Acrobat of the Road

THINGS THAT CAN HAPPEN TO YOU IF YOU HITCH-HIKE IN COLOMBIA

2012-01-23T11:00:00.000-08:00

Written by Laura Lazzarino lau_bsas@yahoo.com

To follow Laura's blog in Spanish check www.losviajesdenena.blogspot.com

Translated by Eric Blair
.

Despite the fact that hitchhiking was popularized in the sixties, the stigma of moving around the world in this fashion still hasn't been overcome. It doesn't matter how many countries you've traveled by thumb, the cars you've gotten in, or the books you've published on the matter, people are always going to assure you that hitchhiking is the most dangerous thing in the world, that no one is going to pick you up, and that the best way to get out of the city is to take a bus. And let's not talk about the prejudices that fall upon a person when they hitchhike.

Still, we, already convinced, carry on with our South American enterprise, and after almost ten months of traveling everything has gone better than we could have imagined. We didn't expect Colombia to be the exception. In the international imaginarium Colombia is synonimous with everything BUT good, unless you are talking about drugs or coffee. What reaction could a person expect when we said we were about to abandon the safe arms of Ecuador to cross FARC country with no more or no less than our thumbs in the air? Catastrophic. That was the forecast. But we have already been here more than a month and the gravest thing that happened to us was having to drink four cups of coffee in one morning.

As much as this article is about debunking the erroneous suspitions of traveling in Colombia, it is also intended to share with the readers the amazing doings that have accompanied each outing to the road in Colombia. This is my experience of an afternoon just like any other when we were going from Cali to the Coffee Axis region.

After two weeks of comfortable urban residency in Esmeralda's house we said goodbye to our friends with the intention of leaving the city behind. With one bag full of cheese sticks and arequipe sweets as a gift for the road, we walked two blocks to the MIO, a public transportation system in Cali. We approached the window and aksed the employee to put two trips on our card. She looked at us. First at us then at the backpacks.

"Chileans?" She asked with enthusiasm. I know that she yelled it, but the thickness of the glass barely let me hear what she just said.

"Argentines," I replied with a smile.

"And why are you leaving? Don't wanna stay and visit around Cali?" With her index finger she drew a circle, reenforcing her idea about visiting "around" Cali.

"We've been here for two weeks. We already saw everything," I exaggerate.

She put her fingers together in a rose bud shape, a very Italian-esque symbol for a question. Next, she drew a circle in front of her. She wanted to know where we were going.

"Manizales. Armenia," I yell.

"The best. Have a good trip," she yells to me from her glass cell, and she gives me the thumbs up.

We enter the MIO and I feel content. The people in Colombia do not lack in friendliness. While the bus moves I try to move the same scenario to any given subway station in Buenos Aires. To imagine a Metrovias employee insisting that I stay in Buenos Aires is so impossible that it makes me laugh. No, no. Those people don't even bother to smile. A window worker concerned about your trip and inviting you to stay in her city is what can happen to you if you hitchhike in Colombia.

We continued the trip. The MIO left us at the end of its route and we walked to the service station right where the route that we wanted to take begins. A security guard came near us with an ugly face, and while I distanced myself from him by going to the bathroom I imagined the possible dialogue between Juan and the guard. I am sure that he'd come to kick us out, but no. I came back from the bathroom and I found Juan so self-satisfied, serving himself cold juice inside the office. The guard was standing next to our backpacks and watching over them. "He's going to help us get to the exit, and he even gave me juice. Want some?" Indeed. As soon as we got out the man made a gesture to a bus and he asked him to help us to the last station. The ticket taker accepted without any protest, helped us with the backpacks, and from one moment to the other we were in our seats waving goodbye to the security guard who was waving goodbye so enthusiastically. Out of the two possibilities of this encounter with the guard this one was the least expected. A guard at a service station offering you fresh juice, watching over your backpacks, and getting you a free ride on a commercial bus is something that can happen to you if you hitchhike in Colombia.

The ticket taker passed by charging the people for their seats, but he skipped us. The people next to us didn't seem to mind. On the contrary, they wanted to know where we were from, where we were going. We traveled just a bti and soon it was time to get off. The place we got off at was not remotely convenient. We approached the driver with a map and he gave us an uncomfortable piece of news: in his rush to help us, the guard put us on the wrong bus. The highway ahead of us was the Panamerican, which goes all the way to Armenia, but it is not the scenic route we had hoped to take. But we were already there. We thanked the driver and began walking and looking for the exit. A few minutes later someone blew their horn insistingly. It was the same bus that stopped next to us. "I'm not going to Armenia, but to El Cerrito I can take you all." The ticket taker said to us as he took our backpacks off our backs and put them in the luggage area. The people that just saw us get off saw us get on again and they smiled. Behind us a street vendor got on and offered bombones. I sank down in my headphones when all of a sudden I saw a packet of three chocolates balancing in front of my nose. The hand dangling them was from the passenger traveling next to us on the opposite side of the aisle. "For you to have on your trip."...he smiled and told me. As if it weren't enough for the driver to decide to take us for free out of his own will, now the neighbors were giving us sweets for the trip. Really, this can only happen to you if you hitchhike in Colombia.

We arrived to the exit in El Cerrito. The driver blew his horn twice and got lost in a cloud of dust. We look for the shoulder of the highway and began to hitchhike. A lady approached us and told us that the next day there was a truckers strike, that it'd be better if we got a ride quickly. "I hope we don't have to stay here until tomorrow," I thought. Twenty minutes later a soda delivery truck went by slowlly in front of us. It was one of those that doesn't have walls, and carries everything in plain sight of everyone. I had always wanted to get on one of those trucks. And wish granted. They took us to the next town. Wind in the face, green fields and mountains of coffee, all together in front of us. "This is happiness," I told myself. Judging by the smile on Juan's face, he must've been thinking the same thing. A half an hour later the truck stopped and the workers said goodbye. But not before asking us "How it's going, Maradona..." We cross the street now emboldened. It didn't seem like it would be so difficult to get to Armenia. Forty-five minutes later we weren't so sure. Many vehicles passed by and no one even looked our way. At moments it seemed like Argentina to me. And at times it seemed worse. I know they were scared, and there's a story to back it up, but couldn't they notice we weren't part of the guerrilla? Let's see, when did you ever see a guerrilla fighter hitchhiking? We decided to start walking, frustrated. From what they have told us, in this country, this is quite common. Being stranded for hours and hours on the road, very exhausted and with no one wanting to pick you up can also happen if you hitchhike in Colombia.

We walked less than half a block and a car stopped. A wild pack of shoes seemed to bark from the rear window. There were many of all colors. "This is a purse mobile," joked the husband of the driver while he tried to make us space between the closet on wheels. They were going straight to Armenia and that fit us like a ring on the finger. They were a couple young, the same age as Juan and I. In the driver's seat was the girl driving cautiously. Every time they came next to a truck he insisted: "Blow it, mami," and stuck his arm out the window, hoping the trucker would blow the horn. After the silence, she consoled him: "These truckers just aren't like they were in the old days, papi. We have to look for an older man to respond." And together they laughed upon realizing the childishness of the situation. They got along very well and it was a pleasure to travel with them. They wanted to go live in Chile to work and afterwards go back to Colombia because their business wasn't going so well. In this manner we spent time talking the whole two hours it took to get to Armenia. On the way there we called our contact. First she told us yes and for us to call in a half an hour. Later they didn't respond and said she was in the bathroom and finally that she is not our contact. It was a total mess that concluded with us in the center of Armenia looking for somewhere to go. We didn't get scared. Something was going to happen. When we got out of the car and said goodbye the man put twenty-thousand pesos in Juan's hand. We didn't want to accept it but they insisted. "At least you will be able to pay the hotel. It doesn't make any sense for you all to keep looking for that woman." We gave them a book to make the exchange a bit fairer and we set out looking for our solution. It wasn't the first time someone gave us money, but neither was it something that happens so frequently, even less from people our own age. Therefore it qualifies for the list: in addition to picking you up people give you money when saying goodbye can happen to you if you hitchhike in Colombia.

What happened next borders upon tragicomedy. We decided to go to a cyber cafe to look for a hand of salvation that would get us out of the situation. Yes, we had money to pay for a hotel, but that would be our last resort. We got on a computer and copied some phone numbers from the Hospitality Club website. For those who haven't heard about this system it is a site created in 2001 to help unite travelers with local people. The idea is to promote cultural exchange through an exchange of free lodging, thus the "hospitality" part. It works by sending an email a couple of weeks ahead of time to the people living in your destination and you arrange a meeting. But there's also an emergency outlet for situations like ours: to call directly by telephone. So while I was checking my email, Juan took care of calling the recent contacts and explaining our situation to them. The cyber cafe was empty and Juan was speaking so loud. The owner of the place began to ask us about our situation. Finally, a contact named Juan appeared and indicated to us how to get to his house, telling us to "ask for Juancho, the computer guy, at the door." Done. Matter resolved--save for one little detail: the curiosity of the owner of the cyber cafe. We explained to him everything very slowly and omitted some points to keep him from worrying too much. In the middle of the explanation another man entered with a suit and tie and joined the audience. And he didn't miss the opportunity to get on his compatriot's nerves.

"Don't let these kids leave just like that! No, no! You should know where they are going!"

Each and every attempt we took to keep him from worrying was totally in vain. He had gotten himself so worked up that he picked up the phone and called Juancho to ask him exactly where it was that he lived and to tell him that he knew we were headed that way. When our next host explained to him again where he lived, the man came back more calm yet more nervous at the same time. (Yeah, don't ask how, but this man showed that it was possible.) He told us that the neighborhood was calm and that it was best for us to take a taxi. The man in the suit took it upon himself to call a cab driver friend of his and I took the opportunity to go to the bathroom. Upon returning I noticed the man in the suit wasn't there anymore and that the other man was talking to the police on the phone. This was the dialogue:

"Hello, sir. I have here two young ones, two Argentines that have arrived with no place to go. They tell me there's a Traveler's Hospital Club (I lost it!! God give me the power not to burst out in laughter!) Yes, sir. It's a hospital that takes in travelers, and they have to meet up with Juancho who's from there. He must work in that hospital. But I don't know one Juancho from Armenia (Armenia has 250,000 inhabitants). What happens if they get robbed? That's why I'm telling you it's better to report it, for someone to know where they're going, so come please to take their testimonies because Juancho sounds a little suspicious to me." (Based on what?)

The thing is that with the police on their way we couldn't leave, and while we waited the man told us: "I already cancelled the taxi. Let's see if the police will take you. That way you save on the trip," and he finished the phrase with a wink. The truth is that if they took us we were going to save about two dollars, but what was our contact going to think? What if they wanted to search him or something? He was trying to help us! How embarrassing! When the police finally got there and saw our faces they understood that the man was overly worried, and as they put us in the taxi they explained to the man that "not everyone is so untrusting with the internet. Nowadays, it's common." And he replied: "But how can it be common for these kids to sleep in a hospital?" I laughed a lot on the way and tried to recreate the mental image that this good man had created, of the Traverler's Hospital Club that takes in travelers! People worrying on a personal level about your safety can happen if you hitchhike in Colombia.

In the end, Juancho was no sort of drug trafficker, and he put us up in his house for a night. We left the next day with the goal of arriving to Salento, happy about the previous day but a bit tired still from all the work in Cali. We headed towards the exit and got as far as we could go. No one stopped and my patience was getting low. At the traffic light, a boy of 17 years was working as a live statue and collected coins from the drivers. We got away from him so as not to bother him, but after waiting half an hour we saw that he was coming towards us. He shook our hand and asked us where we were from and if we had eaten . We told him yes, that we were okay, and he said goodbye. After ten minutes we saw him coming towards us again. He was bringing two cups of coffee and five empanadas. He sat for a moment with us, but he didn't want to have breakfast, and he hurried off to his post. That simple gesture moved me so much I cried. I thought about it a lot, and I felt so thankful. When we finished eating breakfast we continued on with our task without much result. We saw the boy coming back again. This time he gave us his hand full of coins. We didn't want to take it, and we were arguing for a good while. Yes, no. Yes, no. His last sentence was emphatic: "I feel better if you all have them. I do well for myself. Don't turn them down just because you see me working in the streets." There was no other way out but to accept the coins and to hug him so thankfully. There were 6000 Colombian pesos ($3.00 USD). When I told my mother that same night what had happened, she again told me something that since the beginning of my trip she has told me many times: "They are angeles that God sends for the road." I don't like to contradict her about matters of faith, but the truth is that in this case I must make an exception. To think that they are angels gives them a divine and heavenly aura and it takes away the merit of their acts; it's like saying that they behave that way because they are instruments of God. And I saw them: they are people of flesh and bone, of sorrows and smiles just like any other human being. And they are good because that is the essence of man, although they don't want us to believe otherwise. When someone tells me that what we're doing is dangerous I always respond: "I am convinced that in this world there are more good people than bad. It's just that the bad ones get along better with the press." Beacuse of that, meeting marvelous people, with open hearts and overwhelming kindness can happen if you hitchhike in Colombia.

SIX DIAMONDS UNDER COTOPAXI'S SHADOW

2012-01-11T22:30:00.000-08:00

Our stay in Macas worked as a homey-refill station before hitting the road again towards the Quilotoa region, in the high and cold Equadorian Andes. Just after getting off a 1967 Nissan Patrol I found a playing card on the road, s six od iamonds. Since I began travelling in 2005 I have came across many abbandoned playing cards. I very often felt tempted to collect the, but never did until now, driven buy the quest to collect the whole set randomly as the road decides to deliver them in front of my eyes.

Sonw-capped Cotopaxi reflected upon the indigenous women'e eyes as we all shared a pick up truck. We were bound for no specific destination. SO we welcomed a farmer's suggestion to visit his community, called Guayama, and stay at his families' place.

Inside Cesar's house, women peal potatoes and prepare mid-day meal. Out of the sudden, they say they want to make a special request. Surprised, they ask if we know any agronomic engineer who may want to help their community ti improve the arid land's productivity...

Cesar and his poncho whirling on the wind.... Next morning, we are invited to join the family to the market taking place in a nearby vilage called Guangaje.

As the community meets in front of the church to trade vegetables and llamas, dedicated artists perform a typical dance....

and they effectively gather an elegantly clad audience.

Three women, three llamas. The one unbelievable thing we experiences in Guangaje was mass. Not that we suddenly became believers, but the priest had a Toyota pick up and was driving us to Quilotoa after mass, so we showed some interest. Italian born, the priest openly told the indigenous faithful ones that people in Europe could no longer have babies as a consequence of condoms. Apparently, he was just happy watching at locals having 8 or 10 kids per family when they clearly can't afford to raise them, forcing them to emigrate to big cities like Quito were they loose their identity. There has to be a relationship between poverty and demographic, not as one causing the other, but as the second stressing the first one...

MEANING AND PREPARATION OF AYAHUASCA - A HANGING VINE FROM SKY

2011-11-04T11:02:00.000-07:00

TRANSLATED BY ERIC BLAIR - My word wizard!

“Do you all want to try Ayahuasca?”—in Pascual’s proposition there was no sign of taboo. After a week in the jungle we now felt integrated into the family. We knew the character of each and every child. We knew that Manolo was rowdy and daring, and kept hoping for a smile out of MARCELLI who seemed not to have found in her three years of existence a reason to show facial expressions. We had a special connection with Cristian who had confided in us his reservations about studying in the city, and afterwards had taught us how much he knew about the jungle (we, in an unfair trade, taught him how to play chinchon). We had towering vines cut by machete in order to accept the internal wáter that flows through them, swum in their rivers, and tried all their manjar, accompanying them even in the peculiar banquet of sampling ayangos, giant red ants ingested alive after taking off their wings. In this context the invitation was offered.

We haven’t entered the jungle in search of ayahuasca, but we have seen it. According to Pascual the concoction is a vital part of the Shuar culture. The plant communicates a vision to them that can be about the past, present, or future. Not only adult men take it but also women and children. “When one is little it is possible to have a vision that he or she will live 80 or 100 years or have to kill a man or go to war.”

The jungle is that which gives food to the Shuar and provides them with materials for their huts and canoes. It’s logical as well that the jungle, reconfigured behind the mask of ayahuasca, that guides them in that ritual journey of introspection. They have wandered in the jungle for millennia to come across this hidden compass, the heavenly vine, as its etymology suggests. All of this reveals a know-how, a symbolic domestication and practicality of nature.

The scheduled night we walked barefoot in the mud-as always- to the family kitchen. When we entered we saw Pascual waiting on us with a serene pose next to the ayahuasca that with much love he had worked on all afternoon. First, he had chosen very carefully the vines. He had cut them in equal parts and next, with his machete, had scraped off the mosses that were adhered to the bark. In order to avoid a “bad dream,” he had imitated his ancestors and wrapped very carefully the green residue and returned them to the jungle. With a large stone he grinded each little trunk, adding a dosage of a leaf of yiaji to each crushed up trunk. In the perpetual fire at the center of the hut he had boiled the potion, surrounded by curious little chickens and his dogs until he obtained a dense syrup.

An inoffensive marmalade. It was this that the amber concentrate seemed when Laura and I accepted our cups. She and I were arriving to this common crossroad of destiny from completely different routes. During her pre-trip life Laura had had an attitude of rejection towards any substance that promised to distort in any way her consciousness. Perhaps the double morale of our contradictory society had worked its way into her, a double standard that breaths a relaxed atmosphere of harmful drugs like alcohol and tobacco but catalogues as “dangerous” these substances that are less functional for the production line. Honestly, her impermeability towards any type of temptation had always surprised me. However, it seemed to me that she maintained these barriers because of pride for which her curiosity showed.

Mi case was different. I had never traveled for the hunt of “altered states of consciousness,” but I had tried them out with a collector’s intrigue, with the same ritual inquiry I have when I expose myself to new cultures, languages, and places. I had never pilgrimaged to Catamarca in search of San Pedro that whispers the meaning of my life nor had I spent more than an afternoon in the coffee shops of Amsterdam or Christina. I met many travelers on mystical journeys who traveled all of Latin America with expectations to have magical encounters with some mushroom or plant. Aside from a few exceptional cases, these cases seemed to me a marathon-like catharsis with the urban saturation as a point of refuge. They are valid escapes-but escapes in the end-made by a miserable soul used to moving through the subways and the working around schedules. I had abandoned very early in life that world, with two foundational addictions as my first-time gear: poetry and the road. Perhaps because of having this lifestyle that I had always dreamed—constant travel—I never felt any urgency to dig out secret pockets of the soul in search of other senses. I had had mystical experiences with acids in India and I can say I learned from them, but I wasn’t waiting around for them, but better said had stumbled upon them through opportune invitations.

Now the case was the same. I had stumbled upon ayahuasca and I accepted it calmly. Next to me was Laura in a fix. The stories of “enlightenment” and heightened understanding that we had both heard about were striking to her, but the stories recounted to us about travelers vomiting and defecating themselves upon drinking the concoction instilled fear in her. Perhaps what we shared in common about ayahuasca was that we didn’t expect it to be a delivery of clarity given the uncertainty of our lives.

When Pascual put the cup before me I drank it with respect, following the practiced taught to me by the Russians in order to chug any given drink: exhale all the air and drink the liquid with the instinct of breathing demanded by the lungs. When the cup reached Laura, she was about to reject it. I suppose that Jimena’s, Pascual’s fourteen year old daughter, presence encouraged Laura to drink. In the middle of the Amazon, the brave Laura was putting her consciousness into the hands of a vine.

For a half an hour, both of us felt a certain abdominal discomfort. Pascual watched us quietly as if he were a stone guardian with peace ambushed on his face, almost abstract. Around the light bulb night butterflies fluttered in a fury. Then came the moment that Pascual suggested we return to the house we were staying at in the village. On the way wack, the mud felt morbid, immaterial. Laura vomited on the way. Next to each other inside our tent set up inside the cabin, we both let ourselves go with the plant. I’m not going to talk here about Laura’s visions (see her blog), and I’m afraid that my own are of little inspiration and not so exciting.

As always, I kept my pen and notebook at hand (once in Laos, an involuntary combination of antimalarial medicine and marijuana made me write a kilometric poem). The colors and geometric patterns began to parade around my closed eyelids. In addition, in the old Indochina, an experienced Frenchman swore to me that ayahuasca submerged itself into a person without piety in the depths of miseries. I believed I maintained a level of acceptable coherence in my life and I left the plant to be the judge. Think about my mistakes, I supposed I could be judged based on my exaggerated love of the road, for having left behind my studies, for being almost a stranger to my nieces and nephews (whose birthdays I sometimes remember), for taking my stories and the social journey as sacred.

But such a judgment never came. Geometric figures, snakes, masks that seemed to be molded in African ebony appeared and dissolved. Fractal outlines, multiples of themselves. Among all this picturesque carnival I managed to see cursive letters drawn in the void. Later, I saw the cover of my own book, Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil. Suddenly, a map of South America appeared next to it, and it was being filled with cursive writing that was now more intense and fierce. In those days I had certain minor dilemmas about how to fit all the realities and challenges of such an extensive continent. Latin America, for me, was infinite, and we were too curious for our own good wandering around this region. I felt then that the plant was advising me to limit the next book to South America in order to give more protagonism to each story and each struggle.

Speaking of struggles, soon after surged a sequence that both Laura and I shared. In a painting, the Shuar were coming out of the bushes of the jungle waving their spears and blowpipes, closing in files against the threat of mining companies. Their faces looked painted as if in signal of war and they adorned themselves with feathers. Among them, to my greatest surprise, was I, also holding a spear (then I remembered that Florentino, another Shuar, had given me the nickname Nanki, or “spear”). In the background the phrase “You’ll never convince us” resonated.

Those two visions were the clearest. During the four hours that the effect lasted, neither of us lost lucidity. At most we were slightly dazed. In the morning I asked Pascual if maybe I had had a lower dosage than Laura. He responded to me what I had already suspected: the plant chooses, if there were no more visions it was because I didn’t need them.

The human mind is like an onion with different levels of consciousness, an infinity of internal folds. For a system that values the dog-like attention of the individual to the orders of a boss, substances like ayahuasca or marijuana can implicate a threat to this system´s foundation. The alteration of consciousness is produced, and at much more embarrassing and pernicious levels, during the excess of alcohol, a venerated and promoted state from the age of fifteen and up. But it is accepted because it permits a letting-go of tension and anxiety generated by consumerism and because of that contributes to its continuity. When the alteration of consciousness, in turn, is accompanied by dangerous learning that may challenge or contest the established order, then we work for the imposition of discredited labels. It doesn’t matter what the manuals of the efficient contributor to society say, the plant has earned itself a spot in the world. It has been officially declared Cultural Patrimony of Peru, and it is used by some psychiatrists to treat phobias. I interpret the disinterested offering of the Shuar and a petition for alliance given their problems (thus the vision of the spear).

If you, the unknown reader, are considering the option of going off to the jungle in search of the wisdom of this plant, don’t forget that you will be using for your benefit an element of its culture. Your ethic will tell you until what point you deserve to indulge in these fruits without knowing the strength of the roots. The Amazon is, to use chess terms, in check, and it is much more than ayahuasca: it is depredation, mining companies, and multinational oil companies. You can see here our humble attempt of giving back to our Shuar friends. Happy travels!

NAME-GIVERS OF JUNGLES AND SACRED WATERFALLS

2011-09-24T21:40:00.000-07:00

TRANSLATED by Eric Blair

We were getting close to Tsunki, a Shuar community in the Ecuadorian Amazon. When we had everything under control, one of the passengers in the canoe told us that Pascual Yampis, our local contact, had left for Macas. We feared that the rest of the community would be hostile or unfriendly towards our visit. When the canoe finally arrived in Tsunki we were exhausted and we didn’t even know if we would be well-received. However, by only mentioning Pascual, his wife, Rosana, came up to the precarious dock and gave us our welcoming. We climbed the stairs carved out of mud and with timidity took cover behind Rosana and her children, among other locals who looked at us perplexedly.

A wooden cabin separated from the ground by some wooden boards was assigned to us. Inside we set up our tent to protect us from the various insects of unpredictable size. I noticed that on top of each cabin there were solar panels. Other dwellings in the community were simply huts thatched with straw in the traditional style. Later, we would learn that they were not homes but kitchens. In the middle of everything a wide open space served as a soccer field. We fell in exhaustion on top of the sleeping bags and deeply slept for three hours, lulled by an amazon diluvium, until we were called to dinner.

In the famliy kitchen we were invited to dinner, seated at a school bench serving as a table, in an area separated from the kitchen by a partition formed by some planks between which the fire’s smoke was filtered. One of the little girls put two plantain leaves in front of us which wrapped up a ration of chicken with sliced up hearts of palm, a typical dish known as ayampaco.

Afterwards –just as I feared- we succumbed to the chicha ….. The preparation of chicha, made from boiled yuca, is a task delegated to the women, who spit the chicha into a pot so that human bacteria can make the yuca ferment. Slowly, the drink develops a higher alcohol content. The final concoction is served in a cup made from “pilche,” a native fruit. I had learned to fear that yellow hemisphere filled with sour liquid. But I had to accept it in order not to offend our hosts. Laura can certify that is is very difficult to find something I’m not willing to consume: I used to consider myself an ostriche, and here I am completely defeated by the laws of the jungle. In this context I formulated a theory about the existence of an individual palate and another that is cultural and collective. And in this collective palate of the Shuar yuca is praised instead of forgiven; therefore, it is the staple tuber of Amazon villages, and assumes the role of the potato and corn of the Andean world or of wheat in Europe.

After dinner we asked for permission to go into the humble kitchen. Until then they were tending to us as if we were ambassadors –and maybe we were, from another culture- but sooner or later we wanted to break that barrier and to share space. A fire was burning in the middle of the room. The pots and cooking utensils were situated on top of a wooden table, while changinas, sugar cane baskets used by the women for collecting on the farm, were hung from the ceiling. On another table some of Pascual’s eight children sat side-by-side. There were so many children that we never got to see them all together, quiet and in the same place. We still didn’t know we would fall in love with this family. At that time the children still looked at us with a mixture of respect and fear. The first name that we memorized was Manolo’s, maybe because he was always monkeying around, dancing, or running to us wih capturaed cicadas in his little hands.

We went back to the cabin somewhat let down because we didn’t get to have a table chat with Rosana. Five minutes later, she entered out of nowhere, sat down on the floor, and, as she breast fed her baby, began to talk to us about her life. She was 34 years old and had had nine children, one of which died from a vomiting complication. Just to reach a doctor requires a two-hour canoe ride and then a small plane to Macas. She speaks with a serenity that doesn’t omit her fortitude. She pauses after every word. The Shuar speak Spanish whimsically and with ever-changing grammar. Nevertheless, they are masters of a language just as exuberant as the jungle whose words name trees, seeds, forces, and spirits. More than just a language, it is a cosmogony. Rosana explains that each of her children possesses a Hispanic name and a parallel one from the Shuar. Cristian, the oldest of sixteen years, is Arutam (the supreme spirit of life), while Henry is Itti (wasp). She proudly clears up that all of her children are baptized, but when Laura asks if they maintain their beliefs she belts out like a geyser a mighty YES. In Egypt I went to Mount Sinai and the desert environment where the Judeo-Christian god spoke to Moses. In comparison just imagine the religion that the Amazon jungle may have dictated to man.

Our first encounter with that jungle occurred the following day. Cristian solemnly offered to go with us to a waterfall. It would be silly to think you could keep up with someone who has walked in this jungle since his first steps. The Shuar adolescents have very toned and robust bodies and are efficient receptors of the hunter and warrior legacy of their race. Each three or four steps Cristian tells us the name of a fruit or a tree. Just like a wave of a magic wand he makes once unknown objects shine upon the fabric of our urban ignorance. Over there is the pitchfork, and we learn that it wasn’t straw used to thatch the dwellings but instead a type of palm. There is also a plant from which they extract a poison used when fishing. A few more steps and…”You all wanna eat hearts of palm?” Cristian steps away about ten paces and with his machete begins to chop a palm tree. He returns with a cylinder the size of a bazooka, a great surprise for us who are used to small canned ones from the supermarket. After a while, with the manners that characterize him, he asks: “Would you like to try grapefruit?” With one swing of the machete it falls, with another he cuts a small piece and then offers to Laura: “Take this, ma’am.”

The journey to the waterfall isn’t simple. Sometimes we had to climb just by holding onto roots and lianas and cross fallen and mossy trees used as bridges. Cristian notices our difficulty and makes us two walking sticks made of sugar cane. He anticipates the road. He walks ahead of us and takes out all the low-lying branches. Some of his machete swings are absolutely necessary to create a path and to counterattack the slow and growing bite of the jungle. At regular intervals, other swings from his machete end up jammed in hard trees that he would never be able to take down: through them Cristian establishes a dialogue with the jungle, perhaps even expresses his affection for them. .

Finally, we arrive to the waterfall. It’s not huge, but it creates a beautiful watering hole for swimming. I let the vertical torrent wash over my head, at least for a second. The light is magical. Before diving into the water Cristian crosses himself, executing a premeditated act of syncretism. In Shuar thought waterfalls are sacred. The Shuar men only go to some of them during periods of fasting and “with a mission,” as Cristian designates to the occasion of drinking ayahuasca. Just before he puts his foot in the water Cristian announces that the water frequently inhabits a boa. When he sees our reaction he clarifies: “It’s not a real boa. It’s the spirit of a boa.” All of this talk concerning being devoured and the essence of the creatures of the jungle is something typical of the Shuar. The jungle gives us armor, not only with mud and sweat but with its legends. Our urban world, when evoked (with difficulty) from the symbolic bushes of the jungle, is a fictional narrowness, which likely projects no shadows or influences. From below, above, and all around she is resounding. Beyond each specie it is a supportive conglomerate that contemplates the scorpion, his venom, and the exact antidote hidden in the bark of the right tree. The Shuar know about the relationships between all the entities of the forest. They are served by these relationships. They name them in myths and songs. And they die in them..

“We don’t need to go shopping. The jungle gives us everything. We live free here,” explains a proud Cristian. Some might see the Shuar as a relegated Amazon people that abandoned the loincloth just a few decades ago. In my opinion, however, they make up a sovereign community from their environment. There is no division of labor here. Each person knows how to fish, hunt, and cure, and could parachute into any other sector of the jungle and, like a seed, could reproduce each aspect of the culture. In comparison, a city kid is an inept addict to videogames. And because of this I fear the moment when the mining and logging companies contaminate their environment, forcing them to move to the city when they can no longer hunt their huanta or armadillo and are made to be common workers in a building under construction. Furiously and with powerlessness I am reminded of the Ayoreos that I met outside of Santa Cruz de la Sierra who were once great hunters but now weave cell phone cases or panhandle in the streets.

We went back to Tsunki. Under each step of our boots the texture of the jungle, woven in a language of light and chlorophyll, crunches. It has only been a three-hour hike, but only now do I start to feel convinced –and not only theoretically- that the defense of indigenous cultures must not be understood as a behavior based upon altruism or backing them into a corner of anthropological rarities, but as a horizontal line, a barricade resistance, together with the ancestral wisdoms of the planet, together with the few who can educate us about respect towards the land.

SANTA CRUZ SIDE "B" - THE GLOW OF TRASH

2011-09-01T10:27:00.000-07:00

Far away from the Santa Cruz de la Sierra downtown, where glamorous cambas show off their lifestyle in Bolivia's cutting edge city and economic capital, other people -mainly internal migrants- make a living off recyling.

Cooperativism again is the key for success. Cooperativa La Estrella has direct contacts with the factories they sell cardboard and plastic to. In this way they avoid intermediares.

Most people ignore where all the boxes and catchy packing of the items they consume go to. Consumism has its other ending in the recycling system. In this way a taboo and double morale is born: what is desirable in the shops turns into something worthy of shame in the dumpsite. We don't like to see the eventual resutls of our lifestyles.

Postcards of a dumpsite. We were glad to have been able to document the alternative realities of a moodern cities like Santa Cruz de la Sierra.

EDUCATIONAL NOMADIC PROJECT IN THE PARAGUAYAN CHACO

2011-08-29T18:05:00.000-07:00

As we hitch-hike around the world we visit schools in oder to share stories of cultural exchange and hospitality. (Learn how to support the project here) In the Paraguayan Chaco we visited school "Nuevo Amanecer". The school is attended by children from seven different nationalities: churupíes, nivaclé, angaité, paraguayans and even some poor German Mennonites.

We then headed to Mariscal Estigarribia, where we also visited schools "Nuestra Señora del Chaco". Above you can see the headmaster preparing a traditional dress for the Bicentenary celebrations.

Different aspects of Mariscal Estigarribia. Above: the militar quarter. Below: Nivaclé natives.

MENNONITE CHACO: SEARCHING THE FORMULA OF ETHIC PROSPERITY

2011-08-29T17:40:00.000-07:00

Our experience in the Paraguayan Mennonite Chaco, quite surprised to find a Hindenburg Avenue in the middle of the harsh enviroment... In the picture, the "Cooperativa". If you are German, then you can become a member. If you are not a member, forget about healthcare, education, etc..

The main city in the area is Filadelfia (German name: Fernheim). Note the traditional architecture. It doesn`t look at all like the rest of Paraguay.

Special paths for bikes, another Germanic innovation in a country doomed by traffic chaos..

People in Filadelfia were celebrating Eastern behind closed doors. A Christian celebration meant to share evolved into a very private event here. So we just hit the road and hitched a lift, decided to explore the network of Mennonite villages around Filadelfia. We would accept all rides. And that's how we got to know Martha and her family. Martha is a social worker from neighboring Heimstatte. We stayed at her place for three, visited their lands and cattle. We were really surprised at Martha's awareness of issue like single mothers. She was quite a revolutionary lady considereing her enviroment, always encouraging her community to create fair links with Paraguaya society.

APOLOGY OF LEAKS IN THE CITY OF CONCEPCION

2011-07-24T21:24:00.000-07:00

“I would invite you to stay at home, but I am poor" – had been Asuncion's statement. The woman on her fifties had met us on board the Luz María. She had presented us fruits as a way to spark conversation. So we stayed over overnight in the ship and on the following morning we visited her just to drink some tereré. Invariably we were invited to stay a few days. The family was really poor, and lived in an unfinished house with a large garden sprinkled with trash. For us it was however the chance to explore everyday life of a Paraguayn family. Asunción introduced us her daughters, persistent enought to pay for university by selling empanadas in the street.

Charge your cellphone credit!

Eastern had arrived, and Asunción didn't stop cooking chipá, and never hesitated to offer the best they had. One night there was a terrible storm, so we all moved to the only beedroom in the house whose roof didn't leak. Sheltered by their hospitality we realized again how humble people with leaks in their roofs can be more human than those who decorate their palaces with cristal from Murano...

NAVIGATING THE SKY: UP THE PARAGUAY RIVER ON BOARD THE "LUZ MARIA"

2011-07-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

After visiting remote areas of rural San Pedro Departmen Laura and I headed to Paraguay River, where we embarked on a lazy journey up the river on board the Luz María, an old wooden boat. The Luz María was commanded by Mr. Jacquier, an 80 year old kind man who had spent 50 years of his life sailing up and down the same river. He lived, worked, dreamt and breathed the river... He was proud of the Alfa Romeo engine that propelled us, which didn't deterred butterflies from caressing its carcass as it kindly advanced...

After witnessing a scenic sunset we stayed overnight in the Luz María, before setting foot in the city of Concepción.

COMMUNITY RADIOS AND AGROECOLOGIC SCHOOLS IN SAN PEDRO

2011-07-24T20:55:00.000-07:00

Fighting transgenic seeds is just the first part. Tesai Reka has gone beyond and created CEI (Centro de Educación Integral) where students receive agroecological education. The school has 30 acres of its own property.

We shared our views in a debate group formed by community radio activists, complaining recent laws limiting their power range and possibility to cashing advertisment. We were surprised to learn that university students traditionally don't get involved in social struggles sustained by oher sectors of society.

TESAI REKA – THE STRUGGLE FOR HEALTH AND THE REDENTION OF PANAMBI

2011-07-24T19:30:00.000-07:00

Isn’t this butterfly beautiful? Considering travel to South America? Be welcome, but also note there are social problems beyond the beauty of ruins and landscapes. Paraguay is a country where 46% of population lives below the line of poverty and 60% have no access to the health system. In this context it’s paradoxical to see Colorado party politicians complaining that the government of Lugo and social organizations hadn’t been able to heal in three years the poverty they themselves contributed to establish in the previous sixty.

Luckily for Paraguay, there are people striving to change this scenario. In San Estanislao we met the people of Tesai Reka (the search for health, in Guaraní) a foundation who has been working for over 13 years in order to bring tools and primary health attention to rural areas, empowering communities.

We stayed for nearly a week in their base at Punta Suerte, taking it as a basis to visit surrounding communities. In that way we met Ña Juana, this lady as lovely as commited with the social struggles of its people. She is trying to organize rural women into a cooperative to produce poultry.

In San Pedro Department land is concentrated in few hands. Land Reform has never reached humble farmers, while other own as much as 50,000 acres. Ña Juana tells us that in Cururubó, landless farmers managed to “recover” 1.004 acres of land from one large cattle ranch. Police force tried to withdraw them seven times they finally settled. When Brazilian farmers occupied recently 800,000 of state owned land to produce soy they were tacitly welcomed and forgiven since their massive agroindustrial activities are perceived as improvements for the land.

Farmers teach us how to chuck corn by using our thumbs as we talk and butterflies fly around, as if they were absorbing the pain and healing the wounds of Paraguayan history.

This is Piña Poity rural women’s league.

HITCH-HIKING PARAGUAY…IN AMBULANCES AND VW BEETLES!

2011-05-20T19:27:00.000-07:00

Tapiabiru is an old Guarani expression that translates as the search for the land without evil. Every men should once in his life attempt a pilgrimage to find –within himself- this revelation. As we set to hitch-hike across Paraguay we wonder if we are not ourselves trusting to find this tranquillity and kindness in present day Paraguay. In the picture, one of the two ambulances that gave us a ride in a single week!

Paraguay is a country full of contrasts. Horse drawn karts and Mercedes are frequently spotted side by side.

Fancy some chipa?

And if a turtle is not enough for you, then stop a Beetle! We got this unique ride in a VW Beetle owned by Graciela, a 50 year old lady, student of Politic Science and hard rocker! For the way the engine trembled we thought of the car as a Herbie with Parkinson, while Graciela preferred to say her car was a special version featuring vibrator!

We ended the Hjek staying with Alberto and Hilda, owners of a despensa (shop). We also asked them were to camp. And nobody in Paraguay is mean enough to let you on your own!! Drinking tereré, watching butterflies flying by and learning Guarani from their 8 year old boy…. Those are the moment when you feel traversed by a culture, as the combined warmth of people and climate hits your chest as the bass of a drum.

PARAGUAY: BICENTENARY OF A WOUNDED FLOWER

2011-05-04T18:53:00.000-07:00

It was fun to arrive by boat to Asunción harbour and get our passports stamped while the guy on the radio was translating Hotel California to guaraní. Welcome to Paraguay, the next country on our round the world trip. Photo: the Cabildo festooned with flags commemorating the bicentenary of Paraguay.

Víctor and his family were our hosts in Asunción. They somehow introduced us to that slow paced culture of sipping tereré, drinking guaraná sodas and eating Paraguayan soup and chipa.

In front of what used to be South America’s first passenger train station folks play board games. People have large 2 liters tererè flasks conveniently at hand.

And what about the local flashy fashion for women-under-the-sun?

The Casa de Gobierno desgined by Alan Taylor was inspired in Versailles. It was meant to be the presidential palace for Mariscal Fransisco Solano López, but he never made it to live there due to the Triple Alliance War (1864-70) when Paraguay was defeated by the joined armies of Brasil, Argentina and Uruguay.

After Asunción we visited nearby Yaguarón. In the picture, San Buenaventura church dates back to 1755. It was built in baroque-guaraní style. This is evident when you spot the angels sculpted with aboriginal factions…

At Sapucai we strolled around what used to be Paraguay’s largest train workshops. Old rusty steam locomotives stay still. When these units were retired from service in 1999 they were still running on wood-burning steam engines. Paraguay was the South American pioneer country in railways. By 1860s the country had developed their own railways, telegraphs and shipyards, and as enounced by Richard Burton who visited at the time “looked down at Buenos Aires as a semi-barbaric Indian power”

All these prosperity ended when England undercover diplomacy dragged Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay into war against proud armed to teeth Paraguay. Nine out of ten Paraguayan men died in the war, leaving behind a slaughtered, bankrupted and doomed to misery country. On the picture old ships from the Triple Alliance war.

EDUCATIONAL NOMADIC PROJECT IN SANTA FE AND FORMOSA

2011-05-03T19:33:00.000-07:00

Lecturing in "Escuela Superior de Comercio nº46" in Santa Fe, in a rather rainy day. We honestly expected the boys to be bothered by our presence, since the absence of one of their teachers meant they could have gone home earlier, but everything went smooth and they became interested as soon as they noticed our subject was travelling, not chemistry!

As nomadic bees we followed Parana river upstream to reach Formosa, where we showed our pictures and told our story in the Escuela nº2, a tidy public school.

Learn here how to support our round the world hitch-hiking jouney aimed at education and literature!

FROM ROSARIO TO RESISTENCIA: THE PARANA AS A CULTURAL AXIS

2011-04-13T20:29:00.000-07:00

After leaving Patagonia we head north towards Paraguay, visiting the Northeastern Argentinean provinces on the way. Rosario is famed for its bohemian riverside feel combined with its sophisticated atmosphere. MACRO Contemporary Art Museum, on the picture, is a good ilustration of Rosario's attitude towards conventions, as traditional agricultural structures are turned into pop art. Over 15 years of continuos socialist government may have something to do with the issue.

Rosario has also been nicked as the capital of sexual diversity. This mural was in the news last week, when annonymous hands washed it off the walls where activist Analí Chanquía had painted. Since the government itself encouraged the creation of a "boulevard of diversity" all suspects go towards conservative groups closer to the catholic church.

En route to Santa Fe we hitched a lift in this Fiat Strada pick up. The driver was low voiced and too respectful towards traffic lanes. It was raining on and off all the time but somehow we managed to make it dry all the way to Resistencia.

Christian and Western civilization - by León Ferrari

We arrived in Resistencia on March 24th, the anniversary of the military coup of 1976, date which inaugurated a dark period in Argentinean history. There was a colourful program of events been carried on in the new "Casa de las Culturas" (House of Culture). Besides local chamamé musicians there was an exhibition by world famous León Ferrari (above).

Obra de Milo Lockett

Resistencia and Chaco province alltogether are not precisely well known for the artistic skill of their men and women. But they should. Milo Lockett (above) is right now Argentina's best selling contemporary artist. Fundamentally, the city is known for holding a World Championship of Sculpture every two years. Winning works are installed across the city. Considering they live in a year round warm region it's surprising to learn that artists from Chaco have won several World Championships in Ice sculpture!

Our Couchsurfing hosts Andrés and Gustavo together with mica and Sara, two biologists making fieldwork deep in the Impenetrable forest. We talked for hours about those cultures being menaced by globalization and soybean.

When we made it to Formosa the calendar was showing its 28th leaf of March, which means it was my birthday. We were received by Lili, a friend of my family. She was able to put together some sort of celebration comprehending beer and ice-cream. We stayed four days in her comfortable airconed house, while getting ready to enter Paraguay.

BOOK REALESED! - VAGABONDING IN THE AXIS OF EVIL

2011-01-01T15:31:00.000-08:00

This is the cover of “Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil - By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan”, my first book to be properly published and available internationally after ten years of do-it-yourself literature.

The book is consciously aimed at providing evidence of the hospitality I experienced while hitch-hiking across the Islamic World, during the first stage of my on going round the world hitch-hiking expedition. In those lands nicked “the Axis of Evil” by George Bush, where mass media only predicates terrorism and violence, I would stumble day by day upon the most genuine and touching samples of human kindness. These pages are a vehicle of understanding, a call for empathy and an attempt to recover the kaleidoscopic diversity of one of the world’s most stunning regions.

GET THE E-BOOK!

VAGABONDING IN THE AXIS OF EVIL

By Thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan

250 pages. 200 B&W photographs. 6 maps.

EUR 5.00

CLIC THIS LINK TO ORDER A COPY

TEXT ON THE COUNTERLID

On May 1st, 2005 Juan Villarino, an Argentinean hitch-hiker, hitches a ride in a sailboat from Belfast harbor to Scotland, with his steps bound for Middle East. Borrowing a snail’s strategy, he carries all he needs in a backpack, and stretches his thumb along both dusty roads and highways. He possesses no credit car or bullet proof jacket. His goal: to cross the heart of the Islamic World solely by hitch-hiking, in an attempt to prove that hospitality sprawls in a region portrayed as terrorist by the establishment media. Turkey, Syria, Egypt, Iraq, Iran, Afghanistan… As he moves across the vast globe Juan lives deliciously absurd events. He enters Iraq at night like a homeless, but ends up teaching hitch-hiking lessons in the Kurdish Parliament. In Teheran he sojourns with the Intellectual resistance against Iran’s Ayatollahs regime. He crosses Afghanistan village by village, having tea in a minefield, becoming a postman for a day, and dropping by a NATO base to fill up his backpack with foodstuff. While he travels, his pen frames those average people who sweat and work under any flag but never (ever) inhabit the headlines. The outcome is the book you hold in your hands: an ode to movement and a precise chronicle about one of the less travelled zones on Earth. Today, Juan keeps hitch-hiking the world and writing books by the roadside.

VAMOS A LA PLAYA! SWIMMING IN DECEPTION ISLAND

2010-12-14T21:03:00.000-08:00

I regarded volcanic islands to be a privilege Polynesian or Central American tropics. I used to envision them covered with a fern tapestry up to the flat peaks crowning them. Well, that was before our ship arrived to mysterious Deception Island, on the Shetand Archipelago. The island is what is left of a volcano that erupted 10,000 years ago, blowing the entire cone off and leaving a almost-circular shaped island. The narrow passage to this natural inlet is just 220 meters wide, and there navigates the brave MV Ushuaia. What is below is, therefore, is not just water, but an active volcano that in 1967 sneezed lightly forcing Argentina, Chile and the UK to evacuate their bases.

It was impressive to step on the island and discover the ground was made of sizzling volcanic clay. As a consequence, when the freezing waters of Antarctica meet the warm shores the water evaporates into fumaroles that give the whole island a ghostly setting. But we didn’t come here to see fumaroles. Along the beach there’s a row of large timber houses, abandoned by men, their painting undone by the elements, collapsed by time. They’re the remaining of Whaler’s Bay.

Deception Island was an ideal base for whaling activity flourishing those days. It provided a natural harbour protected by the island’s circular cliff walls. Behind this refuge Norwegian fleets rested after a tiring day of hunting. It’s funny how Norway is a nation that has left an imprint in the world only beyond 60 degrees of latitude, either in the Arctic or the Antarctic. They didn’t follow the example of he British, who have panted their flag in the Falklands or in Palestine alike. The rest of the world has deserved the Norwegians less attention than a carrot. I bid only after making sure that in Antarctica they could also die in the middle of a blizzard did Norwegians lit their pipes and bother to exploit the business.

Surfing this wave of history was that Adolfus Amandus Andersen, a Norwegian immigrated to Chile, arrived to Deception Island in 1906. He was an entrepreneur, head of the Magallanic Whaling Society, and established the small village whose ruins we see today. In 1912-3 season, just to exemplified, they hunted 5,000 whales, and visitors to the area reported how smelly the blood-tainted bay had become. Walking along the Beach we find old crumbling wooden boats from which seamen would launch their harpoon to secure a prey. We are also impressed by giant tanks and hatches where whale’s bones were melted to extract oil. Now they are half swallowed by the volcanic clay. There is something wicked about the whole place.

The funniest of all was taking the chance and swimming in the narrow warm strip of water next to the shore. Less than a meter wide, at some point we were brave enough to go beyond, just to meet the freezing stream and run back to the beach yelling and praying for a towel.

With the T-shirt of the People's Health Movement

Laura and I with the People’s Health Movement T-Shirt. PHM has donated us a pocket projector we use for the nomadic educational project we carry on as we hitch-hike around the world. Visiting Antarctica was far off our plans. We just stumbled upon the continent when in Ushuaia we learned it was possible to travel there. We didn’t have the money for the trip, so wishing it became our main strategy. And it happened, just as it happens whatever you request from the universe in a trip. We were soon again setting foot in Ushuaia, disoriented and happy, having achieved that blissful stupid state of sanctity travelling confers the soul.

PORT LOCKROY: PENGUINS HYPNOTIZED BY THE UNION JACK

2010-12-13T20:05:00.000-08:00

After harbouring for the night in Neumeyer Bay, the Ushuaia kindly transports us to Goudier Island. There, we are to visit Port Lockroy, a British base established in 1944, abandoned in 1962 and re-opened as a museum in 1996. Goudier Island had been previously claimed by neighbouring Argentina when he British arrived with their usual bully tactics and planted the base during World War II, assuming us stupid enough to find reasonable they were doing so on the grounds of monitoring German submarine activity. I don’t believe in flags, but I am sensible to the UK’s hilarious ambition of power so far south. Once inside we are welcomed by four smiley ladies who volunteer for the summer period, contributing with UKAHT (UK Antarctic Heritage Trust) to preserve British history in the Antarctic.

I ignore who designed the Union Jack, probably a ginger beard Norman who guised his serfdom as towers and queens to play chess. What I am sure is he had intuitive notions of marketing. The strident colours of the British flags create a notorious contrast with the Antarctic backdrop and seem to hypnotize the gentoo penguin colony nestling around.

Image of Port Lockroy with penguins nestling around. The sober timber construction is absolutely English style...

The four ladies’s mission within Port Lockroy goes beyond restoring and preserving infrastructure, they are forced to live within the comfort standards of the 1940s, as they are not allowed to modify anything. Therefore they live without internet, computers or TV. Their only link to the outside world is a satellite telephone for emergencies. While we can arguably understand this, it’s harder to guess why they even lack central heating or showers. In the absence of this basics the girls resource to have shower onboard the cruises that every other day visit the base. Some cruise ships also provide them with fresh vegetables.

Laura and I take the opportunity to send a few postcards from her Majesty’s Post Office in Port Lockroy. Each stamp boasts the dubious legend of “British Antarctic Territory”. It’s illegal since the Antarctic Treaty forbids any nation to exercise sovereignty, but they are fun, as fun as a million dollar note can be. We tell the girls that the Ukrainians at Vernadsky base have their own bar, and indeed pour free drinks to those female tourists willing to leave their bras as souvenirs. On listening ours story the girls deeply regret having the exact number of bras they need but mentally evaluate the possibility of having some cheap ones shipped from Ushuaia, and then forwarded to Vernadsky in exchange for some vodka. So here we are, contributing to international commercial links within Antarctica.

Our ship with the amazing setting of Antarctic glaciars...

The ice universe around Neko Harbour was the setting of anew zodiac cruise. Here we even see an iced triumphal arch, among many other weird shapes ice can come up with.

OK, this picture proves it. We can’t denied having started a snow battle that promptly sprawled to other zodiacs leaving just a couple of hardliner expedition leaders lecturing on the penguins reproduction cycles as we had fun.

Penguins rocket by in their favourite environment. They are far less clumsy in the water than on land.

We feel incredibly lucky to be able to touch this pristine landscape with our souls. On few occasions the intense solitude and beauty of a landscape has moved me to cry. And this has been one.

AT VERNADSY’S STATION FOLKS DISPENSE VODKA AND ABSURD

2010-12-12T09:58:00.000-08:00

Our ship MV Ushuaia braving the Southern Seas and heading to Ukrainian Academician Vernadsky Station. A misty horizon welcomes us in a new of our Antarctic adventure. We feel as blissful as is humanly possible.

Academician Vernadsky Station as seen from our zodiac under a soft but steady snowfall. Ukrainians bought the base from the British, formerly called Faraday. The price was symbolic: just one pound. The original coin now decorates the station lounge.

When you get ready to visit a working Antarctic scientific station prepare to tiptoe into a laboratory as a serious looking man with rounded glasses calls you to silence. Visiting Vernadsky was to going to be different. Firstly, a distance pole displays a variety of Ukrainian cities for which the accurate distance is quoted. Just in case you were looking for the highway to Kiev and took the wrong turn. This brings me memories, as when I was homeless in Odessa and was offered asylum by a Russian street musician from Ekaterinburg. The other call to absurd are the palm trees incorporated into the station’s name on one of the fuel tanks.

The most interesting point about Vernadsky Station is its bar. Rumour goes that the bar was built with wood originally reserved for a peer. It seems Ukrainians set their priority on securing where to dock their sorrows, not their ships. The base is noted for the home made vodka they destil and reportedly serve for free to those ladies willing to leave their bras as souvenir. In Antarctica bras get a more favourable exchange rate than rubles.

Gentoo penguins gossiping about our ship in nearby Petermann Island.

Precise moment of our landing at Vernadsky Station. In this way we achieve the record of the southernmost point reached by hitch-hiking. Amazingly for us, even the station is giving its thumbs up! The yellow thumb includes welcoming messages in different languages, but for us it meant far more.

Back in our zodiacs we went for an iceberg cruise...

Here words become empty elements, wrong freight vehicles to convey my emotion as we float among ice sculptures in human-less continent. Over some icebergs we approach Wedell seals leaning on their siestas after a penguin lunch. Silence becomes an authority, there are no aromas... light and shapes becomes the only language the world speaks to you. Your mind may stay mute, but your heart is connected to that language being spoken directly into your soul. And you shed a tear.

GERLACHE STRAIT AND BASE BROWN: CRUISING BETWEEN ICEBERGS AND WRECKED WAHLERS…

2010-12-11T17:08:00.000-08:00

After visiting the Shetland Islands our ship, the Ushuaia seems committed to search for the world’s end, as it sails south. Is there anything below the Shetlands? For years humanity thought of the archipelago as the southernmost land on the map. The fascinating thing about Antarctica’s golden age of discovery is that intrepid expeditions such as Palmer’s and Wedell’s pushed south and hit record after record while looking for priced seals and whales ignoring the presence of the neighbouring continent. Now that we intentionally move south I understand Antarctica could only be discovered by someone driven by a precise and motivated search. Cook himself sailed around Antarctica for over two years without ever laying his eyes on the continent.

Today the ship is relatively still and we are awakened by our expedition leader in the intercom saying: “Good Morning Antarcticans!” with the back of Indiana Jones soundtrack. The captain announces in an optimistic tone that we are navigating the mirrored waters of Gerlache Strait, protected from wild open seas by Anvers and Brabant Islands. Between the Antarctic Peninsula and them there’s a stream of floating icebergs of odd size and contours, seemingly brought forward by a loony’s imagination.

We haste to the outer deck to attend the show, favoured by an unusual clean pale blue sky. The continent’s rocky nature only flourishes on the shore; the rest of the surface is well deep under meters of compact ice.

Out of the sudden, from behind an iceberg, we catch a memorable view. As if still striving to retain its course, the Norwegian whaler “Governoren”, sunk in 1916, appears ghostly ahead. Half of the ship lies underwater; the other half provides an excellent nestling spot for skuas and gulls…

We in an area called Wilhelmina Bay in a place known as Port Foyn, a whalers’ natural anchoring place baptized after Sven Foyn, the Norwegian inventor of the explosive harpoon. Back in the beginning of 20^th century whale hunting was as a profitable activity as today is oil. Whale’s oil was the ideal lubricant for the industrial era that was in its heyday, aside from being a key ingredient in the perfume industry. Without sustainable plans British, American and Norwegian fleets patrolled the Antarctic Ocean and hunted as much as 5,000 whales in a single season.

As dark as it gets during the Antarctic summer...

Gentoo penguins gathered in the sorroundings of Argentinean Base Brown. It's curious to watch these antropomorphic animal to chase each other over the white carpeted pitch. Enough penguins for us, we go back to the ship to open a bottle of whiskey and toast with Antarctic ice. Sure the times of waiting for a ride by Patagonian roadside will come back, but now Laura, let's enjoy this brief lightning of luxury amid our uncertain journey.

Above, Argentinean Base Brown. It's not opened to tourists, but it should. Our country is proud of its Antarctic presence. Argentina has continous presence in the white continent since 1904 when it started running the Orcadas Base, the oldest settlement in Antarctica to be still inhabited. However it wouldn't harm to use Base Brown as an Ambassador of this long tradition as British do in Port Lockroy.

ICE ON THE HORIZON -LANDING ON SHETLAND ISLANDS!

2010-12-10T14:06:00.000-08:00

OK, the picture is nice, we know, but first we had to survive the Drake Passage, sailing 36 hours across the most dangerous strait of sea in the world. At last, this two martyrs of hitch-hiking (as declared by our stomachs) saw large icebergs floating on the horizon and the precipitous shape of Livingstone Island – Shetland archipielago- immediately rising behind them.

Antarctica comprises 10% of the Earth’s continental mass and hosts 84% of its ice. Sailing just across the Antarctic convergence the water temperature plummet from 7.8º to 3.9º, as we enter the realm of ice… Surprisingly, this continent was just discovered in 1820 by sealers avid for fortune and not for discovery. Only in 1840 was the new lands considered a continent and as recently as 1899 humans wintered on shore.

The group of islands where we Landed was called Aitcho. Its name resulted from the latinization of Hydrographical Office (H.O, Aitcho)

Gentoo and chinstrap penguins looked superiorly indifferent at our presence, what caused me to admire them. It was our first contact with the average inhabitant of Antarctica.

Amazing Antarctic sunset –as dark as it gets in summer-

Penguins and MV Ushuaia –our home for ten days- on the back.

Laura came to see penguins.. but penguins also came to see Laura!

HITCH-HIKING TO ANTARCTICA ON BOARD MV USHUAIA

2010-12-02T13:53:00.000-08:00

Ever since we started planning this new round the world hitch-hiking expedition Laura and were appallingly conscious that reaching Antarctica was a dream rather than a challenge. While setting foot on Ushuaia we understood that roads ended in Tierra del Fuego, Argentina’s and South America’s southernmost tip, but welcoming seas opened. We wanted to sail! Anywhere! We considered we had some chance of finding a ride to Puerto Williams, just opposite Ushuaia on Chilean Isla Navarino, but no chance whatsoever of getting a lift to Antarctica but…

… we cannot surrender without trying first! We had found out that last minute tickets to the white continent started from USD 3200. Taking part of Ushuaia’s Book Fair and making friends had kept us busy for two weeks before we actually did matter about trying a bit harder to find a vessel. But our first attack was not hanging around the peers. We decided to ask in the cruise ship offices first. Antarpply Expeditions was the only tour operator sending tourist to Antarctica to there we headed, with a pink folder full of newspaper articles about our journey. We explained everything as they let us talk. Eventually they advised us to send an e-mail explaining everything to someone on the decision making department. We thought that was the end of the line. We arrived to Ana’s place, we typed the e-mail, have it sent as the rice boiled in the kitchen. Half an hour later the phone rang. “Could you board on Saturday?” We had two days to adapt our gear to an Antarctic expedition. We couldn’t help but jumping just out of cosmic happiness and run deliriously around the house. Ok, let us say, despite the extreme surprise, Laura and I are conscious that the kind of specialized publicity our next book will bring to the cruise ship operators is well worth their two free tickets. The blogs are in the top of Facebook’s travel blog ranking, so we trust this will invite adventurers from around the world to make Antarpply Expeditions their choice when dreaming about Antarctica.

So after having hitched the windy Ruta 3 from Buenos Aires to Ushuaia and climbed to infinte truck cabins we were on board the MV Ushuaia. This was the sight towards Tierra del Fuego coastline. On the bottom picture the sunset profiles of Picton and Lennox Island, while sailing across the Beagle Channel. Everything is possible. As Kinga said: every dream is given to us with the power to make it come true. And I add: the formula of hapiness is launching an assautl on it... This is us, hitch-hiking to Antarctica!

ARRIVAL TO THE FANTASY ISLAND: FEELING COMFORTABLE IN USHUAIA

2010-11-30T12:42:00.000-08:00

On the picture, waiting for a ride in Tolhuin. We would find a Peugeot 206 driving to Ushuaia. Our eyes gazed at forested priaries after one month of arid Patagonian step. We were just happy to step on the muddy roadside.

We had stayed overnight at a Chilean "Carabineros" border hut and boarded again Alejandro's Mercedes truck onto Rio Grande. On re-entering Argentina we learned by tuning Argentinean radio that the Nestor Kirchner, the former presiden had passed away during the previous night. So the day of the national census overlapped with an event most felt as a national tragedy. For us travellers the main event still was, we had arrived to Tierra del Fuego island, and wwere geting cloer to Ushuaia, the southernmost city in the world.

Ushuaia was originally founded in 1874 as an extreme national outpost. The government soon established a prision where many wanted criminals rooted to death. Soon many British anglicans came to attempt to civilize the native onas and yamanas. But rather contributed to their extinction by radically changing their lifestyle and introducing new diseases. Owner of large sheep ranches hunted the local indians down to prevent them from hunting their sheep. In this way the local universe was assassinated to give way to progress. The city lives has lived a touristic bok for the last 20 years. Incomes are higher than in the rest of the country. Many industries also profited from lax tax regulations in Tierra del Fuego island, making the place a hub for quick fortune sickers. Labourers earn three times the national average, just to spend their money on large TVs and cars. Materialism is the mindset in the Fantasy island, despite the great landscapes. Landscape which is unreachable for them, since the price of the land rocketed and nobody can buy a house. Looking at the mountain slopes over the city you find holes in the forest, spaces squatted to build do-it-yourself houses.

There we met Juan Carlos, Eloisa and Esteban, three people who lived in a hared house. Esteban was a three times world champion of magic who had even worked in a Las vegas casino. But they were eclectic guys: they were also Red Cross volunteers and radio producers. They encouraged us not to give up our hopes of finding a vessel to Antarctica. Keep an eye on the blog to find out how the adventure evolve.

After travelling in flat Route 3 we are mesmerized at the sight of mountains....

Thanks to Patagonia Adventur Explorer, were able to navigate the Beagle Channel for free. They enthusiasticaly supported our attempt to travel the world for free.

Our original plan was to stay in Ushuaia for fivee days, a week at most. Different circumstances made us stay, however, for a month. One of these was the Book Fair. We took the chance and offered our books and postcards to visitors. The event helped us a lot to sustain the coming trip around Patagonia.

ESCAPING FROM THE CENSUS AT A CHILEAN POLICE STATION.

2010-11-29T17:36:00.000-08:00

Reaching the southernmost point of our itinerary meant crossing into Tierra del Fuego, the souther tip of the continent. The land is divided between Argentina and Chile, so in order to get to Ushuaia, Argentina's last city you need to enter Chilean territory and travel through for over 200 km. At Rio Gallegos we got a ride in this brand new Mercedes truck...

Landscape at the Chilean side with sheep ranches in the back. At least we were seeing grass as part of the landscape...

At the border, our truck driver missed one document, so he had to backtrack 65 km to Rio Gallegos to print it from the internet. We were left alone at the border, where we tried to find other drivers, with no success. After one hour and a half, Alejandro -the driver- was back and we jumped in the Mercedes again.

Old lighthouse at Magallanes Strait.

When we reached the last Chilean post it was already dark and customs were closed. Much to our astonishment, our truck driver went himself and convinced the Chilean policemen from the "Carabineros" station to let us stay for the night, so they showed us the way to a large unheated house they used as depot. There we managed to fabricate a bed out of couches.

Our palace for the night... Since the national census counted those poeple who had slept in Argentinian soil on the night of the 27th of october, we were not on the list. A funny way to escape statistics!

The last Mercedes truck and the eternal kettle with hot water for the mate. Traditions are alive in spite of technology...

ENERGY EXCHANGE IN RIO GALLEGOS: THE STORY OF THE TRAVELLING AMBULANCE

2010-11-29T17:10:00.000-08:00

We arrived to Rio gallegos with the plan of leaving the city on the following morning. Actually, our driver intended to continue his long drive south towards Tierra del Fuego after staying overnight at the YPF petrol station where he dropped us off. Indeed the driver was planning to camp! So we took a bus to downtown and knocked at the dor of our Couchsurfing hosts: Luciana and Alejandro. However, we ended up staying four nights. We were spelled by their energy. They arrived to Rio Gallegos as aprt of what they thought was a hitch-hiking trip arund the Latin America. hey had left their native Buenos Aires with overloaded backacks, nule thumbing experience and a lot of hope. When they got here they took the chance and sstarted working. Now their plan is to buy a small ground, as a little investment, before hitting he road again. As to remind themselves their main porpouse is to travel, they bought a 1983 VW bus, an old ambulance from Pico Truncado.

An image of tidy Comandante Luis Piedrabuena, a Patagonian town where, if grass doesn'r grow, the town hall paints it green so the image you carry in your eyes and camera is still joyful...

Derelict ship from YCF (Yacimientos Carboníferos Fiscales), the old national coal company, privatized in 1994. Al across Patagonia we find remains of economic models that no longer rule. They stay for the postcard, as an aesthetic survivor...

EDUCATIONAL EVENTS AT PUERTO DESEADO AND SAN JULIAN

2010-11-13T16:52:00.000-08:00

Again we carried on our educational meetings. In the picture you can see us at "Conociendo Nuestra Casa Foundation" in Puerto Deseado. The event was actually fostered by our driver. He was so enthusiastic about us visiting his town that he arranged everything!

Marcos Oliva Day is a local heroe and active sailor and adventurer, he was member of the party that located Swift pirate ship, sunk in the 1700s.

We eventually reached San Julián, where we show our pictures and talked about the hospitality of our world in the local Universidad de la Patagonia Austral.

This project is carried on together with the People's Health Movement and thanks to the donations of readers. All funds proceeding from the sale of e-books and books go directly to our quixotic effort.

ACCEPTING RIDES TO UNPLANNED TOWNS: DISCOVERING PUERTO DESEADO

2010-11-12T16:33:00.000-08:00

So were hitch-hiking in the gloomy outskirts of Caleta Olivia when a Toyota pick up pulled by. We would have accepted the ride regardless its destination jus to evade walking with a front wind of 60 km/h... Anibal, the driver, was going towards Puerto Deseado, which implied a detour of 120 km from National Route 3. We were bound for San Julián, where we expected to give a conference at Universidad Nacional de la Patagonia Austral, but of course we said yes after Anibal arranged accomodation with a couple of phone calls.

Old Magallanic arquitecture at Jaramillo town, in the way to Puerto Deseado. Facón Grande, heroe of 1921 sheep farmers revolt, died in this dusty town.

Our backpacks were still in Anibal's truck when we jumped of to tell our story at Puerto Deseado main radio station.

Puerto Deseado' history is quite linked with the construction of a rail networked which aimed to reach Nahuel Huapi Lake on the Andes, but never went further than Las Heras. When the line was lifted people defended the reamins from ravaging politicians. They keep this wagon from 1898 as if it were new.

Puerto Deseado boasts the only lighthouse church of South America. Worth visiting, though it was impossible to climb the stairs due to the strong Patagonian winds.

When we told our story to the Tourist Office they didn't hesitate and honoured as with a free city tour in the Secretary of Tourism private car :-) Thomas Cavendish gave the town its name after his ship: Port Desire. Well, we didn't have any desire of reaching Port Desire, and maybe that's the key, not to harbour desires and just let the road and hitch-hiking guide you....

CONTRADICTIONS OF COMODORO RIVADAVIA EMIRATE....

2010-11-03T16:15:00.000-07:00

A bird's eye view of Comodoro Rivadavia, an important Patagonian city renowned for being a hub for petroleum related industry. Most people have settled here just in order to make a finnancial difference and leave the city after working 5-10 years. Consequently the cities' atmosphere is a bit tense, since evverybody is busy making money...

Cacho gave us a ride in his Citroen C3 after waiting for some half an hour in a windsept service area. He too worked for a petroleum company.

Our wonderful hosts in Comodor Rivadavia had a whole room for Couchsurfers. There were four of us at a time. hey were Christians of the committed type, and they really meant what they preached. Actually, they wouldn't preach or speak about their beliefs unless asked. Pancho had immigrated from Peru decades ago, and now presided this great multicultural family!

Cliffs around Rada Tilly, 12 km away from Comodoro Rivadavia. Former wild areas are being urbanized, so the rich oil aristocracy can live far away from the urban chaos and breathe pure air they arguably don't deserve. Working class may be barred from frequenting certain areas developers are quickly turning into private neighborhoods.

SPILLING AT A TECPETROL OILFIELD

2010-10-31T16:09:00.000-07:00

The dark side of driving your car... After reading optimistic points of view at Puerto Madryn's wildlife interpretation center it's funny to see this video, occurring in Patagonia, not too far away. At the interpretation center we could see the logos of Total, a multinational oil company, sponsoring a center aimed to arouse awareness of ecological issues.

A BIT OF HOSPITABLE, GOOD AFGHANISTAN FOR YOUR EYES!

2010-10-24T05:29:00.000-07:00

This series of photographs briefly describe some situations and episodes described more properly in "Vagabonding in the Axis of EVil", my book. In this picture: a villager from Kirmun, in the isolated region of Hazarajat, Central Afghanistan. This goat herder watches time go by. His surprised eyes detect the hitch-hiker passing by -unexpected- in front of her eternal eyes...

Islam Qale village. My first host family in Afghanistan, just 5 km afeter crossing the border. Being my first night in Afghanistan I couldn´t help sleeping with my Swiss Army knife under my pillow, just to wake up with this honourable man bringing me breakfast to bed. I hadn't been robbed, nor kidnapped, on the contrary, the flower of hospitality opened up again under the guise of new friends....

Fourty horsemen competing to hurl a beheaded goat into a goal. That's bushkashi, the Afghan national sport. Some say it's a portrait of the Afghan soul because of its brutality. I would say it mirrors the Afghan soul rather for the fact that players don't form teams but play each for themselves, showing this historical Afghan distaste for anything resembling teamwork.

Another adventure featured in the book, hitch-hiking from Bamian to Kabul with an Afghan police jeep patrolling a valley infested with Talibans. I was not alone. I had teamed up with Justin (picture) for that precious piece of travelling....

This little girl in Dowlat Yar school shows the influence of the sorrounding desert in her eyes.

The Afghan Central Road, 800 km of unpaved dirt road between Herat and Kabul, crossing som of Afghanista more isolated but wonderful regions. When stepping ion this road, I couldn't imagine myself arriving safely to its end. However, I had to cross it if I was to prove that terrorism and agressivenes were mainly media generated stereotypes.

A kuchi nomad tows its camel along the Central Road. I was actually waiting for a truck but I couldn't resist the tentaion to walk with one of the last nomads on Earth.

Every day at 6 p.m. a dust storm sweeps across Chaghcharan, the infamous capital of Ghoor province.

Kids playing with derelict Russian military vehicles. At least, the war machine is redeeming its karma and accomplishing a more human mission than the one it was designed for.

Roofless schools are shy witnesses of the war. Talibans who didn't support education as a mean of huan improvement would frequently burnd down schools. Especially if they admitted female pupils.

Face to face. Sometimes when you are in Afghanistan you don't know what century are you exactly in. While tourists frequently seek in Egypt the reminiscence of eras gone by, camel trasnport has still good health in Southern Afghanistan.

SOME IMAGES OF PUERTO MADRYN...

2010-10-23T09:34:00.002-07:00

Laura and I arrived to Puerto Madryn with the depth belief that anecdotes would be connected with the amazing wildlife. We would be surprised to know that the main event would have to do with the people we met...

Since Laura had worked for 4 years at a travel agency we managed to get the whale watching tours for free...

Penguin barely bothered at the human presence in Punta Tombo.

At Puerto Madryn we were hosted by Karina and Marcelo's family. Marcelo and Patricio were both basketball coaches, and the entire family spinned around that sport, with both children shortlisted for the provincial team. Karina's family found in us inspiration for their own hunt for freedom, while we really appreciated the family atmosphere and care.

Karina helped me to print the original manuscript of my new book, "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil" available to order from this site. Clic on the menu tab "THE BOOK"...

ALUAR is a aluminium factory which pollutes Puerto Madry's waters to the point scientists have found bisexual snail among other out-of-catalogue species... People justify the struggle by saying the plant has employs a sizable workforce and has allowed the town to grow into a city.

TRAVELING SOUTH IN ROUTE 3, PROTECTED BY MOTHERLY SCANIAS

2010-10-16T08:57:00.000-07:00

Just imagine you begin a hitch-hiking trip like no other, the trip you have been dreaming of for years and the firs truck you get a ride with is called "Dream". That happened to aura and me last week, when we left San Nicolás, a city that had been our headquarters for four months while prepearing this Argentina to Greenland hitch-hiking trip. IN the picture you can see the IVECO truck in which rear you can read "Transporte El Sueño"....

Dropping by Mar del Plata to see my family. We are not meant to come back fo a couple of years. So in the picture my parents, Laura, me and "La Maga", my backpack. Grab a Spanish dictionary and access its wonderful meaning....

Necochea is 125 km away, and we reach it in the elegant 1975 Chevrolet, property a Guillermo Petersen, Sport Secretary of Necochea, who also took us to his home to drink some mate.

IN Necochea we stayed overnight at Juan Carlos's place. Juan Carlos is a reader who once bought my book at the Ma del Plata Book Fair. We have become friends ever since. He is crazy enough to ride a tall bike, and practices a finnancial ascetism. If you want money, you just need to ask te universe.

Waiting for a ride at a gas station. We carry wit us a world map, with the previous and present trips marked on it, so as to convey a sense of trust to our drivers. IN tha map you can see a newspaper articel about us attached.

After a fast ride in a Fiat Punto from Necochea to Punta Alta we had to take a short bus ride to Bahía Blanca. The bus company's name was my surname (Villarino). If I am to take a bus, I expect the company to pay me some homage...

Meeting readers at Bahía Blanca. Raul, Nilda and Gladys showed up to buy some books and postacards, giving us cmore power to continue our quest.

Travelling south in Route 3, we got to Villalonga town, where it got dark. We someow got to talk with José, who was parking his large Scania. He was waiting orders to load his truck but instructions never came and he had to stay overnight as well. He had a big truck but was alone. We had no more than our smiles and conversation to offer, but had nowhere to go. So eventually he invited us to drink some mate in the cabin. We talked there for hours, listening to amazing stories. Truck drivers really have blues-like stories. José's ife was a never ending road, wchi from time to time included brief stopovers at his home to see his family, and then back to the road. That night, the Scania protected us from the wind, in a motherly attitude.

A BERGHAUS KHUMBU CALLED "LA MAGA"... FAR MORE THAN A BACKPACK

2010-07-26T14:03:00.000-07:00

Since May 1st, 2005 I carrry on my back far more than a backpack. At times it has been a home, the camuflaged wings of my soul. Technically speaking, La Maga is a Berghaus Khumbu 70, an English-made backpack crafted by the same people who pushed the first internal frame rucsac into the market in 1971. After 7 years of enduring every imaginable condition across 47 countries, five continents and 160,000 kms, La Maga is still going strong. What follows is a photographic essay, a brief sample of its adventures.

THE ROADS OF THE WORLD

Sahara Desert, on the desolate road to the Siwa Oasis, Egypt.

Tibet, road 219, pssibly the most isolated and less travelled track on Earth. 2,000 km from Ali to Lhasa, the Tibetan capital.

La Maga likes history: here you can see her over an original, intact Roman road in Syria.

But she also knows busy, modern European highways. Here in the Netherlands.

Finland: the sign proclaims our goal: "Around the World"

India: cows -or the Gods reincarnated in them- stare at La Maga.

Of course she also feels at home in Argentinean roads. In te picture you can see some of the badges we have incorporated as years passed: Norway, Iran, Siria, Romania, Ecuador and China, all countries where we lived famous adventures.

Ruta 40: 4,667 km of fun from Tierra del Fuego to the Altiplano.

....and eventually on April, 10th 2010 La Maga met "El Salmón", Laura's backack. Picture taken in Salta, Argentina.

Having some rest in an old Pakistani house at Chitral.

La Maga is planet-friendly. She easily makes friends among local flora and fauna.... Here in the Bolivian Chaco.

EXTREME MISSIONS

2010-07-23T14:31:00.000-07:00

Arrival to Mount Kailash, Western Tibet, after an exhausting journey on one of the least travelled roads on Earth.

Crossing of Afghanistan along the Central Road: 1460 km from Herat to Kabul, where most people bet we wouldn't make it alive.

...but we held faith in mankind, a broad smile and a Peace flag.

Same happened in Iraq. Here La Maga under a sign with the colourful Kurdish flag.

Afghan kids thought La Maga was my parachute, and searched for my plane in the sky.

Crossing of Minapin Glacier, Pakistan. Walking over the ice, sorround by 8,000 meters high peaks is not an everyday setting, but even there La Maga was on duty.

Crosing from Pakistan to China on the Karakorum highway, decorated by hanging majestic glaciers.

Laura, La Maga (on my shoulders) and me just before embarking to Antarctica on board the MV Ushuaia.

TESTED AND APPROVED BY THE PEOPLE OF THE WORLD

2010-07-20T14:38:00.000-07:00

Afghan rural teachers can't hide their curiosity and request to try La Maga...

These Bolivian farmers find in La Maga an excuse to kill time with, as they wait for their bus.

Syrian kids in a desert hamlet pose with La Maga, after bringing me food from their own home.

Inside a Bedouin tent in the Syrian Desert, Hasan formaly requests to test La Maga. They are the nomads par excellance.

POSSIBLE SETTINGS FOR A BACKPACK

2010-07-15T14:45:00.000-07:00

La Maga formally posing for Press in Buenos International Book Fair, during the presentation of my book "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil" (Spanish version)

A very different situation is this one, over a donkey drawn kart of an Egyptian farmer.

La Maga has known every model of car ever produced. Here with a 1954 De Soto.

At times she is picky, and targets sport cars, like this Smart Bravus in Germany.

But generally speaking she is on the humble's side: here my shadow and hers in the kart of a Chinese family.

More often than not she becomes excentric, with a curious taste for the absurd. Look her on board a Paraguayan ambulance...

She is an efficient table as well, both in the Bolivian Andes or in the Danish highways.

In the end, she has been a silent witness of all human activities, from businessmen and Parliament members to the Ecuadorian banana pickers that travelled in this truck.

FROM USHUAIA TO GREENLAND BY HITCH-HIKING - DREAMS AND LOVE ON THE ROAD

2010-07-10T12:58:00.000-07:00

Laura and I in Alemania, a tiny town in Northern Argentina. That was the place were we decided to continue together the hitch-hiking round the world trip I had started alone in 2005. After visiting 46 countries, I happened to find my road and soul mate in my homeland...

Our two backpacks sharing a roadside. The sign reads "Feliz Viaje" which translates as "Happy travels!".... Right now our plan is to start the American stage of the round the world trip in Ushuaia, Southern Argentina. After that we will bounce and travel north all the way across Latina America to Mexico, the US, Canada and Greenland, where we aim to end our trip.

Laura portrayed over a load of mud bricks, carried by the truck that gave us a lift. Bricks are construction items, such as our drems and the power we feel after having found each other.

Villager from Jasimaná, a tiny community hipotetically reached after walking 10 hours from Cafayate. He wanted to recover quechua language so we promised to arrange the donation of Spanish-Quechua dictionaries for him. All the people in the area are goat shepherds.

From Cachi to San Antonio de los Cobres we got a ride in this 1972 Ford Falcon driven by two crazy French students on their South American tour. It was a rough ride over a gravel road that climbs up to staggering 4.985 meters in Abra del Acay section. One of the roughest rides ever!

THE LADY AND THE TRAMP: LAURA AND ME DECIDE TO TRAVEL TOGETHER!

2010-07-10T12:18:00.001-07:00

A chapter of my book "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil - By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan" ends with the following thought:

“… will I ever findwill I ever find a wandering princess? Or will I continue my world tour of spontaneous, dead lane romances? Only distance, centauric breed of will and sentence, caresses the wounded feet of the traveller.

When I wrote those lines I wasn`t aware that thousands of people would read it. I had never published a book before. Words rather unfold as in a cascade of therapeutical honesty towards myself. But I was unknowingly throwing a bottle into the Ocean.

And on the other shore Laura took the bottle, opened itand read it. She bought the book at a buenos Aires bookshop and couldn't avoid thinking in the similarities with his own life. Laura had her own experience in travelling around the world, leaving her footprints in Bolivia, Peru, Central America and India. Always eith her backpack, but never hitch-hiking, Laura would always come back from her trips feeling it hadn't been enough and feeling less than comfortable with going back to her 9 to 5 office job as a travel agent.

In the beginning, she was not to write to me, but then she had that dream, in which both of us where hitch-hiking to Alaska... Then she sent me an e-mail, and we started chatting for over 2 months before deciding to meet up in Salta, Northern Argentina. I was travelling south from Bolivia to participate in Buenos Aires International Book Fair.

The first ride Laura and me got together, in a Renault 4 that took us out of Salta towards the Lerma Valley.

Local men working in the tobacco industry, selecting the best leaves.

Hitch-hiking together to Alemania town, where the spell was casted...

This is the old railway station of Alemania, a town inhabited by 8 families. In this desolate but colourful place I had decided to start hith-hiking around the world, back in 2002. Now, the tiny town was to host another spectacular event: Laura and I decided to join our dreams and bring forth a future together. A future together in the road side. And so we decided to travel from Argentina to Alaska together....

EDUCATIONAL NOMADIC PROJECT: CONFERENCE FOR PUBLIC SCHOOLS AT LA EMILIA, ARGENTINA

2010-07-09T16:32:00.000-07:00

Carrying on with the Educational Nomadic Project Laura and I visited La Emilia, where we talked for over 200 kids from the town's public schools. We have been very busy since we are beginning our Argentina-Greenland hitch-hiking trip next week. But we made a little gap in our agenda to reach this town. School teachers told me there had once existed a carpet factory in town. Having walked up and down the Middle East and considering the warmth welcome we recieved in la Emilia I imagined that were there once was a carpet factory there must be hospitality still around...

We were also delighted to meet Alberto, the director of the local Museum of Paleontology, and Alejandro and his girlfriend, local journalists who had helped us to bring the event there.

The Educational Nomadic project is coordinated with the People's Health Movement (PHM) and supported by donations from readers.

EDUCATIONAL NOMADIC PROJECT AT SAN NICOLAS

2010-07-01T16:20:00.000-07:00

Laura and I organized yet another educational event at the Escuela de Eduación Media Número 7, at San Nicolás, Buenos Aires province, Argentina. We felt really welcomed. The entire school worked like a big family...

In public schools students give you the impression that they really appreciate that you arre there, bringing activities, contents, ideas, etc.

It's rally rewarding to have the chance to acceed the educational system core, be allowed into classrooms and then tell kids: "You know, as soon as you finish high school it's really easy to get a back pack and go out to see the world regardless you are planning to study afterwards or not". I was lucky enough to have a professor who awakened a sense of freedom within me. Now I am the provider for other. It's nice to be on the other side.

We were even granted diplomas certified the accomplishment of the conference.

EDUCATIONAL NOMADIC PROJECT AT VILLA LUGANO

2010-06-30T15:49:00.000-07:00

While we get ready and keep organizing our Argentina to Greenland hitch-hiking expedition we continue executing our nomadic educational project. Last week we visited Villa Lugano, a poor Buenos Aires district where many families previously living in the railway tracks were relocated.

After the slideshow of pictures the coordinator told the kids to draw the picture they had liked the most.

For some reason kids kept drawing hitch-hikers.

Two little girls show proudly their hitch-hiking designs. The activity was rather directed to use photography to portray hospitality, and there were indeed several pictures showing the different type of vehicles we travel in. For the kids of this poor district, however, cars left a deeper print in their perception.

A HITCH-HIKER IN THE 36th BUENOS AIRES INTERNATIONAL BOOK FAIR

2010-06-28T15:20:00.000-07:00

I briefly Interrupted my hitch-hiking trip from Argentina to Greenland in order to take part of the 36th Buenos Aires International Book Fair. Having reached Sucre in the roof of a Nissan truck carrying 43 pigs I received a callof my editors requesting my presence in the venue. It seems the first edition is gone and 2,000 more copies have been printed. For the first time in my life after ten years of self-publishing and selling around my small photocopied books I have the chance to sign copies of this fresh 350 pages edition of "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil - By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan" (Spanish version edited by Del Nuevo Extremo Publishing Group). To get hold of a copy from outside Argentina you can order it online from my online shop

Five months ago I had received this nice parcel at home. How not to recall that what now is a book was once a collection of scribbled notebooks, records of rides, interviews, CDs with pictures and a bunch of ideas. These were my first 20 complementary copies. The 1,980 books pending were in the bookshelves nationwide!

Ad poster distributed by the publishers.

FROM SUCRE TO BUENOS AIRES INTERNATIONAL BOOK FAIR

2010-06-26T07:54:00.000-07:00

From Sucre I looked at the map and let me finger mark the position of Buenos Aires, where my presence was awaited in the 36th Intenational Book Fair. There I am meant to sign copies of my book "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil" at the stand of Del Nuevo Extremo Publishing Group. In the picture, the ride from Sucre to Potosi with Alex's family.

South of Potosí, at a village called Villanueva, the attendant of the peage lifts the bareer each time a drivers pays the toll.

North of Bolivia, I had to cross th Cuesta de Sama.

Pipo and Sara, my drivers and host in San Telmo, Bolivia. He had been living in the UK for a year, where he met his wife.

Border crossing over the Bermejo River from Bolivia to Argentina.

This Chrysler Caliber driven by this family proves wrong two things. Firstly, that Bolivians always ask for money. Secondly, that women will never give you rides. They were on their way to Salta, in Argentina, to make an ecography for one of them who was pregnant.

Already in Argentinean territory I was stopped by this journalist and cameraman at Fraile Pintado, Jujuy. It seemed they were short of news...

LORD OF THE PIGS ARRRIVES TO SUCRE

2010-06-20T21:04:00.000-07:00

Sight from my rooftop trip in a truck carying 43 pigs from Monteagudo to Sucre, around 350 km quivering in the top of a Nissan Condor truck, unable to sleep, braving winds and rain.... Once in a life is enough! I arrived at 5:30 before sunset to Sucre's main slaughter site...

Talking to farmers while waiting on the roadside.

Wolf's house in Sucre. Wolf is a German who arrived decades ago to the country as a volunteer and eventually settled there. He is now a member of Hospitality Club. In his house his wife teaches ballet, so straight fowards from the slaughter house I made it to a ballet...

Opposites: the well known colonial architecture and burned cars piled in Sucre's police station after the riots protesting for the presumably illegal way the new Bolivian constitution was sanctioned.

I became a friend of this woman at the Sucre market. She told me she was quite sure during my trip the pigs had passed me their fleas. She consequently described quite graphically the way the fleas would spread al over my body. Here in the picture she ceremomiously lifts a fish for a costumer. Eastern time apporaches...

Vegetable woman...

EDUCATIONAL NOMADIC EVENT AT ÑAURENDA, BOLIVIA

2010-06-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

The Educational Nomadic Project involves a conference based on a photo slide displaying episodes of hospitality received while hith-hiking around the world in the last 5 years. These events are free of charge and avaiable for all the visited communities. The events are possible thanks to the People's Health Movement, who has donated the pocket projector.

Marino, the chief of the Guarani community helped to organize the event and ordered two assistants to clear the area of the football pitch. They hanged a white curtain bended over the arc and that was the screen!

Thanks to all of you for the donations that keep me traveling and organizing these educational events.

THE GUARANI NATION NICKS ME "BURYA WATA"

2010-06-14T19:58:00.000-07:00

The Volvo truck drops me off at San Simon junction. From there I walk steadily intro an increasingly forested road. My backpack also gets used to the new tropical fauna.

A pick up gives me a ride as far as Timboy town, where I am invited lunch by this group of kind drunken locals who were regreting the death of a relative who had been striken by a bolt and also blaming one of them for marrying a girl with the only aim of inheriting her father's timber properties.

I then continued walking and stumbled upon Ñaurenda, a Guarani community, and stayed two days to learn a bit of their language, enjoy a traditional celebration and aso have the chance of making one of my educational events and photo slides.

Artisans at work. Women stay in the porches of their houses most of the day when they are not busy inside.

Traditional dances. Note the tipoi, long traditional dresses wore by women.

Cuchi or boiled pork. It was a special celebration during which the Guarani chose a nick for me. They explained me that these nicks represent their first impression of each person. So mine was "burya wata". What does it mean? - I asked. "Long trip" - they said!

Honoured by the Guarani nickname granted to me I set to walk again. It was the day of my 32th birthday. I had nothing to celebrate except a can of tuna fish and a crispy bread. IN the early morning the people from Ñaurenda had invited me breakfast. There I go, on my slow way to Monteagudo.

ON BOARD "LA JOYA DEL PACÍFICO" ACROSS THE BOLIVIAN CHACO.

2010-06-07T19:41:00.000-07:00

The "Jewel of the Pacific" was the name of the Volvo F-12 truck I hitched a ride with from Tarija to Entre Ríos. It was my first long ride in Bolivia, a ride that proved me that not all drivers in Bolivia ask for money. On the contrary, this was one of the most amazing rides of my life. Overnight, I slpet inside the cargo of the truck, that was taking 10 tons of bottles of Coca Cola. Just in case I get thirsty...

Guido, the driver, was worthy of the interview I accomplish during the long ride. He had studied Engineering in Argentina but forced to quit due to his political activities during the 1976-1983 dictatorship. He then came back to Bolivia where he was also doomed to hide from the local military, so he stayed in a monastery disguised as priest for two years!

Landscape from the truck's cabin.

We have breakfast in Entre Rios town, and I am on my own again, ready to take an almost invisible, dirty road and explore the back country.

BOLIVIA BEYOND THE SYMBOLIC

2010-06-01T19:22:00.000-07:00

The scene takes place in Tarija. One of my aims while in Bolivia is to find out the concrete and real effects of the changes introduced by Evo Morales beyond the symbolic dimension. It's true he has vindicated the native people, the rights of the indigenous communities. During my trip I will try listn from this people of their lifestyle and economy have improved as well. I have no prejudices or suspicions. Just a writer in search of reality beyond headlines.

Another all together different challenge for me was hitch-hiking in Bolivia. I was honestly sure if it was going to work. Odds were aganist me and the traditional comment about Bolivia is that all drivers and trucks ask for money. However, I found out that backpackers in Bolivia take the bus right away and don't make any attempt to hitch-hike. They assume hitch-hiking is impossible just because bus fares are really cheap. In the picture, a 1948 Willys Jeep that gave me a ride from Tarija. It's my personal record of antiquity.

Tarija is one of the richest cities of Bolivia and that's where I found this Hummer...

Cholita is the word that designates women from the countryside in the Andean world.

Globalized world: a Colombian black metal band in concert in Tarija. The organizer of the event was my Cuchsurfing host.

Chapacos is how the people from Tarija province call themselves. Here a man chewing coca leaves...

Markets are the soul of Bolivian cities. Also, they a re a cheap place for travellers to eat healthy food.

Tarija prefecture was about to celebrate elections. Conservative sectors were afraid the Evo Morales lead MAS (Movement towards Socialism) would gain more power in a traditionally autonomous region.

I am really jelaous of the Bolivians. They have cheap food almost everywhere meanwhile in Argentina we ecport food to the resto of the world but going out for dinner is a luxury. I prefer countries were food is conceived in a humble way as a necessity and it's not overprized.