If there is one thing I have noticed in my travels it’s that, for the most part, the rest of the world makes really shitty toilet paper. So to speak. But it’s not just restricted to the bathroom. Virtually all the paper products I find around globe leave a lot to be desired. Like the food on your face or the shit on…you get the idea.

Argentina is no different. Napkins, towels, and for crissake, the toilet paper. No worries about squeezing the Charmin. Nobody is interested in squeezing a roll of butcher paper. And that old “Bounty” lady would have a field day here. Most of the napkins are roughly the size of a postage stamp with just about the same texture as tracing paper.

Yes, I recognize that this is just the most obvious illustration of our wasteful, disposable culture, but I gotta say, when we throw something away, we throw away the good stuff.

Of course, most homes in Argentina have metal garbage bins cemented into the sidewalk outside their homes that look roughly like a shopping basket welded onto a pole. Last I checked, the average, suburban American had a rolling green Rubbermaid monstrosity the size of a Volkswagen. That usually doesn’t include the other bin the size of shoebox for the “recyclables.”

Sigh. We may do things better, be we don’t necessarily do things right.

All too frequently, traveling is one of them. Ushuaia is a popular tourist destination for the wealthier set, what with it being the port of call for most all of the exotic cruises around the Tierra del Fuego and Antarctica, so subsequently the place is chock full of old, obnoxious American tourists. The people who are basically the reason why Canadians sew flags onto their backpacks so as not to be confused with them. I watched today as no less than a half dozen cruise-bound Americans walked into various shops and restaurants and immediately began barking at the staff in English. Not even a “hola.” I admit, I am far, far, FAR away from being labeled as the epitome of cultural sensitivity, but I at least try to be considerate. And when wandering around in a foreign country, especially as an American in a time of war, do everyone a favor and at least TRY the language. Make an attempt. How about a greeting or a “muchas gracias.” Really now. I’m sure you picked up some of those words from your gardener.

And if you can’t manage that, at least ask them FIRST if they speak English instead of looking like a jackass and assuming.

Anyhow. I digress.

I’m still in Ushuaia, still wandering around pretty much doing a whole lotta nada. My knees aren’t so achy, so I will probably scoot out to the Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego tomorrow for a quick little hike. Ushuaia is surrounded by parklands and mountains and various bodies of water. The flight in to this tip of our world was spectacular (at least the part of it when I was conscious) if a little unnerving for anyone unaccustomed to low approaches over miles of jagged, craggy peaks. I admit I was surprised how close we were to the mountains, but it takes a lot to rattle me while in the air. I’m usually sound asleep before the plane takes off, a fact that can be confirmed by my recent travel partner who didn’t believe me until she looked over en route to Iguazu to see me slumped over and drooling like a toddler before the beverage cart even got rolling. And although I’ll do a lot of things just to win an argument, intentionally drooling over myself isn’t one of them.

You do 150 flights a year and see how long it takes you either succumb to the monotony or freak out and start bawling when they run out of your honey roast peanuts.

Ok. So that’s a lie. Most airlines don’t serve peanuts anymore. The twelve of you with allergies and law degrees ruined it for the rest of us. Fuckers.

Anyhow. Like I said, I’m still in Ushuaia. I found a gymnasium a block from my hostel, a cramped and noisy but generally quality joint with nice beds and a big kitchen, so I spent an hour this afternoon in a decent attempt to get some blood flowing into my upper body. They had a room full of twenty-year-old Argentine exercise machines and some rattling free weights, but a day pass cost me a grand total of $1.75, so I wasn’t about to bitch. The owner was a friendly Argentine with the same cocky swagger and over-zealous need to offer help with your technique as most of the gym rats in America. No matter. I’ll never turn down a spot. I was just happy to move some weights around. As it was my first time doing anything more than a pushup in better than a month, my temperamental tendons are currently reminding me just why they like to have regular exercise.

Insert more Advil here.

I swear the connective tissue in my body has the elasticity of decade old rubber bands.

It’s funny, I had been wondering if I could find some surgical rubber training bands to bring on this trek to keep those muscles in good working order and lamenting that I didn’t have anything heavy to lift, when the whole time I was lugging around a fifty pound pack complete with handy, well, uh, handles.

The things we overlook.

I didn’t do much off anything yesterday as I was feeling a bit under the weather and didn’t want to get sick just days before boarding the vomit vessel. I basically just wandered around town and napped a lot. On the upside, backpacker life is still providing plenty of interesting characters to keep me entertained in these downtimes. I met a cool British backpacker who, like me, after being sent to one too airports decided one day just not to come back. He had a great story about getting arrested in Zanzibar and tossed into a jail for a day because he unknowingly refused to yield his rental car to the oncoming motorcade of the president. Note to self: Always yield to the limo in Africa. I also was introduced to what may be the first Republican backpacker – at least the first I have met - and a potentially half-crazy Canadian dude who became the first person I have met in a hostel that made me reconsider that whole “shared bathroom” concept. I’m sure he’s a perfectly nice guy and I’m probably just misreading things and all, but my “Danger Will Robinson!” warning immediately started sounding when I met him. He didn’t appear to be an escaped psychopath or anything; it’s just that he seemed totally to be the kind of person who would open the curtain to your shower to rap if he knew you were in there.

There’s also Caro, the young Brit and current bunkmate with an accent so overwhelmingly thick it sounds like a bad impersonation of an overwhelmingly thick English accent. She is in Ushuaia to work aboard a massive windjammer that is bound first for Antarctica and then for Cape Town. There are the two French backpackers I am convinced are lesbians, not that there is anything wrong with that, and finally there’s the blonde guy from some random European country who I saw outside yesterday playing with those silly-ass hippy juggling sticks. He has a broken microchip glued to the center of his forehead. A microchip. Glued. To the center of his forehead. I swear, I would not, could not have made that up, and I swear that before I leave this place, I must, MUST get his story.

And I also swear that I’m not so secretly thrilled that he is not my bunkmate.

You know. Just in case his chip is programmed to kill all bald Americans while they sleep.

If any of you have anything dramatically important to say to me, best do it right quick. Once I get on that boat I won’t have email access for at least ten days. I’m not sure that I can handle that much time unwired, but I figure if enough of you send me porn tonight, I might just survive.

I have also learned that I can mail postcards from Antarctica. Yes, the card will have an Antarctica postmark, but it will probably take about two months to be delivered, as they really do leave via the slow boat from that icebox of a continent. I think carrier pigeon might make better time. I have no idea what that postage is going to set me back, but despite my current status as unemployed dirt bag, I may be motivated to send a few.

If any of you nutters have an overwhelming urge to receive a postcard from the great white south, best email me your address now. You never can tell. Maybe I’ll be feeling generous. Maybe I’ll be desperate to write just to thaw my fingers. Maybe. Though emails that include naked pictures, Adriana Lima’s home phone number, or donations to my paypal account (themightyjimbo@yahoo.com) have a way, way better chance of getting acknowledged.

Penguins look out.

Hasta.