for our journey, with one of our two guides, Salamon, speeding through the gears, foot positioning and braking system with a little too much gusto for my liking. A little worried that I might have missed some of the Spanish, I of course got a second run through in English, and it was here that I learned we would be travelling a total distance of 64km, descending a monstrous 3500m to a final resting place of about 1300m. No wonder eight people have died on this trip.

But there wasn’t much time to register this before Salamon was asking us if we were ready, and, not waiting for a real reply, was already peddling off in front of us. Taking a sensible approach, I decided to take last position so that I could travel at my own pace for the first 32km of paved road, closest to our trailing van. And what a pace it was – speeding downhill about more than 45km an hour, I could barely see what was going on around me.

We sped through clouds, past tiny pueblos (towns) that were nothing more than a few roadside shacks selling water, lollies and chocolate. We competed with the many buses and 4WDs on the road, spinning around bends before skirting off the road to use our cameras and enjoy the view. But it wasn’t until we reached the tunnel by-pass that I got my first taste of the rubble road that would continue, and I got completely spooked as my bike took a spin in the dirt.

Quickly regaining my composure, we continued on to meet up with one of the couples and our other guide, who had requested to take a path without cars. Smart people. Here I dared to ask the all-important question of how to control my brakes and avoid the skids, and a new world was suddenly opened up to me. No sooner had I learnt the skill in alternating the back and front tension, than I was forced to put my understanding into practice, with the start of the dirt-laden Death Road.

Seldom used now by cars and trucks, who were luckily given an alternative bitumen road a few years ago, the track has been left for tourists like myself to experience the danger that for many years was the only passage through these areas (and so named after a government report in the 1980s that started the campaign for a new route to be built – this time, not by Paraguayan prisoners-of-war).

Hardly wide enough for a single car, let alone the double lane of traffic that used to frequent its rocky surface, it is no wonder that the chassis of many vehicles can still be seen at points along the bottom, and that the start our journey involved lots of dust. Luckily we stopped several times along the way, with each of the guides taking turns to explain the next part leading us further down. A mixture of winding bends, steep descents, waterfalls, and gravel sections, each section needed a different approach, to avoid a catastrophic end.

Needless to say it was a pretty hairy ride, but I soon got the hang of the corners and rocks and started to ease off on my braking. I passed the two other girls, and headed up to the front where the boys were throwing in a few jumps. Not wanting to be outdone, I of course attempt a couple of these too, but mostly just end up wet or sore bum.

And with the last section (my favourite) a steep 55km an hour cruise into a waiting bar, I suddenly realised that I was not the least bit afraid anymore, rather, was contemplating buying my own bike again when I get back to Australia.

A Small Note To Travellers

The delay in recent posts is because I have spent much of the last week trying to use my credit card to pay for things again. For future reference: when you come to the end of your trip and you are in a country where everything is so cheap, don’t rely on your credit card working.

Unfortunately it seems Bolivia is still working from a manual system that is controlled by a third party “Enlace”. These guys apparently act for Mastercard and Visa here, although my bank in Australia hadn’t heard of them nor had them listed in their directory. Anyways, long story short, if a transaction is to go through, Enlace must given an over-the-phone authorisation so that money can be returned to businesses as per usual.

The only hook for me was that apparently each time I tried to get this going, I was told there was no connection to my bank – the National Australia Bank – and they could not approve my spendings. Not so great when your available cash is not so available. And not so great when all your bank can offer is a bypass authorisation to this process (which was not acceptable to the store-owners) or a phone number in America (which did not connect).

I guess I can only be happy that less than 24 hours after getting a cash advance on my card, it was stolen. Goodbye problems – for now.