I spent three months in South America and for the first three weeks, I was convinced I had made a massive, expensive mistake. I was sitting in a plastic chair in a bus terminal in Puno, Peru, clutching a bottle of lukewarm Gatorade and trying not to throw up on my own boots. The altitude was hitting me like a physical weight, and every ‘must-see’ list I’d read on the plane felt like a personal insult written by people who had never actually stepped foot outside a Marriott. Travel writers love to use words like ‘magical’ and ‘vibrant.’ They don’t tell you about the smell of diesel fumes at 12,000 feet or the fact that your stomach will probably be in revolt for a solid month.
That time I almost died in a Bolivian hostel (and why you should go anyway)
Bolivia is the most uncomfortable place I have ever loved. It is objectively difficult. The infrastructure is a joke, the food is mostly carbs and mystery meat, and the weather changes its mind every twenty minutes. I stayed at this place in La Paz—I won’t name it because I think it got shut down anyway—where the ‘hot’ shower was just a showerhead with exposed electrical wires taped to it. I’m pretty sure I saw a spark every time I turned the dial. I spent four days there with a fever of 102 degrees, shivering under five alpaca blankets that smelled like wet dog. I felt like a failure. Here I was, in one of the most ‘authentic’ places on earth, and all I wanted was a Chick-fil-A and a clean toilet.
But then I went to the Salar de Uyuni. Look, I know everyone goes there. It’s the ultimate cliché. But standing in the middle of a white salt crust that stretches until the earth literally curves away from you—it does something to your brain. I tracked my heart rate on my Garmin during the sunset (it hit 115 bpm just from the view, or maybe the thin air). It is the only place in the world that actually looks like the photos. Most places don’t. Machu Picchu? It’s fine, I guess. But it feels like a theme park now. Bolivia still feels like a secret, even if it’s a dirty, oxygen-deprived one.
The Salar de Uyuni is the only place in the world that actually looks like the photos. Most places don’t.
Stop going to Cartagena, it’s a humid tourist trap
I know people will disagree with this, and I’ve had friends tell me I just ‘didn’t go to the right spots,’ but I genuinely loathe Cartagena. I might be wrong about this, but I think the entire city has been turned into a backdrop for Instagram influencers who don’t actually like traveling. It is oppressively hot. Not ‘nice beach weather’ hot, but ‘I am melting into the sidewalk and my shirt is permanently fused to my back’ hot. Every five seconds, someone is trying to sell you a hat, a cigar, or a tour you don’t want. It’s exhausting. What I mean is—actually, let me put it differently. It’s a city that has lost its soul to the cruise ship industry.
If you want Colombia, go to Medellin or Salento. I spent 14 days in Salento and tracked my coffee intake against my productivity on my laptop. I averaged 5.5 cups a day and did zero work. It was perfect. The air is cool, the people are actually kind without wanting a tip, and the Cocora Valley looks like something Dr. Seuss dreamed up after a fever. Cartagena is a stage set. Salento is a place. Don’t waste your money on the coast. Total waste.
The math of the perfect Argentine steak
Buenos Aires is the only city in the world where I could see myself living. I’m not even a ‘city person,’ but the energy there is infectious in a way that isn’t draining. I ate 9 steaks in 11 days during my last trip. I’m not proud of it, but I’m also not sorry. I remember the bife de lomo at this tiny parrillada in San Telmo—it was 42,000 pesos in 2023, which felt like a steal at the time given the blue dollar exchange rate. The steak was thick as a dictionary and I didn’t even need a knife.
I have this weird, probably irrational loyalty to Argentina. I’ve bought the same pair of leather boots from a shop in Palermo three times now. I don’t care if there are better ones online. I want the ones that smell like that specific street corner. Argentina is messy. The economy is a disaster, the protests are frequent, and the locals are some of the most beautifully arrogant people you’ll ever meet. They know their country is the best, and honestly, they’re right.
- Eat: Don Julio (if you can get a seat, which you can’t, so go to El Gran Paraiso instead).
- Walk: The Reserva Ecológica Costanera Sur at sunset.
- Avoid: The Caminito in La Boca after 4 PM unless you want to get mugged.
I used to think Brazil was too dangerous. I was wrong.
I spent years avoiding Brazil because I’d heard too many horror stories about phones being snatched and beach robberies. I was completely wrong to wait so long. Yes, you have to be smart. Don’t walk around with your iPhone 15 Pro Max in your hand like a beacon for trouble. But Rio de Janeiro is the most beautiful city on the planet, period. The way the mountains just erupt out of the ocean is like a giant green hand reaching for the sky. (That’s my one metaphor for the day, don’t get used to it.)
Anyway, I spent a week in Ipanema and realized that the ‘danger’ is mostly just a lack of common sense. I carried a dummy wallet with 50 reais and an old expired credit card just in case. I never had to use it. The food in Brazil, specifically the pão de queijo, is a religious experience. I probably ate 200 of them. I weighed my backpack before I left Rio and it was 2kg heavier than when I arrived. That was mostly just cheese bread weight. Worth every penny.
The part nobody talks about
South America isn’t a list of ‘best places.’ It’s a series of endurance tests followed by moments of total clarity. You will get diarrhea. You will get scammed by a taxi driver at least once (I lost $40 in Quito because I was too tired to argue). You will probably cry in a bus station at 3 AM because the heater is broken and you’re freezing. But then you’ll see the Fitz Roy peaks at sunrise or share a beer with a guy in a tiny bar in Valparaiso who tells you the history of the world, and you’ll forget the bad parts.
I don’t know if I’ll ever go back to Peru. The crowds just felt too heavy last time. I might be getting old and cynical. But I think about that electrical shower in La Paz every single time I take a bath in my boring, safe apartment. There’s something about the risk that makes the memory stick. Why do we travel if not to feel a little bit uncomfortable? I’m still trying to figure that out.
Go to Buenos Aires. Skip Cartagena. Drink the coca tea. That’s it.
