The Hitchhiking Planet

HITCH-HIKING IN THE AXIS OF EVIL - BOOK REALESED!

Juan Pablo Villarino — Thu, 28 Aug 2014 08:24:00 +0000

This is the cover of “Hitch-hiking in the Axis of Evil - By thumb through Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan”, my first book to be properly published and available internationally after ten years of self publishing.

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 BOOK!

VAGABONDING IN THE AXIS OF EVIL

By Thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan

264 pages. Black & white photographs + 6 maps

ISBN: 978-987-29731-2-4

Price: EUR 22.00 (U$S 28,60) includes registered shipping (almost) worldwide.

How to get it? You can buy the book and help Laura and I keep travelling and carrying on the Nomadic Educational Project by emailing us at acrobatadelcamino@gmail.com In exchange we will send you a Pay Pal request. Once paid, the book will be sent to you by registered post from Argentina.

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.

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Important update for our followers!

As a result of the success of the Spanish version of our books (which are, by the way, the original versions since we are Argentinean) Laura and I are focusing in our Spanish blogs and social networks. So No!, we didn`t stop travelling. The reason why you don`t see the recent post on the blog is because all our time while on the road goes to keep blogging professionally at www.acrobatadelcamino.com and posting up the minute our Facebook Fan Page and Twitter communities. So click on those links to know where we are or wish us good roads!

Vagabundeando en el Eje del Mal (Hitch-hiking in the Axis of Evil) is in its third edition, having sold 8,000 copies. Caminos Invisibles (the book about our SouthAmerican 18 months trip by thumb) was published in November 2013 and is already in its second edition, with 3,000 copies already around. Enquiries about our Spanish language books, please drop a line at acrobatadelcamino@gmail.com

I want to share the soft and embracing happiness of being able, for the first time in 10 years of vagabonding wihtout certainties, to live off the sales of my writing. Thanks to everyone who did this possible.

Thanks for keeping us on the road!

From vagabond princess to queen of resort

Juan Pablo Villarino — Tue, 10 Sep 2013 07:58:00 +0000

Written by Laura Lazzarino

Translated by Laura Rojas Palacio

The first time I came to Cartagena, I entered it through the back door. For me, there was no great impact of an airport with palm trees, no mythical fortified city, neither there was a first time picture from a postcard. That time I had to see in Cartagena what tourists never see and what few travelers want to see: the stifling of pavement and stickiness, the sinfonic and citylike noise of the outskirts. I slept in the house of a belgian manufacturer of weapons who danced lambada in underwear and was running away from Saddam Hussein, intheperipheralsuburbsof the city. Following my memories, I shall be honest and confess that the first steps through Cartagena were such antonyms that the second day of impossible heat and complete isolation, I sat on a sidewalk and started crying. Awhimwithoutkickingbut withmuch frustration that made metakerefuge inthe most backpackers-likehostel aroundGethsemane. From those first tears I turned to relief and love, and I was enchanted with this city and its colorful streets; with the mirages that it invents for tourists and with the real people that play dominoes in the Plaza deTrinidad.

The first time I came to Cartagena we could not spend more than 15 thousand colombian pesos a day, for two. We toured hotels until we got the cheapest, then we asked for trade, then we got a couch. In that occasion I sweated waterfalls under the inefficient blades of a single fan, I showered always with cold water –with my own soap- and I ate more fruit than I had eaten in my whole life.

Two years ago, the first time I came to Cartagena, I walked so much, always, everywhere, that I got to memorize the streets of the Centro Histórico, the faces of the sellers and the stray dogs. There was no taxi I took without negotiating the price to death, and I had to learn the idioms to gain some respect. In those days there was no bulky wallet, no medical insurance, and no reservations for anything. Each night, we went out to sell the photos and books in bars and restaurants in which we never sat at. The waiters were friends with us, the coachmen greeted us in the streets and we wandered through the fortified city skimming the edge of habituation.

The month that I spent in the city, the first time I came to Cartagena, I learned to eat arepas de huevo for dinner, to drink oatdrink in returnable bottles and to distinguish the best carimañolasand cheese-sticks. I fell in love –those loves that are forever- with tomate de árboljuice, but then I also comprehended that there is lulo, papaya, cohune, or passion fruit that can take you from hell to heaven in one single sip. Thus, the princess of mango and vagrant of cobbles, I let myself be rocked by Cartagena until I got her due permission to play the bells from the cathedral and cry out with her for the bicentennial of its independence.

I abandoned the city through pouring rain, little refreshing. It was a farewell with pity, because I did not want to leave and something told me that I could stay, maybe even forever.

The second time I came to Cartagena, two years after, someone had paid my ticket. With the victory of the acquired award, I came down the steps of the plane and the heat of the Caribbean soaked my woolen anklers that I had worn from Bogota. I entered, pun intended, through the precise entry door. There was someone waiting for me at the exit door, and, for the first time in my life, I saw my name on a sign. I was greeted with reverence, accompanied to the taxi –whose driver already knew my name and insisted calling me “dotora Laura”- and informed me that he would be my driver during the next five days. His name was Jaime and he was pissed every time I forgot to let him open the door for me. I had never had a driver before.

In my second time in Cartagena, I stayed in a 5 star hotel resort, 4 pools, 2 saunas, 1 hairdresser, and no place for imperfection. Two people assisted me with the chek-in, someone accompanied me to my suite and I could see my backpacks almost flying in a carriage with golden frames that seemed to float over the carpet. I had a brochure-room just for me with an extra King Size bed where to bestrew my dreams, five pillows, a duvet which I had to use –the aircon never grew tired- and a terrace with sea view. Each morning, an attendant gave me a good morning call, the cleaning lady changed my towels and soap, and a waiter was in charge to control the minibar. For breakfast I could choose from ripe tropical fruits, an international variety of scramble eggs and else fryings, deli, pancakes, biscuits, toast, or yoghurt. Or I could simply dive in and eat it all and wait for my driver taking the sun at the edge of the pool of the day, or escape to the private beach, or go back to bed and continue sleeping.Bacano, like Colombians say. Bacán, like we do.

A usual breakfast, in my first time in Cartagena

Queen of resort breakfast

The second time I came to Cartagena I used more my legs in the water that in the streets. The routinewas setin a swinghotel-restaurant-hotel that it scarcely left place for the rest of the itinerary. I ate every day in a different gourmet retaurant inside the city, fortified against pirates and disorder. Unfortunately, no one came to me to sell a book or a postcard. I smiled at the waiters that assured me that those delights of photography were the most autentic recipes from Cartagena. And I laughed to see the expression in their faces when hearing my story. I always asked for entree and dessert; they put in front of me more shrimps than I’m able to accept and I had to buy pills to digest such eatable lust.

The second time I came to Cartagena I did not have to worry about my expenses. I had in my wallet less notes than needed, but that was not a problem. “Hello, I am Laura Lazzarino and I have a reservation” and hocus-pocus. Doors were opened, plates were served, no one deprived from smiling at me and I only had to sign. I was not even bothered to look at what I signed. The life of queen of resort had an expiring date too short to get use to and too real to let oneself down. Isimply had tolimit myselfto toast withmy destiny, to fillthe blank pagesinmy diaryof travels and to enjoythe luxuries of aninvisible gold card.

When the bells played twelve and the carriage threatened to become pumpkin, The Hotel Las Américas decided that the Acrobats could stay a couple of days more. Juan came through the door with an incredulous smilethat fitted perfect. In a certain way, he broke the spell. He too, perpetuated the charm. The streets of San Diego again took color with us both, hand on hand, and in a melodic and gradual way, the little crystal shoes became flip flops and we turned from cars to ride buses like wild horses.

If someone asks me, it would be unfair to say which of the two times I liked the most. Perhaps the uniqueness of each trip has its own spell and brings us to change eyes and mold us like bugs of play dough. Maybe the sample is very large and one can go back and forth through the world without ever repeating.

ROAD 40 FROM VILLA UNION TO CHILECITO

Juan Pablo Villarino — Tue, 30 Jul 2013 21:44:00 +0000

Linking Chilecito and Villa Union on Route 40 is one of the pleasures of traveling in La Rioja. As elsewhere in the Northwest, the north-south orientation of ridges and valleys makes west to east travel only possible by winding slopes invented by man. Where geography granted a chance, brave engineers who fought a duel with the law of gravity have drawn impossible plans. Routes that where not supposed to exist are my favorite! The Argentine Northwest has plenty of this and the Cuesta de Miranda, as the gateway to the North, is a promising appetizer for those challengingRuta 40 from south to north. I thought about all this while the "Blogtrip La Rioja Team" left the Hotel Cañón del Talampaya in Villa Union, where we had spent the night and had breakfast. Before, we had sighted condors in the Quebrada del Condor and done the Talampaya bike tour ...

Impresionante paisajes de la Sierra de Famatina

Los infaltables cardones

The distance from Villa Union to Chilecito taking the Cuesta de Miranda is 105 km. At that mileage every foot is different and memorable. Changing light and perspective, the mountain becomes a carnival of vermilion, ocher and terracotta shades that dance around every bend. (And there are 80 curves). Below, the Miranda river twists between the canyon walls it has created. When Italian engineerVicente Bolalli built it between 1918 and 1923, to open a passage between the Sierras de Famatina, he respected native building techniques such as embedding stones together. Although today is not obvious, the road overlaps a preexisting a Inca road, whose style was simulated by stonemasons of Croatian origin.

Many of the 105 km are paved, although it has been decided to keep a significant portion of gravel for adventure lovers. It occurred to me to ask our guide who was Miranda. And he could tackle successfully. He told us it was one of those guys who had rented mules and to move goods to Chile. A tiny village called Puerto Alegre marks the last place with water before moving to Villa Union. Apparently, it was where the travellers had fun, 100 years ago....

It was not the first time I was making the journey. In 2010, the road had been coming to Villa Union from San Juan. That time was not in a combination with heating, but in the Taunus George, a tannery worker, he was going destartalando on the road (the exhaust pipe, which was wired, unhooked and was barking like spoons as a kid we put a plastic cars F-1).

It strikes me that in life you have to be a bit like the Cuesta de Miranda, and go through all kinds of obstacles and illusions. We know that the most dangerous and heavier chains are the virtual ones. That's why I liked this tattoo one of the girls who joined us on the trip had. Says "Attraversiamo" (in Italian, overcame). Because even though it concerns life it matches well with this area of Route 40 negotiating the heart of Famatina.

“Vuelta al Pique circuit”

After taking a picture at one of the viewpoints of the Cuesta de Miranda, we proceeded to Sañogasta, where we find large plantations of walnuts and almonds. We immediately recognized the vines of Colovatti, one of Rioja Malbec masterclasses we tested yesterday, between goat and olives stuffed with pepper and carrot. There, we could have gone straight to Chilecito, but we took the diversion of "Vuelta al Pique", on land only suitable for 4x4 or high vehicles, passing through the village of Guanchín, home to just over 1000 people. This circuit is being promoted as alternative tourism site, with options for hiking, mountain biking and horseback riding. The good thing about taking the Tour of Pique are two. You can visualize the dimension of the Sierra de Famatina, that being separated from Andean system is the highest continental mountains in the world (6,300 mts) and retains eternal snow-capped throughout the year. And the main thing, is an interesting way to get to the next surprise: Station No. 2 Chilecito Cable-lane.

DAS BACKPACKER MANIFEST – ein Text um (sich) zu befreien

Juan Pablo Villarino — Tue, 30 Jul 2013 21:20:00 +0000

Translated by Sara Alfonso Domenech and Vanessa Briese

Wir, die diese Webseite aufbauen glauben, das Backpacker zu sein mehr bedeutet als nur unseren Rucksack herumzuschleppen und Routen entlang zu wandern. Es ist mehr als per Anhalter zu reisen oder die Natur zu genießen.

Wir glauben, …

dass die menschliche Kondition mehr Möglichkeiten zulässt als ein Diplom und Büroarbeit. Unsere aktuelle Gesellschaft hält die Menschen für wenig mehr als spezialisierte Werkzeuge. Effizienz und Produktivität sind die vorherrschenden Werte. Angesichts dieses Werteverfalls nehmen wir uns vor, den Verstand und die Erfahrung als Grundwerte und auch die Reise als bevorzugtes Mittel, um einen Zugang zu diesen zu bekommen, aufzuwerten …

dass eine Gesellschaft von Individuen, die ausgebildet wird, um autark zu sein und nicht einmal jemanden nach Uhrzeit zu fragen, ausgebildet werden, eine neurotische Zuchtstätte ist. Eine Gesellschaft von neurotischen und zukünftigen Konsumenten von Alarmen und Stresspillen. Durch das Reisen als Backpacker und durch das Trampen stellen wir den menschlichen Kontakt, diese kläglich kleine Flamme, wieder her ...

dass verantwortlich zu sein bedeutet gewahr zu werden, dass das Leben einzig ist. Dass man Tag für Tag lebt, und dass ein Altern mit Rente keine Jugend des Alters rechtfertigt. Verantwortlich zu sein heißt nicht nur Pflichten auf sich zu nehmen, sondern auch sich zu ermutigen die Freiheit zu ergreifen und sich nicht unnötig an Dinge zu binden, die jenseits unseres Wesens sind ...

dass niemand alt ist, solange er/sie sich nicht für sein/ihr Alter verantwortlich macht. Egal für was: Es ist nie zu spät. Alt ist, wer Dinge tut, die von einem Alten zu erwarten sind, nur weil andere es von ihm/ihr erwarten ...

dass die Welt kein statischer Ort ist, sondern ein Gewirr von Wegen, die Tausende von Menschen täglich gehen. Grenzen überschreitend, Bäche überwindend und Berge besteigend ...

dass diese Welt immer noch ein guter Platz zum Leben ist. Dass die Menschen, die sie durchgehen, etwas viel Stärkeres gemeinsam haben als ihre Unterschiede, egal ob Rasse, Religion oder Beruf. Diese Menschen sind von Natur aus gut ...

Wir glauben, dass das Universum für uns sorgt, und dass ein 12-stündiger Arbeitstag gefährlicher ist als zu Trampen... Dass niemand in Gefahr ist, nur weil er/sie weit weg von zu Hause ist. Wir glauben, dass die Städte definitiv gefährlicher sind als die Wege, die Berge und die Seen.

dass das Geld ein optionaler Bestandteil des Gepäcks ist, da sich niemand von Geld ernährt. Man macht nicht nur Dinge im Austausch für Geld. Das zu denken wäre wirtschaftliche Beziehungen in menschliche Beziehungen willkürlich umzusetzen. Ein Lächeln zum richtigen Zeitpunkt kann Millionen wert sein ...

dass alle Reisenden voneinander lernen können, dass niemand wissend geboren ist. Dass es immer jemanden gibt, der zum ersten Mal diesen Ort besucht, den man selbst schon in- und auswendig kennt.

dass der Wind, der uns direkt ins Gesicht weht, das Heilmittel gegen die Routine sein kann ...

dass die Schlichtheit etwas ist, dass in Anspruch genommen werden soll, und einem selbstgebackenem Brot am Straßenrand näherkommt, als einem Hypothekenkredit oder einem in drei Jahren abbezahlten 15-tägigen Urlaub ...

dass das Ziel ein Vorwand ist, um uns durch Zufälle leiten zu lassen und uns den unerwarteten Aufenthalten, versteckten Dörfern, tausenden von Zwischenmöglichkeiten auszusetzen, die jeden Punkt der Landkarte in eine Anekdote verwandeln.

dass wir mit jedem Auto, das an einem Randstreifen anhält, erwägen zu wenden. Dass genau dieser präzise Augenblick irgendwie unsere Reise verändert und auf diese Weise auch unser Leben.

Wir glauben, dass der Weg das Leben ist (Jack Kerouac 1922-1967) ...

dass der Autostopp eine wunderschöne Art ist, um etwas über die Länder durch die wir reisen, über ihre Menschen und Sitten zu lernen. Geld sparen ist nicht das Ziel beim Trampen, vielmehr die Nebenauswirkungen ...

dass eine Wandkarte mehr Adrenalin als Big Brother enthält,

dass das ständige Glücksgefühl eine verborgene Gestalt ist, in der der Tod steckt. (Julio Cortázar, 1914-1984) ...

dass der Reisende ein Gefangener des Paradoxes ist, eine Reise durch einen sich unendlich drehenden Kreis machen zu wollen ...

dass, wenn du bis hierher gelesen hast, du nicht eine Minute länger verpassen lassen solltest, um anzufangen an deine eigene Reise durch die Welt zu denken. Während du dich vorbereitest, kannst du Ideen in diesem Blog und Anregungen in unseren Büchern finden.

Wir, die diese Homepage betreiben, möchten vor allen Dingen, dass du den Weg lieben lernst.

En Mochima, Venezuela. 2011

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Remember, you can order my e-book “Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil – By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan” with just one clic. Learn more here.

I solemnly promise the book will envelope you as a magic carpet bound for remote lands. Thanks for sharing the message of a more hospitable world!

BEST CONDOR VIEWING SPOT IN ARGENTINA: QUEBRADA DEL CONDOR

Juan Pablo Villarino — Mon, 08 Jul 2013 18:11:00 +0000

TRANSLATED BY GOOGLE TRANSLATOR

When the invitation arrived for the last blogtrip to La Rioja I could not stop smiling. The sighting of condors in the Quebrada del Cóndor was the first point of the route to be revealed. I was so happy, but what followed was even more interesting. The motto that La RIoja province was keen on promoting was "a return to the origins". I imagined -and then checked- that they were referring to the red walls of Talampaya and its prehistoric fossils. In my heart, however, I was preparing for a reunion with other kind of origins. Origins for me are not just a matter of time, but an attitude that undresses the scabs do not need. Every traveler needs those other sources: freedom, simplicity and serenity. The recent trip to often overlooked La Rioja province put me face to face with all three ...

Many times I receive mails asking for tips from first time travelers. They consult for brands or budgets, backpacks best suited for a particular country, etc. As I don`t want to sound like Mr. Miyagi I answer those specific questions and I shy the rest...which is the main thing: without these three sources no trip will flourish. Freedom is the main one, and the condor is the best metaphor.

But can you see condors in La Rioja? I have to admit I knew nothing about the existence of the Quebrada del Condor Nature Reserve. The five bloggers of La Rioja BT actually wondered if the place would not be pure myth as darkness enveloped the van that brought us from the airport of La Rioja. Condors did not appear anywhere. We traveled almost 200 km south from La Rioja capital and arrived at Angel Vicente Penaloza Department. Asphalt greeted with a white handkerchief in Tama, where we take a detour to Pacatala gravel. From there we started to follow different rural roads, climb the Sierra de los Quinteros up to 1,010 meters. I noticed with pleasure that our driver was lost. That meant it was not a place of passage, and that nature that awaited us had other priorities that proper road signs. There are places out there that deserve them.

Ordering my notes at the hotel

We were so tired that it was a relief to see that we were waiting in the hotel Posta The Condors. It was one of those rustic isolated rural lodgings all decorated with wagon wheels, plows, mud and lots of stone. In our room the fire sizzled with burning coals. In the dining room, a shelf with books in English tells us that international tourism is already aware of this paradise and do not mind at all the lack of wifi or cell signal: the connection offered is of another kind. This contact happened the next morning.

The tansfer left us on a path where we walked half an hour. You need to have good shoes to overcome stones and thorns pepper trees and giant cactus, but it is a very low-level terrain which difficulty is suitable for all ages.

The Quebrada del Condor is a canyon several hundred feet deep, with Chocallo River shaking at its bottom. Here we stand, right at the edge of the unfathomable precipice . In vertical walls the condors had their rookeries and nests. That is, we were higher than their nests, and saw them whirling up from below! sometimes one, sometimes in groups. The quality of the sighting was outstanding, one of the few places in the world where a human can be at less than 10 meters away. Instinctively I took my camera ...

The show starts suddenly and with the entire orchestra. There was no time for explanations preamble as three condors flew not far from our heads. We could not believe it! Also instictively, I shed a tear at the bottom as if the condor and I had been old acquaintances, as if they had something in common with me and with all travelers.

I want to share the pictures I took without too many words because I was silent, huddled next to Lau in the rocky canyon rim, watching the sky and nothing else.

Some glided in search of the sun

Some liked to soar together...

The condors get to have a wingspan of 3 meters and are the second largest bird in the world, after thewandering albatross (3.50 meters) that we had seen in Antarctica. They were, until recently, pursued by the stallholders and locals, mostly goat breeders. There is a myth that rural condors feed on newborn goats, and some even say that they have been sighted to take one in its claws. The problem is that condors do not have claws to hunt! They are scavengers that feed on rodents unfortunate enough or on the wastes of pumas. The situation reminded me crowned eagles in the province of La Pampa and the brave volunteers who raise awareness about preservation. Here in La Rioja, stallholders before shooting into the sky now guide tourists to point their telephoto lenses. All happy.

Sunset was a show.

No credit card can pay this.

PRACTICAL INFORMATION:

How to get there:

Where to stay: Posta Los Cóndores, 22 km south of Pacatala, 44 km south of Tama. To date 7/2013, $ 790 (u$s 1 = 5.40 pesos) double room with full board. They organize trips to the two condor sighting spots ($ 140 and $ 220 by horseback) and have options for trekking, rappelling and zip line with prior notice. Go by reservation.

Backpackers: no hostels or campsites. I can only think the option of renting a car for the day or hitching a ride with other tourists. Independent travelers can hire an excursion to the condor from the inn even if they don`t take a room.

If you liked this entry help me spread the word of this magnificient place, share it!

UPCOMING BLOGTRIP: LA RIOJA #LaRiojaBT

Juan Pablo Villarino — Tue, 25 Jun 2013 14:08:00 +0000

Before My World Tour, in January 2005, I decided to "train" at home. I took a map of Argentina and found a difficult destination. Who knows how many mountains I would need to climb? How many deserts and plateaus would I have to endure? I was going to travel two years overland across Middle East and Asia so, in search for comparable challenges at home, a friend I decided to try to reach Laguna Brava, perched up in La Rioja`s Andes. It was the last trip of the sedentary chapter of my life. Next week, I'll be rediscovering this beautiful province thanks to the blogtrip I was invited to join by the Ministry of Tourism of La Rioja. There is an outstanding itinerary across surreal landscapes and valleys dotted with iddylic mudbrick towns. And I have new eyes to discover them. If you want to follow the event on Twitter, attend the hashtag # LaRiojaBT. Soon, La Rioja on the blog posts.

PRACTICAL TIPS FOR TRAVELING TO CUSCO

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sat, 15 Jun 2013 15:04:00 +0000

If you are looking for tips to travel to Cusco and Machu Pichu by land, knowing all the Sacred Valley of the Incas, practical information, prices or itineraries, this article will be helpful. Recently, the Spanish TRAVEL National Geographic magazine, asked me a note about it and then I realized: Clumsy! Why not share it with the readers of my blog? I know that I have used you to reading about faraway countries, but with this article I hope to do justice to a destination that every traveler should know.

The article is divided into three parts:

1. Cusco

2. Sacred Valley

3. Alternative Way to Machu Pichu (próximately, in separate post )

Do not forget that soon we will soon realese our new book about South America, Travel chronic Argentina, Paraguay, Bolivia, Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, Venezuela, Guyana, Suriname, French Guyana, Brazil and Antarctica, with many stories, maps, cultural and social considerations, location of Amazon communities, lost Inca trails and beaches of the Caribbean. You can reserve a copy to acrobatadelcamino@gmail.com The other books you can meet the here

1 CUSCO: CENTER OF THE INCA UNIVERSE INCA AND TRAVELING MECA

Why Cusco? Cusco is the kilometer zero of any adventure into the Sacred Valley and Machu Picchu, mecca for many "first trip" across Latin America of those who have long been looking at the map, measuring forces and wondering if they have encourage. If you decided to get away from the maddening city (call Buenos Aires, Santiago de Chile, Montevideo or any other capital) travel north you will be connecting with more harmonious lifestyle, with indigenous communities that live off the land and not against the land , the salt pans of the size of a sea, with ruins of empires whose wisdom still hanging around nearby.

When the Incas founded their capital, they considered it the world's navel, the center of his empire, the Tahuantisuyo, and from there began their conquests. I felt it was also a crossroads for travelers and migrants from all countries and colors that intersect at hostels, bars and cafes. The whole city seems to be traveling through the feet and energy of those who visit.

REQUIREMENTS TO ENTER TO PERU

Most western nationalities do not need a visa to enter Peru. If you do not need sos Argentine passport or visa to enter Peru. That said, I always travel with a passport. You never know when you are invited to Russia in flying saucer :-) In both cases you get 90 days and a form called Andean Card, you must complete and return you sealed. DO NOT miss it, you will have to submit to exit.

WHAT IS THE BEST TIME OF YEAR TO TRAVEL TO CUSCO?

The best time is from April to November (dry season). Refreshes much at night (and with coat!) But the days are sunny and cloudless, the thermometer can climb to 22 degrees. Please note: June to August is high season and the prices go up a little. The most important festivals are: Inti Raymi (June 24) and Qoylluriti (May to June, variable)

From December to March it rains a lot and there is usually avalanches on the Inca Trail, which can be closed as a result. A couple of times it has ended badly, with tents washed away.

CHECK-LIST OF OUR CUSCO BACKPACK

1. Bie comfortable trekking boots.
2. Waterproof Jacket (*) and rain poncho for hiking
3. Sleeping bag
4. The secret of Laura: earplugs for noisy hostels
5. Water Bottle
6. Alarm to catch buses at dawn
7. Flashlight for overnight camping on the Inca Trail
8. Lock for the backpack / tent, to discourage foreign friends.
9. Hat and sunglasses for sun protection in mountain walks.
10. repellent
11. Mesh to get into the hot springs of Aguas Calientes
12. First Aid Kit
13. ISIC card or regular student certificate for discounted tickets.

(*) You can get good imitation North Face jackets (made in China) for real good prices around Cusco.

HOW TO REACH CUSCO?

Overland:

As you know I love to hitchhike, not by economics but by sheer adventure, adrenaline and social contact. The two routes that follow, from Argentina-the-can make your taste-a finger or bus. If you need to make your finger tips, read this post.

There are basically two routes to Cusco coming from Argentina.

One is across Bolivia and entering through the Titicaca Peru and connecting from there to Puno and then Cusco. It is the most interesting and culturally consistent with what you see, because they say that emerged from the Titicaca Inca gods and followed the same path.
The other is crossing into Chile through Paso de Jama Argentina in the Province of Jujuy, and then up the Pacific coast of Chile and Peru for the Panamericana to Arequipa, and then cross the Andes to the ancient Inca capital. It's the fastest, more pavement and traveling easier finger that Bolivia Chile.
An alternative route and little used is from Porto Velho, which you get from Manaus in the Brazilian Amazon. From Porto Velho can be connected by paved road on the border of Assis Brasil (BR) - Iñapari (Peru) - Puerto Maldonado - Cuzco, traversing 763 km in Peruvian territory.

Those who have more money than time, can consider the international bus from Buenos Aires to Lima (off at Arequipa), or take a plane.

WHAT CURRENCY DO THEY USE IN PERU?

Ideally take dollars and change them PERUVIAN SOLES (S /.) Local currency. His exchange with the dollar (April, 2013) is 2.58 soles per dollar. If entering from Chile Peru by Pan cushy positions can change at the terminal of Tacna. If you need to change more in Cusco, there are exchange offices in the Plaza de Armas and the Avenida El Sol also for there are no cash. USD Change in Peru is legal and free. Some of these agents also change travelers checks.

ACCOMODATION

There are plenty of hostels and lodges of all categories. If arriving by bus are going to tackle a lot of women by offering hostel. We feel very comfortable in the Riqchary Hostel. It was not the cheapest but haggle :-) Don`t stay in the terminal area, because all the tourist attractions are going to be very far.

Price of accommodation in Cusco (approximate)

Shared bathroom slept 15 to 25 soles (shared bathroom)

Private Single room 40 soles

Private double room 60 soles

Other travelers have gotten lower prices in Hanan Qosqo Mirador Lodge (Qoricalle 445) and Tinkuy Huasi (Tullumayo 267) with lower price amenities and staying for several days. Ideal for small groups of travelers on a budget.

For those prices hostels usually include TV, wifi, hot shower and breakfast.
Ask twice what hot water that cold night looooong ago.
If you are going to do some hiking or trekking agencies can usually leave luggage at no charge hostels.

As elsewhere, I recommend using the web hosting exchange Couchsurfing, although as in many tourist sites, it is often difficult to make ends meet without later still a hostel or you want to charge. (The profile that say they work in tourism are highly likely to be fishing customers than offering hospitality)

FOOD

No se asusten, además de cuy hay otras opciones...

Eating in Cusco is very economical, especially for the culture of street food market. In the central San Pedro Central Market you can have breakfast for 2 S /. and lunch or dinner for 3-5 S /. Throughout the city there are local eateries where the menu does not exceeds 5 S /. and includes soups as input and drink (a glass of juice or tea). We had lunch (fixed) in a room where every day was rice with trout, also for 4 S /.

Dishes are almost always based on rice. Traditional ones are:

Seco de carne, pescado y pollo
Lomo saltado
Ají de Gallina
Cuy (If you have wanted to try a bunny india this is your chance)
There are special dishes are prepared only for parties, as Chiri Uchu (for Corpus Christi)

Prices of snacks:

Mixed juices (orange with pineapple, papaya, etc.) on the market: 2.50 S /.
Cusqueña black (my favorite in Peru): 5 S /.
Picarones: sweet fried donuts (very rare but delicious): 2.50 S /.

Western Food:

There are plenty of cafes, pizzerias and even a Starbucks ... Prices of pizzas, burgers, etc. are naturally much more expensive than the aforementioned.
Item must for every gringo passing through Cusco Paddy `s Irish Pub, the Irish pub world's highest. They say it's the best wave bar to watch football matches both the South American and European leagues.

Gourmet Peruvian Food:

If you want to splurge and try traditional dishes with a contemporary edge, like a passion fruit pisco or ceviche giant, highly-recommended restaurant Fusion Inka, a block from the Plaza de Armas (Calle Loreto 125)

Para vengar esas hormigas vivas que nos hicieron probar en el Amazonas...

TRANSPORTATION

Walk! Cusco is beautiful despite having many steep streets. A taxi from the terminal to the Plaza de Armas, where most of the hostels, it will cost 6 S /. And then, in general, within the central radius with S /. 4 reaches.

WHAT NOT TO MISS IN CUSCO?

Plaza de Armas: was the kilometer zero of the Inca Empire, from here started their paths to the four or regions of the Empire. It was the site of the martyrdom of Tupac Amaru
In the Cathedral you can see a local version of the Last Supper in which Jesus Christ is facing a huge plate of cuy. Its foundations are Incas and belonged to the ancient temple of Viracocha. To see inside the churches, the ideal is to loop through Sundays until 9 am as they are at Mass and charge admission.

Koricancha: the most venerable of the Inca sun temple. On its foundation was built the Convent of Santo Domingo. Its hybrid architecture summarizes the history of Peru.
What makes the city unique is the amount of Inca walls built in the colonial urban, as the alley walls Loreto and Acllahuasi (former home of the virgins who served the Inca) and the famous Stone of Twelve Angles are in Hatunrumiyoc street.
Barrio San Blas: colonial and steep, with many craft shops.

What is the tourist ticket (BT) and what does it cover?

The only way to access some of the museums of Cusco and-primarily-almost all the archaeological ruins of the Sacred Valley Tourist Ticket is buying a single ticket that costs S /. 130 or S /. 70 for students under 26 with ISIC card. It can be purchased in Av Sol N ° 103 (Monday to Friday 8:00 a.m. to 5:30 PM and Saturday from 8:30 to 12:30) and is valid for 10 days. The Tourist Ticket includes: Cusco Cathedral, Museum of Religious Art, Church of San Blas, Regional History Museum, Pachacutec Monument and the Sacred Valley following sites: Sacsayhuaman, Kenko, Puca Pucara, Tambo Machay, Pisac, Ollantaytambo and Chinchero. It includes Machu Pichu.

Cusco A popular character known as "the blind man of Middle Street." In 2008 I met and charmed by the peace that arpegiaban his fingers took the first photo collage. At that time I was not aware of his blindness. I left a few coins in his piggy bank and went traveling. Months later I decided to expand your photo, and even managed to sell some copies. On my return to Cusco (2012), four years later I found (second photo). Obserquiarle wanted a copy of the photograph. The cheerful accepted (third photo) and I knew from his enfermedad.Dijo that although he could not see it would make a beautiful present for your family. The man waits an operation that will return the view. Meanwhile his music angel bounces like narrow passages between the Incas.

TRADITIONAL MUSEUMS AND OTHERS NOT SO MUCH ...

There are too many to list them all museums. They personally visited them:

Koricancha Site Museum: in the basement of the same Koricancha. (S /. 10)
Regional Historical Museum. If you end up not understanding who were Tupac Amaru and Garcilaso de la Vega, this is your museum-kill donkeys.
Folk Art Museum: something bizarre, with thousands of miniature figures of all festivals, celebrations and local dances with his demons and mythological creatures. To understand the significance of festivals like Inti Raymi or Qoylluriti
The Museum of sacred plants, medicinal magic and explains everything you need to know about coca and ayahuasca, among other plants. We brought fresh memories of the time an Ecuadorian Amazonian Shuar community shared their stories with us ...

Volunteering in Cusco:
Want to travel to Cusco and learn what life in the semi-rural outskirts of Cusco and contribute to the education of their children? Peru inquiries to cooperate and accompany them. They also have a hostel, something basic, named Hostel Caja Magica, which funds educational activities.

2. SACRED VALLEY

When traveling to Cusco and then tour the Sacred Valley, I had the impression it was a lie that the Inca Empire had bowed gunpowder and musket of the conquerors. This corridor crossed by streams and rivers pampas, organically intertwines between the archaeological ruins vicuna and llamas grazing. The peasantry is part of the heritage, as the scattered communities pay homage to old farming techniques that catered to the largest empire in South America. Please note that you need to buy the tourist ticket to access many of the archaeological sites.

Day trips from Cusco:

Sacsayhuaman, the first appeal is barely 2 km from Cusco, so it can be visited even by foot. It is a labyrinthine fortress in ruins. From here there are excellent views to take aerial photos of Cusco. Many guides will be offered to tell the history of the place they know very little about it. It is best to test the guide in advance, never pay in advance or directly traverse down internet info.

Other significant ruins included in the tourist ticket are Qenko (6 km from Cusco. 3850 mts) with interesting zigzag channels, mazes and-venture-deposits some sacred chicha, Puca Pucara, a military fortification whose name in Quechua means "red fortress "by the color stones taken at sunset, and Tambomachay, sophisticated site for the worship ritual water.

What order to visit so many ruins and villages? if they are not experts on the subject or do not have all the time in the world, visiting only from Cusco Sacsayhuaman, which will give a snapshot of the subject, and the other three are further along the road leading to Pisac, you can visit around.

SACRED VALLEY TRANSPORTATION: Most mini-buses and shared taxis traveling to the villages of the Sacred Valley of the terminal exit Avenida Grau 535 between 5:30 am and 8 pm. However, the hitch works great.

Prices:

Cusco-Chinchero: S/. 2

Cusco-Urubamba: S/. 3,50

Cusco-Pisaq: S/. 2

Starting from Chinchero, the route is shown on the map below.

What not to miss in the Sacred Valley

Chinchero (my favorite) Village was once the royal hacienda of Tupac Inca Yupanqui. The church of Our Lady of Monserrat, built in 1607 on Inca foundations, is for me the most beautiful church in the Andes. In its vicinity are indigenous women selling very nice sweaters and textiles. In the Sunday market, also you can see the traditional barter for chuño coca leaves, corn and fruit. (Check with BT)

¿Qué gusto tiene la sal?

Maras. One hour from this village you will find these salt mines, which flooded three thousand wells have been exploited since the Inca era. The landscape is surreal, blinding (with sunglasses) No accommodation, go back to Urubamba or camping. Input: S /. 5

Moray. The ruins of an ancient Inca agricultural experimentation center presents concentric stone terraces and simulate altitude who managed a score of microclimates suitable for planting. No accommodation. Input: S /. 10

¡Por nada del mundo se pierdan los mercados!

Urubamba: the main town of the valley has not ruined, but it is a good base to move Maras and Moray. In addition, there are accommodations, ATMs and other amenities. Every evening in the square, foreigners who have settled in the village organized a fair of organic dishes up-market prices, led mostly to foreign tourists. But the atmosphere is nice.

Many people visit Maras and Moray on a walk from Urumbamba. We did Cusco-Chinchero-Maras on foot, and from there we walked to Urubamba.

Calca and un unknown walk. From Calca (2930m) is a path through the Valley of Lares to be done in about five hours, starting from the Treasury Huarán, crossing two steps +4000 m and ending in the hot springs of Lares. Will turn into mini-buses.

Contacto con la tierra - Yucay

Yucay, zen touch. In this tiny town two dreamers, Avishai (Israel) and Viviana (Peru) opened the Sacred Valley Retreat B & B an eco-lodge that organic meals prepared with ingredients from your own garden, offers guided walks and meditation and yoga sessions. Lau thought he had found a place to live there.

Ollantaytambo. The village rigorously respects the original Inca layout and is famous for the Inca agricultural terraces carved into the steep slopes of the mountain. (Check with BT). From there you can also take buses to Santa Maria, where the road begins to Machu Pichu alternative.

Pisaq. I put it at the end, but can be done as the first destination after if they skip Chinchero Cusco. We made it back. The village is famous for the ruins of an ancient Inca fortress appearing after a good time to hike up the mountain. There are several groups of ruins (Pisaqa, Intihuana and Kanchiraqay) If you got bored of the ruins and want to leave a mark on the local community, visit your Sacred Friendship NGO. There our friend Sanang does community work in villages. If you buy a craft, buying it here dejás a footprint.

Of course, with a good map, and hiking possibilities are endless visits to communities.

To read the tips for Machu Pichu click this link (coming soon)

If you have a valuable data aabout economic hostels, museums or practical advice, please leave it as a comment on the blog (not on Facebook) so others benefit!

If this guide was helpful share it on social networks.

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Don`t forget to check our book "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil - By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan" in this link

USHUAIA: A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE INTIMATE AND THE INFINITE

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sat, 25 May 2013 15:31:00 +0000

Why should a true traveler visit Ushuaia at least once in a lifetime? Following a recent invitation to a Blogtrip by the Argentinean Ministry of Tourism the present article focuses on this question.

How can some cities catch a spell on us when we spot their name on a map? It may not be very poetic to test the strength of magic but on return to Ushuaia I decided to rush into such labyrinths of travelñ psychology. Why do travelers visit Ushuaia once and again through their lives? Laura and I had first visited the city in November 2010 with a range of fuzzy dreams. We were grateful to the city, we had arrived with no expectations and, instead, we had ended up embarking to Antarctica.

What makes it worth traveling 3,040 miles to Ushuaia? Does a cold geographical record alone justify such a long trip? I should be sincere. Arriving on this this shy city on the Beagle Channel redefined my emotional cartography. I will try to elucidate the essence of the magic of the world's southernmost city, Argentina's other population on the other side of the Andes ...

Again, I walked along the waterfront, as I remembered what it was like to be on the edge of the world itself. The snow always drifts Martial Glacier, jagged peaks and granite cathedrals and snow, winter always spectrum Ushuaia enveloping you placed a crown ether. The fascination that one sees on the faces of tourists and international travelers who come to quench their thirst for glory to sign proclaims the end of the world is boundless and contagious. They say that a girl recently arrived in unicycle riding from Canada. Therefore, to say that there are travelers Ushuaia is an understatement: the city itself seems to be traveling, dammed in the eyes of the adventurers. Does magic that lies in knowing you are thousands of miles away from home and close to nothing?

It suffices to look south from Ushuaia, to suspect that there is something more. Crouched beside a passage connecting the two great oceans of the world and port that opens the game to explore the southern seas, the city is like a huge albatross fly without notice to land on another rock. Ushuaia is a madman on the loose, a kite that escapes us at any time. And travelers who walk through its boulevards we become acrobats in excess of the landscape. While I seemed to be at the pit of the matter, I had to admit that an extreme landscape, proud and pure at the same time, channels, mountains and uninhabited islands, was at the height of "World's End" and was undoubtedly one of the ingredients of the magnetism of Ushuaia.

And resolved to spy detectives decided to embark closer landscape that was hinted as the aroma of coffee or snuff. As a traveler I know that often the charm of landscapes fade to want to touch: they had to try the Beagle Channel. To do this, we got on one of the many catamarans that offer navigation channel. I like to walk around the deck braving the cold of Antarctic latitudes. Ushuaia is democratic, as it allows everyone to feel a browser.

The first stop is the Bird Island, where we observe a colony of cormorants. I get along with cormorants: a day in the Norwegian Arctic few ornithologists concluded that if coming from the South of the world, I was like a migratory bird and I put a ring numbered for cormorants. Now was in front, pulling in calvados and diving up to 45 meters in search of food. In China I heard that the fishermen tied a rope and used for fishing. When poor cormorant had swallowed a fish the Chinese pull the lanyard and take out the dam of the peak. But nobody bothers Ushuaia cormorants, much less the occasional sea lions bask in static majesty beside her.

Leaving Ushuaia Bay and sailing sea eastward almost immediately bristled. We had lost sight of the city and the sea feeling we had all four travelers (Lazzarino Laura, Laura Schneider, Guillermo Paez and me) smiling and bewildered. At that time is when I Ecleuriers appears Faro (1920). Its red and white stripes indicate the port avid ships approaching navigable waters, and travelers like us who are falling from the map ... Is this the famous Lighthouse at the End of the World, immortalized in the eponymous novel by Jules Verne ? Almost: the aforementioned by the French is actually in Staten Island. But the nickname not feel anything wrong, and I'm willing to throw away who I remember the difference.

It had been two hours since we left Ushuaia. We were away. On the south coast of the Beagle Channel, the Chilean side, we passed Puerto Williams, a town of 2,000 inhabitants too small to snatch his record Austral Ushuaia. The Canal marks the boundary is not always clear between the two countries, which in 1978 were on the verge of war because of the Picton, Lennox and Nueva. Then another village, this time the Argentine side: it's Puerto Almanza, a village dedicated to fishing for crab, and so arrived at the Estancia Harberton.

Harberton was founded in 1886 by Lucas Bridges, having renounced the established Anglican Mission in Ushuaia in 1869, in order to evangelize the Yamana. The yámanas some once dominated these bays and channels from their canoes, in which even lit bonfires to keep warm. They lived by hunting sea lions, whose fat is rubbed to insulate from extreme cold. For the poor things were exterminated-little unexpected-in processing evangelize. While no trace of the Yamana, you may have reincarnated thousands of penguins flapping in neighboring Hammer Island penguin colony. These, by far, are showing more skill in the Yamana and-definitely going naked. stay away from the bibles.

We wrapped again Ushuaia harbor with its sailboats and cruise ships, many of them ready to sail. I think then finished Ushuaia understand the formula. The magic that prints on the sensitivity of travelers, not from the city itself, but precisely what is not there, of that neighborhood with the intangible, intuited the presence of Antarctica, the Falklands and Cape Horn. A small ramp port as amazing worlds, whether on the map that we utopias. A dialogue between the intimate and the infinite, with necessary scale in the human heart. So Ushuaia conquer: is a matrix of all dreams.

OFF ROAD IN TIERRA DEL FUEGO: LAKES FAGNANO AND YEHUIN

Juan Pablo Villarino — Wed, 15 May 2013 15:52:00 +0000

When you wonder what to see and do in Ushuaia, the possible answers go far beyond sailing in the Beagle Channel and the walks in the Tierra del Fuego National Park. The Island has a heart dispersed among its lakes and forested valleys, we were lucky to explore. Things were not so bad: we had a Land Rover with a guide, ceeded by the Blogtrip organizers. The land itself calls the four-wheel drive ...

We left very early and took National Route 3 towards north. The mountains of the Andes, which in this area are around 1450 meters high, had dawned snowy and a somewhat mysterious haze continued pinned to their summits. We were still driving on asphalt and Laura and the other bloggers were comfortable and smiling in the backseat ...

We spent the Monte Olivia (1470 m) and 21 kilometers we arrived at Tierra Mayor Winter Center, located in a broad valley that spends more time of the year under upholstered snow-ocher green reminded me of Irish peatlands. The warm wood construction makes you wish that the thermometer below zero collapses then retreat to a hot chocolate on the inside, next to the huge salamander. The walls are covered with newspaper articles about the founder of the venture, Gustavo turned, who was none other than the head of Argentina's first overland expedition to the South Pole, where he arrived after two months of operation in December 1965. Returning to the mainland, the Lord turned inclement missed both snowmobiles and opened "Higher Ground", his little Antarctica. This is something of a mecca for those who enjoy skiing and hiking in dog sledding. Outside the cottage, look astonished the Siberian huskies pens used for the task.

The only dog that was not a husky, a dog old, somewhat crude, and was visibly out of service for years, rested heavily and we looked like a mutant bear. It was "Bear", the last surviving example of an extinct race: the Argentine Polar Dog, developed by the Argentine Army to serve in the Antarctic Bases in the 50s, through genetic crosses Huskies, Alaskan Malamutes groenladeses and dogs. The result was the sled dog race stronger than ever known. It is said that the day that the world record was recorded low temperature (- 89) in the Soviet base Vostok, an endowment of dogs was visiting and waited without much complaint on the outside of the base ... The dogs were removed from the white continent in 1994, when the Antarctic Treaty signatory countries indicated that furry quadrupeds were not a native species and thus alter the balance of the Antarctic ecosystem. Interesting how humans evading its own status of invasive species ... Siberians used for the task.

The Tierra Mayor Valley is connected to the Cerro Castor through an unusual bridge for skiers RN 3. This allows a total of skiers have around Ushuaia with 30 tracks and 40 km of ski slopes. Thanks to this, Ushuaia seriously think about running to host the Winter Olympics.

We make an obligatory stop at the Paso Garibaldi, with barely 450 meters is one of the lowest mountain passes that have crossed, which does not take away the luxury of being the Andean pass the southernmost continent. From the lookout you can see Lake Escondido and in the background, the Fagnano.

Shortly after our driver takes a sharp turn and started jumping on a dirt road without maintenance: the RP 149, that despite such number is just the path to an old sawmill. Finally, land which justifies the fact that we are on board a 4x4. We entered the heart of a beech forest. Some specimens aged stand firm and suspiciously on the set, indicating they were "forgiven" by the chainsaws so that its seeds do endure the forest.

In some places, the trees are dry and scattered on the ground, as soldiers abandoned by a boy who got bored of playing. When we invaded almost sadness to award the event to the logging, the guide interrupted: the fall of the trees is natural and common in Tierra del Fuego. In fact, the campers in this corner of the world should not fear invisible snakes, or bears claws. Nor are insects that transmit deadly diseases like dengue or malaria. In return, the province can greet you with a club to the head at any time. This happens because the topsoil is only 15 cm, so that the strong wind woody collects their bodies.

Still, the wind is not nearly the biggest enemy of the forests that despite everything, enjoy good health in the province, with very strict forest policy and controlled. The Public Enemy is a Canadian who sharps his tooth against tree trunks. And I do not mean some traveler lost dentally reason so wrong, but the beavers. No one, not ten, or a thousand, must be millions beavers gnaw cheerfully fueguino natural heritage. The first 50 of these cute critters were introduced in 1947 by the Argentine Army, with the dollar sign in the eye white fur industry foresaw a profitable one. They did not count in Tierra del Fuego was less cold than in Canada, and therefore developed beaver fur lower quality was unacceptable for the international market. Unable to transform them into pesos, irresponsible act of piety, let them go. Since then the beavers began a relentless colonization. Finding no natural predators, multiplied by thousands, eating away everything they found in their path.

With the wood of trees, these little creatures of Dutch soul that allows them to build dams flood the areas surrounding its burrow, in defense to predators that at least in Tierra del Fuego, no. Around the "beaver" the outlook is bleak, the trees have been cut down die, drowned, drowned standing. Trees, in all their forms are the protagonists: alive, dead, standing, lying down, covered with lichens or gnaw through trees with signs of beaver or Laura ... But beyond those expected of local metamorphosis tree, other surprising. Some trees have huge knots in its branches, plant tumors that formed the local indigenous menu, and known as Indian bread or Llao Llao (God bless the meal). In other trees hanging ball-shaped lichen called "Chinese lanterns" and even shaped beard. A fueguinos trees like accessories.

Following a chopped old arrived on the shores of Lake Fagnano, recently renamed "Khami" after the vernacular name given to him by ones. The lake stretches for over 100 km from west to east, and gets to have 200 meters deep. For us it was an ideal place for a barbecue accompanied by minced and wine. Everything was quiet, and we had become accustomed to woodpeckers and other colorful birds. The last thing we expected was that the irresistible aroma of grilled meat smell would draw a red fox. There was, less than 10 meters, measuring the risk of going after a short rib in a corner of the forest invaded by humans. Struggling with the drowsiness we rejoin our mission and address the Land Rover. the we go through the very edge of Lake Fagnano, maximizing the vehicle we had.Now that's taking a shortcut!

In the case of Tierra del Fuego, the lakes are an excuse to venture into the landscape. While the roads to Lake Fagnano-south cross Khami since extensive forests of beech, beaver dams, mills, etc., to pose the pupils over Lake Yehuin the traveler must transit between industrious and almost centenary estacnias. The track appears on maps as "complementary Route H", and to splice it must travel 125 km north from Ushuaia.

We crossed several guardaganados and gates, and let us cherish the soul by the incomparable summer pastures adorned with constellations of wildflowers. Heidi appeared feared, because he ran a high risk of being hit by our Land Rover. We finally hulls of Estancia La Indiana, and Estancia Rivadavia (the latter founded in 1925 by Croatian pioneers and today functioning as an inn). And then, in the middle of pastures and fences, emerges Yehuin Lake: a mirror at the foot of Cerro crystalline Shenolsh, condor habitat, when he dspone, can be seen. If you your coordinates should afford the joy of the remote, the feeling is accentuated by the remains of an abandoned government lodge anachronistic. Forgetting, entrenzado with water and mountains, seem to be a fundamental ingredient of the charm of one of the lesser known of Tierra del Fuego. There are countless additional gravel paths, and lakes and stays that await those who really enjoy the roads with little trace.

PRACTICAL INFORMATION:

Distance Ushuaia - Tierra Mayor Winter Center: 21 km
Dist Ushuaia - Paso Garibaldi: 53 km
Dst. Ushuaia - Estancia Rivadavia: 150 km
CAMPING ON LAKE FAGNANO: Camping Hain. (02964) 15603606. Tolhuin.
CAMPING IN LAKE YEHUIN: Free.
COST OF AN EXCURSION 4X4 FAGNANO LAKE: (February 2013) $ 600
AUTOSTOP NATIONAL ROUTE 3: VERY EASY.
SUPPLEMENTARY AUTOSTOP ROUTE "H": Possible. Occasional traffic is observed.

HAPPINESS ONLY REAL WHEN SHARED (OR THREE YEARS WITH lAURA)

Juan Pablo Villarino — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 16:20:00 +0000

Primer Puente: un beso sobre un puente, es decir, un puente sobre un puente. (Abril 2010)

But who's going to keep up with such a life? - Was a question that everyone seemed to enjoy making me. What assurance you can give a lady? -insisted. Because obviously, a girl needs other things .... Going to movies with popcorn, bricks, mortgages? Really? No, of course not. Strain is also traveling, free spirited, bare feet and minds like wild gardens. Some long-time-christened from no: princess hobo, but only found it three years ago. Today, it's three years since Laura and I are together. We have traveled thousands of miles since that first kiss in the Calchaqués Valley and our fingers scribble-stop-on future cruises planisphere. McCandless was right at the end when in his magic bus realized (late, but realized) that happiness is only real when shared.

Aprendimos a besarnos incluso con viento patagónico...

After traveling alone for many years, fortunately did not need to shut out the world to realize that there was an empty space next to me. And that the world could be shared as a piece of homemade bread in a square Catamarca, at least one child traveling attentive to the horizon. So today I wanted to share with you, we always bancaron, some photographs of this love rolling, but mostly give my Nena Traveling this poetry-that she still did not see-(avisenle, avisenle having an online gift! !) anniversary as a small gift. Normally the real Juan is hiding certain things to Juan "blogger", but today is not the case. We open all doors. We share what goes through our hearts ...

Y también con mucho frío... (el día en que llegamos a Antártida)

Today we are happier than ever, writing a new book about the journey of 15 months from Antarctica to the Guianas, South America across the entire finger. It will be a shared workbook, written from two different sensitivities on the same intense South American adventure. It will be the closest thing to a son and you are ready (hopefully) in July to join Wandering in the Axis of Evil Then come new horizons and challenges, more and more away from home, to land uncertain. What will never change, which will accompany us (besides you) will be the welcome with this poetry ...

To all of you, but especially my traveling babe, thanks for being part of my life!

Recorriendo el Eje Cafatero colombiano en el techo de una chiva.

Banquinas compartidas....

Con tortugas marinas en la Guyana Francesa....

So you know ... if the ideal companion to share the road, life does not appear, do not forget to walk with faith in the horizon. As I always say, everything happens for a reason, the universe will take care of you. And surely, this meeting is tissue and unknowable future point. But to access these future, it is up to us to walk until achieving coherence, love and freedom.

FRENCH GUIANA: WEDDINGS, TURTLES AND HINDUS...

Juan Pablo Villarino — Fri, 15 Mar 2013 16:32:00 +0000

You may ask yourself where on Earth is French Guiana? It's a good start to say it's actually on Earth... When a country needs an introduction, I like it twice. This French overseas department evolved from a former slave populated colony dedicated to sugarcane and rice to a strategic exclave of the francophonic world. In the northern coast of South Americ, the tiny territory borders Brazil and Suriname. From this last country Laura and I took the ferry (above) that landed us in Saint Laurent du Maroni...

As in neighbouring Suriname and Guyana, here too Hindus make up a large percentage of population, and their temples everywhere. However, you don`t see the holy roaming cows observed in Guyana munching on the roadside.

Another minority is the Hmong people, original from Laos, Thialand and Southern China. The ones living in French Guiana (more exactly in the tiny agricultural village of Kakao) came after the communist Pathet Lao took over Laotian government in 1975. As usual we stumble upon cultures in a funny way. On arrival to the village we were invited to a wedding, which was absolutely an unplanned event. Before starting my nomadic life, I worked in the UK for a year in a hotel with wedding venue and learned that English people are very meticolous before getting married. Here in Guiana things were more prompt and unformal.

Upon entrance we were distinguished with paper flowers and warm words. There was even a girld that knew som Spanish. Not that the bride and groom parents were completely happy about two unexpected and hungry visitors, but everyone else was, so we felt absolutely comfortable. We had got used to the strange food and martial silence. In this part of France, costumes are everything but French....

Some signs make you believe you are in France. And they almost cast the spell until....

...next signs appears. Haitian inmigration means many African rooted practices suchs as voodoo are whell heeled in French Guiana. The European Union facade is set in evidence by this sort of details... whch wakes you up to the fact that you are far away from Brusels and need to watch out for caymans in creeks and rivers...

Houdet family, from Saint Laurent du Maroni, were our hosts. We run into them in the supermarket. They had seen the car in the parking place, and they came to almost running and loosing their breath:

- Excuse me! Are you the travellers?

It was pretty obvious that was us. But wait. What car I am talking about? I hadn't told you a secret...

While still on Suriname we hitch a lift in the Subaru of an American couple driving overland from Colorado to Peru. Thay had taken a wee detour from their line and were exploring the guyanas. They were fleeing Babylon and aiming to reach Iquitos, where they were supposed to be trained by a chamn in the ayahusca and other Amazonic sacred medicines. They had a genuine spirit of sharing this knowledge with the rest of the planet afterwards, travelling and teaching what they were to learn. They acknowledge that a pending lesson for them was leaving the Coke and Snack culture in general, food addiction as they called it. Their names were BeijaFlor (self given name as he felt reborn with this trip) and

Colonial houses in Saint Laurent du Maroni.

Rolling on a rainy day from Saint Laurent to Cayenne.

Overview of Cayenne, the capital of French Guiana.

Place du Palmistes.... something like the "palm tree park"... and no need to ask why it gets such name.

Cayenne market is a good sample of the mix of races of the Guiana. Black people descendant from slaves having lunch at a vietnamite foodstall.

Laotian "feh", my favourite soup in Asia, now available in South America, well, if you reach French Guiana....

One for the records: I got a lift with the French "Gendarmerie".... I wonder if they would stop in mainland France.

Laura's dream was to see a big sea turtle. In the beaches of Cayenne, Laura and I spotted this leatherback turtle laying her eggs. Leatherback turtles lay their eggs between March and July. Typicaly, turtles arrive at high tide and go back to the sea in the morning, but this one had a late wake up....

Another luxury ride, from Kakao to Cayenne. Hitch-hiking in French Guiana is so easy, that don't even bother to find out bus schedules. Public transport is actually expensive or non existant, as it's a rich country and most people have cars.

River people, on the Surinamese border. Boats serve for transportation, smuggling and run away plataform for gangs robbering in French Guiana and hiding away in Suriname. They also bring Surinamese women that have their children at French hospitals so they can later claim money from the state, even if they don`t leave in Guiana.

Hmong Sunday market at Kakao. Hmong people are about the only ones in French Guiana that practice agriculture. Almost everything in teh department comes from France. Which means that oranges are shipped from Brazil to France and back to French Guiana, becasue metropole France holds the monopoly of trade. It's a perverse system marked to keep the department dependent on the mainland. Since they don't produce anything, they have to trade with France. It's funny thoug, that a country that hardly accomplishes a level of food sovereignity launches rockets into space....

The fruits...

And the rockets. Laura attempted hitch-hiking to other galaxies at Kourou Sapce Centre. IN the back, Ariane rocket.

We had a great time in French Guiana, so we don`t see the time go get back!!

UNIVERSAL HITCH-HIKING TIPS I

Juan Pablo Villarino — Mon, 11 Mar 2013 18:45:00 +0000

Welcome to the second part of this series of two articles on the art of hitchhiking. (You can read part one here) Many times people who have never tried to hitchhike ask: What type of vehicles give you lifst? So here a small illustrated catalog of the possible diversity of vehicles that may stop for you....

BEFORE PROCEEDING: what follows are tips. To learn more about the philosophy behind nomadic philosophy and lifestyle, I recommend our books

Cars: Do not be dismayed at the make or model. There are good people in all walks of life ...

From this old Citroen in Laprida, Argentina

to this Mercedes in Ireland.

Do not tell me you can even hitch and ambulance? Yes I say ... (Photo in Paraguay)

Pick-ups. Nothing cuter than the wind in the back of a "flat". When you get notice that is not oiled, first pull the backpack and then climb. Use the back cabin, if they get close the door the wind is going to make an interesting hairstyle. In many countries (Europe, Brazil) is theoretically forbidden to travel in the boxes.

Trucks. Below you will find all that they need to know to travel by truck.

You never know if you will be traveling surrounded by soft drinks .... (Coffee Axis, Colombia)

.... or by students. (Jujuy, Argentina)

Does the possible universe of vehicles end there? Not at all.

por la inmensa hospitalidad de sus habitantes...

Motorcycles. If you are alone a motorcycle can be the ideal means of leaving the center to the outskirts of a city.

Tractors are also a chance

Mennonite carragies in Nueva Esperanza, Argentina.

The goal is an excuse, what matters is moving.

First Day of My World Tour. Ireland, May 2005, crossing to Scotland.

Boats. When we run short of the routes, and open seas or rivers, not to be afraid to metamorphosis. It is more common than we imagine traveling in sailboats board in exchange for work in more or less established routes, the Canaries to the Caribbean and back. There is a good map on the matter. Personally, I just did it from Ireland to Scotland, and from Ushuaia to Antarctica.

Trains: I got a ridet with a locomotive maneuvering in Pinamar - Guido stretch.

Aircrafts: Difficult but not impossible. Obviously I do not mean the airlines, but rather military airfields. Many friends have done, ourselves we have not tried yet. Lau tried his luck with this rocket in Kourou Space Center in French Guiana, but had no luck .... :-)

TIPS FOR TRAVELING IN TRUCKS

Ruta 3, rumbo a la Patagonia...

If you think that everything you find on the shelf of a business and probably arrived in a truck is easy to imagine the number of trucks turning the world, on all routes, even tiny and small to be on the map, and of course on the main roads. To stop them and turn them into our Pegasus is good to know a few details:

· The number one reason for which one truck is going to take to have conversation and not get bored on long trips. So be ready for talks and prime mate!
· Truck drivers travel long distances, and one of the main enemies they face is falling asleep at the wheel. So, never fall asleep as a passenger unless they are two travelers and take turns to talk!
· Make sure there is room for the truck to stop. Stop hit a truck is not the same as stopping a car, and therefore need more track to do so.
· The service stations are an ideal place to truckers ask if we can take.
· Many truckers will the excuse that they can not take them because the insurance does not permit. In case of accident, the insurance company will not cover if verified that there was a crew member not associated with the company, ie you. However, a large number of truck drivers to ignore the fine print and take equally.
· On Sundays there are fewer trucks on the road.
· The ban: in Argentina, the trucks can not move the first and last days of long weekends after 6 pm.
· Trucks carrying hazardous cargo fuel and rarely stop.
· The truckers often stop at night to sleep in the truck in service stations. If you have been offered to continue traveling with him the next day, one option is to camp near the truck. Some American style trucks have two beds, and in that case there is no need to camp if the guy has good vibes.
· Over time they will be learning the psychology of the truck, his life is an eternal blues behind the wheel, going days without seeing his wife and children. Many love this life, and will tell all the material things that have managed to buy with their salaries. But there is a big gap behind.

Camionero cusqueño y su familia (2008)

Advantages of traveling by truck: I love traveling by truck. They make great distances, are comfortable, with panoramic better than a bus, and forever place to pack and up to stretch your legs, depending on the model.

Cons: When you get to the cities, they never go to the center, but you leave in suburban areas. Which is good actually if you intend to continue hitching to a further destination. If you're pointing to a big city, a car is more likely to be able to leave them in downtown areas where housing or are living Couchsurfing members.

Un camionero beduino con su hijo, Siria.

MYTH 3: "The backpackers only travel by truck." While it is most frequently in the less developed countries, this is not a general rule. Even in Bolivia have traveled in cars quite expensive, just a matter of not having finger complex and make whatever comes. To test the above, permit, deploy the Excel (took annotated +2,000 each finger from sections made in 1998):

In Argentina (traveling alone) sections on trucks were 17% of the total, and traveling as a couple only 7%. (A couple more confidence inspires middle class riding in a car)

To demonstrate that no chance, but trends, nothing better than the case of Europe. In 2001, I made the first trip, and there only 8/196 vehicles were trucks, just 4%. I returned in 2005, I traveled over yet, and cha chan ..... 11 out of every 273 vehicles were boarded trucks. Exactly, 4%. The rest were almost all cars or vans, in Europe there is virtually trucks.

In Bolivia and Peru, the percentage may be closer to 30-40%.

PETROL STATIONS

Ask at the service stations in the suppliers, truckers and drivers is a complementary resource to reach out on the road. It's good to greet the "shorebirds" or employees of the station and tell where we are going. If traveling as a couple, when will consult together, a couple inspires more confidence. If the station does not have much movement servico, you can do finger while on the road and when a car comes closer to load naphtha. If the station is on the opposite side, will do little. Apart from the possibilities to grab trip, are good places to camp if we made at night on tour.

It is ideal to have a good road map when traveling. First, because it is essential to visualize the crossings, roads, towns and travel alternatives. Often drivers will tell you that go to sites that do not know. And this ignorance takes away power of decision. It is also ideal to have on hand when we come to ask for service stations. In Argentina, I recommend the Firestone Route Atlas, which is available at newsstands.

In a few gas stations, especially in Patagonia, backpackers are not well regarded. Do not let this stop them.

As I approached the driver's window... what do I say?

First, you are not begging! When asked a driver if they can be not simply ask: Hey, I can take? They're not begging anyone anything. The thing is more subliminal. Along with the question, are taking a picture of the person you are, that has to do with the language they use, etc.. If it's a big trip, for example, are going to Peru, to Bolivia, it is ideal to start explaining.

"Hello, I'm making a trip to finger from Buenos Aires to Peru (example), today I would like to get to Mendoza. Not if you go to Mendoza or somewhere in between and want some company for the trip ... "(That speech usually falls well) is an example, each ...

PROS AND CONS OF HIGHWAYS

Travelling European highways...

On motorways is it illegal to hitchhike? Any activity of a pedestrian within the highway is not permitted (or biking, skateboarding or riding carts)

However, all use the highways hitchhikers, (how nice mouthful, is not it?) They travel faster (although there is less the landscape, which is always higher on domestic routes. "Finger can make entries of highways, tolls, crossings, exit ramps and service stations along it. with all these scores, it is perfectly possible to travel on highways around the world.

Highway or domestic routes? Many times we look at the map and find that there are several ways to reach the same destination. For example, if you want to go to Buenos Aires to Cordoba, you can go on the motorway (Buenos Aires - Rosario - Cba) or "inside" Complete. On the highway you travel faster (more miles per day) because vehicles travel longer distances and road conditions are optimal. But on normal roads safely landscapes will be higher, as more people cross, that will give us the opportunity to learn more about the area through which we travel.

What if I want to hitchhike on the highway? In general, you can hitchhike on motorways same if a shoulder or safety rail, but it is advisable to monitor any patrol he walk circling (In European countries, if you are on the highway, the police will ask you you retire, usually without consequences)

If the car leaves the highway and gets into a city or town, you have to ask to be left right where bends, and NEVER in the village (to avoid having to walk back to the highway) There you can do finger to cars coming off the same people to the highway. Preferably, you should ask the driver to stop at the last gas station or crossing before you get off the highway.

Never let your driver decide for you where you get off. Many times, with the intention to help you take unfavorable locations, because what motorists think logically, not backpackers.

ERROR No.1. A common mistake is to leave you transport terminals, or carry you "later" but leave you on the straight. In Latin America and Asia, many drivers insist on leave in bus terminals. Although I have raised on the road, they can not conceive the idea that hitchhiking follow.

MITO NRO. 4. “A dos kilómetros hay una planta de cereales donde entran y salen camiones todo el tiempo. ¡Te dejo ahí si querés!” Respuesta recomendada: Minga. El mochilero no es un mendigo de camiones. En esas plantas reducimos nuestro universo posible de vehículos a los de unos pocos camiones, el resto de los vehículos pasarán demasiado rápido para detenerse y perderemos dos horas hasta que uno de esos camiones tenga ganas de llevarnos.

IT`S GETTING LATE AND MY VEHICLE IS HEADING TO A BIG CITY WHAT DO I DO?

If we have no alternative accommodation provided for in this city (Couchsurfing) and is not in our ability to pay for a hotel, it's best to ask the driver to drop you at the last town before the town.Eye! The line between the last towns before the first big city and suburbs of the city is very thin. Better still advancing a few miles and stay in a quiet village where your tent and wandering between cement finish ...

There is nothing better than to befriend the driver and make it invite us to his house once in destination. There is an art, which begins when we boarded the vehicle. Will you suggest and let you know to the above we do not have to stop off there. Ask them if there is a good place to camp not far from downtown often raise eyebrows and make them realize that they need help :-)

ON THE ROAD IT LOOKS LIKE AN UNPAVED ROAD....

En una de las rutas de La Pampa usadas por el Rally Dakar...

Take it easy, maybe what you think is a negative scenario for hitchhiking is the cover of an interesting chapter in our journey. The roads are dirt or gravel roads, in my opinion, the best sources of travel adventures. It may be true that we take half an hour standing next to that old sign that read just the miles, watching all the cars on the main road without anyone Ramón Santamarina bend or Iruya or touched us. But the good thing on these roads is that, as the saying goes backpacking 'first stops passing. "This is because people are more trusting of people"

Tip: prick up their ears. In wilderness areas, vehicles are heard before seen. It is also easy to confuse a combine one who works in a field with a truck engine

SAFETY:

Hitch-hiking is safer than you think, more backpackers suffer thefts and assaults in bus stations, train, inns and other "touristic instances". When you hitchhike you are normally invisible to the agents of the underworld that await travelers at tourist traps.

From 1998 to date I have not experienced a single assault. I had only two thefts of luggage (France 2005, Venezuela 2011) not allocable to my drivers.

· If a vehicle brakes and do not like the faces they see, not climb. There are bound to climb. Say you go to the opposite side, pretending to have been wrong in the sense of the route, then you have an excuse not to ride ...
· No need to travel at night.
· If a car that drives, in between of you is separated to meet again for any reason (seal the entrance to a country, ejmplo, exchange currency, greet a friend) THEY LOWER your luggage.
· Always have hand him the bag with documents, money, cameras and laptops. The large backpack with clothes yes put it in the trunk / box truck / van. If there is an unforeseen, will get the most valuable.

I hope these tips have been helpful. It is, humbly, everything I learned so far. I promise to update it as I get time with new tips and ideas.

If I was useful, or believe that other travelers can help friends, share it on your social networks. You have to pass the baton.

Now, hit the road and practice, THE WORLD IS WAITING!

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Don`t forget to get our e-book "Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil - By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan" and support the round the world hitch-hiking expedition and the Educational Nomadic Project. Learn more here.

A HITCH-HIKER'S MANIFIESTO - WORDS FOR SELF-LIBERATION

Juan Pablo Villarino — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 13:14:00 +0000

Ya'an, China, 2006. The joy of being far away from everything.

This text was first written back in 2002 in order to provide Autostop Argentina (our nationwide hitch-hiker's network) with an identity and conceptual basis. Now, ten years later, we share it in English, wishing you blissful roads and blitz of inspiration for your own journey.

A HITCH-HIKER'S MANIFIESTO – by Juan Pablo Villarino

Walking through Wayuu territory. La Guajira, Colombia. 2010

Thos of us who 've been long on the road believe that being a hitch-hiker goes far beyond thumbing your way around the world, it means something more than backpacking and enjoying the road….

We believe…

…that human nature admits more possibilities than a diploma or a job. Nowadays, our society considers people little more than specialized tools.

Efficiency and productivity are prevailing values. Facing this reality, we propose ourselves to appreciate knowledge and experience as values, and travelling as an privileged mean of access to them

…that a society conformed by people obsessed with self-sufficiency, who would never ask anyone what time it is, can be considered as part of a farm full of paranoid people, potential alarms and pain-killer consumers. When you hitch-hike, you restore human contact, that bashful flame…

…that to be responsible is to realize that we only live once. We live day by day and an future decent pension does not justify a youth of a senior citizen.... Being responsible does not only mean to assume duties but to get ready to assume our freedom.

There's no need to tie ourselves up to trivial things which are completely alien to us. Our culture teachs us to buy material things in order to impact briefly in people we know scarcely.

Nobody is old, except those people who act their age the way they are expected to.

The world is not a static place. It is a tangle of ways and roads where thousands of people walk everyday crossing borders, wading rivers or climbing mountains.

This world is still a good place to live. People living in this world share something stronger and deeper than their differences, no matter their race, religion or profession. These people are essentially good.

We believe that the universe takes care of us and a 12 hours working shift is even more dangerous than hitch-hiking. Cities are definitely more dangerous than any road, mountain or lake.

When we travel, money is an optional item of our luggage. Nobody eats money and it is not the only way to achieve things. Human relations are far from merely commercial.

A timely smile can be of great worth…

All travellers can learn from each other. Nobody is born wise.

The wind blowing in our faces can be a good vaccine against routine.

We must claim simplicity because it is closer to us, just like homemade bread as lunch by the roadside. Yes, it’s more attuned to our essence than a mortgage or paid holidays.

Our goal is just an excuse to thrust our destiny to chance. We should expose ourselves to unexpected stops, hidden towns and thousands of intermediate possibilities, converting every dot of the map into an anecdote.

Every car that stops is a good opportunity to start over again. When we travel both our life and the universe reconstruct themselves daily.

We believe that the road is life (Jack Kerouac 1922-1967)

Saving money is not the main goal of hitchhiking. By htch-hiking we learn about the lands we walk, about their people and their traditions.

A roadmap is incredibly more exciting than TV shows.

Constant happiness is the hidden shape of death (Julio Cortazar 1914-1984)

If you have already read all this text, you should start thinking about your own trip around the world. While you are preparing for that, you can find ideas in our blog or inspirationin our books.

Fundamentally, we love the road!

Mochima, Venezuela. 2011

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Remember, you can order my e-book “Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil – By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan” with just one clic. Learn more here.

I solemnly promise the book will envelope you as a magic carpet bound for remote lands. Thanks for sharing the message of a more hospitable world!

GUYANA: A COUNTRY TO TAKE YOUR SHOES OFF AND SHARE THE SKY

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sun, 09 Sep 2012 15:50:00 +0000

TRANSLATED from Spanish BY ERIC BLAIR - Volunteers welcome!

A bicycle could be a modest vehicle, but these scrawny metallic structures, given the right amount of force, can vindicate itself as a mighty teletransporting Pegasus. What I lived recently can attest to it. It was a hot and sunny morning in a residential suburb just outside Georgetown, Guyana. We had arrived by land. I was abandoning myself in a bit of zen meditation which implies pedaling and mastering the most accessible version of man's equilibrium. I was looking for a place to buy breakfast. Lau, stretching beneath the mosquito nets, was waiting for me in a house that had been lended to us. It was, like love and magic, instantaneous and never gradual. A breeze blew, filtered out through every kitchen in the neighborhood, and brought to me a curry aroma so heavy it was as if I had been taken by an invisible bridge to India.

In the moment I didn't want to check the mirror and instead preferred to let the thread of the scent, now transformed into a Herculean arm, lift me and the bike from the ground as if in E.T. After one year of cultural homogeneity in Latin America (Spanish colonial arquitecture, churches always dedicated to Saint Francis or La Merced, the same language with a different accent, etc.) I confess I was happy and I connected with the unfathomable plurality of the planet. In the blink of an eye I sensed India, Laos, and so many other sites where I felt blessed by an untellable sentiment of foreignness.

Therefore, the high tone of the Hindu singers was added to the smell of the curry. Eventually, in a way that knocked out any pretense of mentally putting myself back in South America and straying from the path of my fantasy, a group of sacred cows, slow like a caravan of dromedary camels from Arabia, came up the end of the street, marching chiefly and chewing the water hyacinths that float in the canals lined by the two-story wooden houses. Maybe I was in India? Each stroke of the pedal brought me closer, in my mind, to the gardens of Taj Mahal. Then, upon turning the corner, a black family greeted me in that Caribbean English where every word seems the spark of a rebellion. I had to get off my horse. I wasn't in India, I remembered, but in the Republic of Guyana, border country of Venezuela and of other worlds all at once.

Now I was able to remember everything more clearly. We had entered the country via Boa Vista, Brazil and traveled through the Rupununi Savannah with Colombian gold prospectors who had no passports but, instead, a washbowl in order to have their adventure in the malaria-infested rivers. Next, we crossed the Amazon jungle in a Bedford truck from the seventies that the branches of the jungle played like a rusty xylophone. There were 560 kilometers of land and swamps in which we counted twenty abodes. The country seemed wrought with nature. In a fluvial customs on the Essequibo River we slept and observed the Amerindian natives drinking Guinness beer, a strange side-by-side brought on by the Anglo-Saxon influence. And, above all, we accepted Danielle's invitation, the owner of the truck, to stay in his second house just outside of Georgetown.

He was the first to explain to me the harmony that the blacks and the Indians (from India) live in, whether they be Christian, Hindu, or Muslim. It was British colonial heritage that threw the stone and left the experiment going, both races introduced to the region and replacing the Amerindians and they constituted themselves into the founding ingredients of the Republic of Guyana. The blacks were --as always-- brought as slaves by the English to work on the sugar cane plantations. When slavery was abolished in 1838 the English --who needed to keep churning out raw materials for their industrial revolution-- looked towards cheap labor from India, another one of its colonies, to hire workers willing to make the trip. The first group of Indians came on two boats, the Hesperus and the Witby. Now they make up 43 percent of the population. While observing Danielle talk about interracial respect and feed his tua-tua birds, I could identify the very same Indian accent that having survived a transatlantic migration, blessed Guyana with a twist of millenary wisdom. This contrasted greatly with the objective fact that we are talking about the second youngest country in South America

SHARING A SKY OF KITES

It wasn't difficult to discern that Danielle wasn't lying: the next morning, an Easter Monday according to their own calendar, we went to the Sea Wall, or the coast line, to watch a massive group of people flying kites. No, it doesn't mean the Guyanese suffer a reversion back to their childhood. Rather, it means that the Christians here fly kites as a symbol of Christ ascending to the heavens.

Black, Indian, and mestizo families all crowded each other with no distinction to drink sodas to help fight off the heat while their children, armed with balls of twine, shared the sky which is wide enough to be the home place of Allah, Shiva, and Jehova. Each one pulling on his cord invited a colored ethereal mark, and the sky turned into an infinite plaza where people could play and not into a theological battlefield. In one instant, the Afro-descended minority tried to impose its own laws. They would not give you a job unless you had a Christian name.

TAKING OF YOUR MENTAL SHOES

In order to stop spying through the key hole of the lock and take on the heart of Guyana we decided to visit a Mandir, a Hindu temple. En Guyana there is normally a mosque, a church, and a mandir in each neighborhood, and they never encounter incidents. Before entering, a woman wrapped in a saffron-colored sari invited us to leave our shoes on the rug as Asian etiquette dictates which happens to govern homes and temples here. In that moment I realized that, in a similar way, I also had taken off my mental shoes before stepping foot into Guyana.

Why? Essentially, because all the roads traveled before become obsolete baggage--useless. You have to turn the page in order to harden yourself with new winds and understand that America is something more than just Latin America. It seems simple but it is necessary to leave by the wayside the cultural alpha male that we carry inside, perhaps an aftertaste of resentment for the English influence on the continent. Guyana is, in fact, the only country of the Commonwealth on mainland South America and the only where English is the official language. Here no one has heard of San Martin or Bolivar. Bob Marley -a neighbor- is also unknown. In these times where travels from point to point on the American continent are en vogue it seems to me opportune to point out that there is something more beyond Venezuela. We have a Hindu country in South America to which one can reach by land and without a visa. Exploring spirits are wanted...

INDIA IN SOUTH AMERICA

Returning to the temple, we entered a wide and quilted room where a compact and relaxed group recited Sanskrit songs in front of an altar exquisitely decorated. The Hindu deities, with their marble faces, faced the faithful. There was Shiva --god of creation and destruction--and his consort Parvati, Krishna with his flute, Vishnu, the preserver of the universe. For those unfamiliar with this religion, the figures can seem somewhere between enigmatic and ridiculous. A man with an elephant's head (our beloved Ganesh), another with blue skin, or one with a monkey's face, gods with faces on either side of their head.

The first thing we did was leave floral offerings at the feet of Ganesh--caretaker of travelers. We wanted to make it clear that we were more than two simple gringos with a camera. We cut the flowers from the neighborhood gardens because, according to what they had told us, the neighbors were aware of the sacred fate of the flowers, and we knew beforehand which ones were the Hindu houses because flags of Shiva can be found at them. Out of the corner of our eyes we saw the smiles of acceptance and we returned to hear the songs. Those in attendance, just like us, understood nothing of what was sung because Caribbean Hindustani, actually Bhojpuri, is different from Sanskrit -the sacred language- many western Indians lost the language of their ancestors generations ago.

We were left in awe. We could only fancy our imagination with the phonetic enchantment of the hymns. Something that must be said about the Hindu temples is that they are much happier places than churches. There were no dead or crucified people on the walls. Instead, the images reflect human aspects and less heroic ones. In one painting, Shiva watched his woman, Parvati, as a young man might desire a woman while both balanced upon swings of ivy. And she, painted as a sensual geisha with arched brows, gave him the eyes. Anyway, Hinduism helped me quite a bit when I was fighting my inner rebellions. The Mayan idea of the universe as a creation of thought was good medicine for putting in perspective social expectations. The anchor of sin and its associated blame, are in comparison a matrix dangerously transferable to other dimensions of freedom. This is why so many people feel guilt at the time of carrying out their plans to travel. Despite having the time and the money, something intangible seems to stop them.

After the songs, the Hindus shared with us some vegetarian snacks and a woman invited us to eat at her house. It was a humble home. Her nephew supported her from Canada. On a kerosene stove she made chicken and curry. And for dessert she gave Laura some clothes that they had sent her from North America. Laura couldn't avoid thinking about that afternoon in Udaipur, India when a woman stopped her on the street to give her bracelets so as to insure that she would have a good image of her city. That kindness was also found in Guyana. Our hostess expressed it in her words. For her, Krishna, Allah, or Jesus Christ are the same thing. The important thing is how we behave with the gods that live inside of us. Hospitality as a bridge between gods: welcome to Georgetown.

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Remember, you can order my e-book “Vagabonding in the Axis of Evil – By thumb in Iraq, Iran and Afghanistan” with just one clic. Learn more here.

I solemnly promise the book will envelope you as a magic carpet bound for remote lands. Thanks for sharing the message of a more hospitable world!

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Mon, 23 Jan 2012 11:00:00 +0000

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.

LIFE NEXT TO THE EQUATOR'S LINE

Juan Pablo Villarino — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 00:47:00 +0000

We stayed several days in Falco's place in downtown Quito. Falco is the director of Fine Arts College at Quito University. He has some obsession for Mexican wrestling and a fridge covered with all sort of stickers ranging from Jesus Christ to the Transformers. If he feels alone he sits a Mazinger Z replica to diinner. Now he adds extra plates for these hitch-hikers. Falco is one of those who believe that Art ought to wander out of the walls of Academy. Working together with an organization of sexual workers he designed an image of Virgin Mary that would cater for them. And so was born "Nuestra Señora de la Cantera".

We were not impressed at all by Quito's churches. Latin America is becoming a bit monotonous in that way. Guidebooks describe churches with such detail that one would imagine backpackers are ecclesiastical researchers. The colonial era common to all the countries in the region causes that there is always a La Merced or San Francisco church waiting for us at any city. Moreover, But if you want us to talk about them, let us point that San Francisco church incarnates a fashion that would have repelled that wondeful ascetic monk Francisco de Assis was. He would have found God among "three little birds right on my doorstep singing a song..." and definitely not in gold layered altars. In any case, those stone cathedrals erected by indigenous craftmen call a dramatic lich treat under Quito's stormy skyline.

And we eventually got to "Mitad del Mundo", literally "Half of the World", where one is to find the symbollic line dividing our globe in two halfs. While GPS has come to say that the 30 meter tall stone landmark is displaced 240 m from the actual spot, it is not any less magical for us. As to hitch-hikers who have made it here from the frozen edges of the Antarctic continent, we are delighted with the event. We suddenly realized that it's been a year and a half since we became "Acrobats of the Road" in plural, which include 9 months of ongoing exploration of South America. Stepping over the Equator's line, in the land of bananas and butterflies, the memory of icebergs seems unreal. But the esence here is celebrating celebrate the mistery of the other half we haven't yet explored.

History relates that a French mission conducted by Charles Marie de la Condamine realized in 1736 the measurements that conclusively proved that latitude 0 wrapped the planet at this spot. A lesser known bit of data is that the same research lead to the outline of the Metrical System, which came to dethrone yards, feet and inches much for the sorrow of British and knackers. The comitive actually walked overland from Cuenca in several stages in their attempt to find the elusive line. The poor Frenchmen couldn't possibly have known that Andean people would ignore their meticulous task just to keep saying their beloved "ahicito no más" when referring either to ten meters or a kilometer. The "metrical expedition" seems to have found a healty balance between work and play, judging by the odd proportion of blue eyed "cholos" in tiny communities like Victoria del Portete and Tarqui, as I personally observed in 2008 while surveying a mining conflict. The French were not dumb, they could have followed their invisible line acros Africa, but I guess lions were less of a tempting option. Way or another, their epic, metric tour gave name to the nation of Ecuador.

Laura and I are enthusiastic to camp in the Equator's line, but we soon learn it's forbidden. That same night finds us in Calacalí, a neighbouring town, equally crossed by the line. It's really easy to make friends in Equador. We first called it dinner time at a corner comedor where we ordered achiras de cerdo and potatoes. We then asked the lady in charge where could we set up our tent. Along with her daughter, they inmediatly suggested their garden. They forecasted the main plaza was not a good option with wandering drunkmen and reggetòn crasy youngsters with loud speakers. For us, it's more than solving the housing situation. It's a chance to sample how's life in the line of the Equator for an average family. I am glad at the mere contemplation of how they filter grains to prepare morocho. Rosario complains her husband is in a bad mood after she banned him from going out to bet in cock fights. Her mother sustains a similar drama. At a moment we can see how two neighbours drag her drunk husband in, his tongue literally out and his legs as dead hanging elements. In top of that, Rosario and his mother have risen their nephews together. The children were abandoned by their mother crawling. Father works in Quito as security guard and visits them once a month. It's a pitiful Latin frame: two women surviving in spite of their slothful husbands.

When I started travelling, my central motivation was to flag the message that it was possible to go around the world finding good intentioned people. I assume the continuity of this round the world hitch-hiking trip is still a proof of that. However, my pen is increasingly inclined to feature this every day battles od ordinary people. While some trips are challenge centered (reaching Alaska, etc) and I can still remember myself akin with such lines, I can't now imagine a journey deprived of ideology. America is sorrounding us, not its monuments. I refer to the magnific, odd America, a locus terribilis capable of -even- surviving itself, where dreams ambush behind the dark glimpses of its inhabitants.

Rosario's aunt arrives, greets us and rises a bag of chicken bones that will be her dog's treat. Keeping them lifted enacts a severe speech about 2012. She assures that draughts and famine will come, and that our politicians should prepare us by teaching the population how to grow tomatoes in a bath tube. While she ushes, her 5 years old son presses over her leg an electric massage appliance someone ordered from a TV sales show. That -too- is America.

SIX DIAMONDS UNDER COTOPAXI'S SHADOW

Juan Pablo Villarino — Wed, 11 Jan 2012 22:30:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Fri, 04 Nov 2011 11:02:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sat, 24 Sep 2011 21:40:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Thu, 01 Sep 2011 10:27:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 18:05:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Mon, 29 Aug 2011 17:40:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 21:24:00 +0000

“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"

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 21:06:00 +0000

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

Juan Pablo Villarino — Sun, 24 Jul 2011 20:55:00 +0000

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.

Selçuk

myshkin — Fri, 08 May 2009 20:37:00 +0000

After Iznik we took another bus to Selçuk. Here amongst other things, we would visit the ancient town of Ephesus. The ruins of Artemis temple were also nearby. It was once one of the seven wonders of the world but since there is now only one pillar left, it has become little more than a very tall home for a family of storks.

When we arrived in Selçuk we were immediately (at 9pm) approached by a man offering us a double room for 50 Turkish Lira (25 Euros). For 5 minutes I was adamant that we could get a place for 18 Turkish Lira (9 Euros), and told him so, until Maritza pointed out that I had mistaken the Turkish price for Euros. Even so, in response to my fierce disapproval of his offer, he had lowered the price to 30 Lira (15 Euros) for a double room just 80 metres from the bus station. We took it.

We stayed 3 nights at the Dreams Pension. We spent most of the time visiting Ephesus and Artemis, and taking walks about the town centre. The two historical sites were full of bus-loads of fat I'm-too-tired-to-walk-about-in-this-heat-can-we-get-back-on-the-bus? tourists. Along with them, the locals trying to sell shit and fake souvenirs.
One thing we were soon to find all over Turkey; there is not a lot of places to buy vegetarian food. We went to one or two 'vegetarian restaurants', where all they had on offer for cabbage crunchers was vegetarian Turkish pizza. Maritza managed to find a fish-bone in hers.

Skopje

myshkin — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 14:39:00 +0000

Took a night bus at 20:13 (15 minutes late) from Budva, Montenegro to Skopje, Macedonia. Although it was a long one, the journey was pretty pleasant. We had plenty of food and even some wine from the supermarket - luxury! - and for the last part of the trip we had two seats each which added to the comfort.

We awoke to scenes of Macedonian towns and countryside rolling by. Stray dogs on the streets, old women ın headscarves, men and young boys rattling past on exposed engines and wheels (automobiles completely without shells or framework), snow-topped mountains , litter-drenched rivers. Our bus arrives bearably late at 9am.
We have no arrangements for a place to stay, but we realise we have all day for findıng a place so there is no sense of urgency about it. Ignoring the taxi touts we head in the direction of the centre and even stop for potato bürek with yoghurt and a coffee. At a travel agency at the bus station we discovered this weekend was Catholic Easter weekend. Hopefully this wouldn't mean that everything would be closed all weekend as it was in Split the previous weekend (regular Easter holiday).
After breakfast we continued towards the centre until we came across a sign indicating 'Art Hostel 1km on Tome Arsovski Street'. After getting a little lost we eventually find the place and promptly pay for 2 nights. Great and cosy hostel with very friendly staff.

Today being the 2nd day, Maritza and I went out to explore the city, since we barely left the hostel the previous day. We climbed the shabby fortress, which was half a building site under reconstruction, and took a seat on the fortress walls to get a view of Skopje from a higher angle. We then ambled down into the Old Bazaar. What an amazing place! Alluring sounds and smells were everywhere. Locals playing chess in teahouses, withered old ladies selling spices, endless assortments of absolutely anything available for sale in the stalls- including small, plastic, lip-sticked Batman figurines on motorbikes; raw chicken legs sharing table-tops with mammoth blocks of goat's cheese. Pliers, batterıes, socks and blood pressure measuring instruments. We were constantly amused by the way the market sellers will try to sell you absolutely anything (and would later see so much of this in Turkey, might as well get used to it). We attempted to take a few candid shots in the fruit and vegetable market, much to the annoyance of some local sellers. Then, a loud wailing began from a loudspeaker somewhere, which I soon realised was coming from a minaret across the street (this is also something we would very quickly have to get used to in Turkey).
After a few more tantalising rounds around the bazaar we walked across the stone bridge to the centre of town. What a contrast it was here to the bazaar (bizarre) side of the river. Back to Western civilization and trendy cafe bars. It's amazing how you can get contrasts as large as these over such a small area.

Kotor, Montenegro

myshkin — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 20:34:00 +0000

We arrived in Montenegro by another bus. For the first time since I'd left Prague, I was experiencing bad weather. Torrents of rain were falling as we entered the bus station at around 7am. We were knackered, and not in the best of moods. We quickly walked in the direction of town to look for a place to stay, when a taxi driver driving past on the other side of the road shouts something at us, and swiftly manoeuvres onto our side of the street. He jumps out, and accosts us in the street: 'Would like a ride? Do you need a place to stay? I can show you a place to stay for a cheap price!'
'No!', we shout at him and dive into a nearby bakery. Great. Shelter from the rain and warmth. We stumble around trying to work out what to do and eat, and we're quickly introduced to the local food on offer by a large friendly man in blue overalls, who recognises us as tourists instantly. He points out bürek (already a favourite) as well as a pretty big selection of other meat/potato/cheese filled pastry delights. The owner shows us to a table and we quickly warm up from the bakery and wait for the rain to pass while we tuck into a cheese bürek each.

We eventually stayed for 3 nights in a pension that was located and recommended us by the people at the tourist information centre. The place was cosy, but a little odd and the bathroom smelled of mould. It felt a little like we were intruding on somebodies home... which in fact we were, for a price.

Kotor is a small town by a lake surrounded by beautiful and huge dark mountains. The water was a brilliant turquoise and was a temporary home for many yachts and ships from all over. In the mountains were a couple of monasteries and other hidden secrets. On our second day there we decided to make the climb and check them out. It seemed not many people were interested in taking the same climb that day, we only passed a couple of people. We got a magnificent view of the surrounding area and got to see the monasteries and some farmhouses way high in the mountains.

After a few days we left, deciding to (unsuccessfully) hitch-hike to another town in Montenegro. We didn't do very well, and didn't get any further than Budva (terrible town), but we did manage to save four puppies that had been left by the side of the road in a cardboard box, much to Maritza's delight.

Showered for the first time in 3 days, and finally…

myshkin — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 15:19:00 +0000

Showered for the first time in 3 days, and finally arrived in Ljubljana. It was suppose to take us 1 - 1 and a half days to get here, but it took us 2 and a half.

We left Prague around 10am (after an hour or two of rousing Teo out of bed by telephone), and made our steady journey out of the city. We got our first (and my very first) ride out of the city by a chap in a Vodafone-coloured red car who was heading for Ostrava. Our first destination was Brno. All was going well, until the driver stopped at a petrol station to get petrol or refresh himself or whatever, and soon realised he couldn't find his drivers license or wallet. We emptied our things out of his car to help him look, but he never found what he was looking for. We mused that he could have dropped his things as we were putting our gear in the car in Prague. With a pretty grim face he decided he would turn back and left us standing at a petrol station 40km from Prague.
The day continued pretty well, reaching Brno, Bratislava and the edge of Vienna by the evening. It was beginning to get dark and we figured a ride into Vienna city centre at this time wouldn't be any help. We ended up spending a night in my tent in the parking lot by the petrol station. We rolled out our sleeping bags and soon got to sleep on the soft lumpy ground. In the middle of the night though, we both woke up freezing our balls off. Teo fully dressed himself in extra layers in an attempt to reheat his body, while I cocooned myself in my sleeping bag and coiled myself into a foetal position. The cold was coming straight through the ground beneath us and through the thin plastic sheeting of the tent. A polystyrene roll-mat would have been a big help. I'd barely used them before and always found them an unnecessary bulky burden until that night.
After the rough night our spirits were still high for the day ahead, but we were to have hardly any luck that day. From around 9am until 5pm we were practically stood in the same spot. We were too close to Vienna and the majority of the traffic was going towards Bratislava and Budapest.
Much later in the day around 5 a young couple pulled up eating recently-bought ice creams and offered us a lift to Vienna. They was a bit of confusion though and they explained that there wasn't a petrol station in the direction of Graz for another 20km, and so had to drop us in the centre of Vienna.

Next ride:
-Young couple going towards car crash. There was a car crash that had just happened on the road to Graz, so our ride had to pull into a petrol station there. We ended up sleeping at another petrol station somewhere in Austria, this time a little more prepared, but still fucking cold.

Day 3:
-Slovenian girl took us to Slovenj Gradec
-Big Slovenian guy drove us all the way to Ljubljana

Teo in Slovenj Gradec

Fucking Győr.

myshkin — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 16:31:00 +0000

A couple of 'road' entries from my journal, 2007:

Friday 14th September

I am sat at the Apostel restaurant in Győr, Hungary. I am eating mushroom soup, and will be having stuffed "Kiev" turkey as a main course. I wasn't planning on splashing out so much, but then again I wasn't expecting to be in a town so without cheaper alternatives. It's a bit too posh if you ask me, but obviously it has to throw a McDonald's in the vicinity, too. Anyway, I plan to sleep rough here tonight. I went looking for a campsite which was supposedly at one end of town by the river, but it wasn't to be found. Not by me anyway. An old lady tried to help me, but the communication barrier was just too wide. Bless her though. I then found a penzion after searching the streets for a hostel or similar cheap accommodation, and found that the price i would have to pay would be 8000 HUF, which worked out to be about 1000 Czech crowns [which was about 40 euros then I believe]. I'm not paying that much when I wasn't even planning on staying in this town. There's not much to do here, it seems, anyway. It seems to rely mostly on rich tourists: a few posh restaurants and wine bars and some floodlit churches. Oh, and a sports centre park by the river for the aging toffs who want to ram a few balls at eachother.
I was hoping to hitch straight to Lake Balaton when I arrived here but the sun had almost set and I didn't want to be stranded by the side of the road in the darkness [I didn't realise then that to be 'stranded' by the side of a road in a field would have been more preferable, especially since I had a tent with me]. There's plenty of parks around I should be able to find reasonable comfort in with my sleeping bag.

- I finally left Prague on Wednesday 12th September and took a bus straight to Bratislava. I spent two nights there, spending a whole day with Ewa, a Slovak friend, exploring the city.
It was while I was in Bratislava that I decided to head South to Lake Balaton to spend some time camping by the lake outdoors.

Saturday 15th September

And what fun sleeping rough turned out to be. That night I finished the soup and turkey and paid, then thought I'd walk around town until I got tired and found somewhere suitable to sleep. The small park I thought of sleeping in initially turned out to be no good, since it was next to the recreational holiday camp and there were young kids (I say kids, I mean young adults) walking past the whole night to and from town. Plus, a pair of young lovers seemed to be making good use of the secluded park, from what I could hear. I eventually found another park close to the train station by the main road which wasn't too brightly lit, so I found the darkest area I could and laid out my sleeping bag and crawled snugly into it. It was starting to get quite cold at this point, but the sleeping bag kept me more than warm enough along with my trousers and woolly hat that I kept on. It took me a while to get to sleep at first, because of the noise of the traffic and the sound of the odd person walking past on the main road. After perhaps 20 minutes of sleeping lightly, I woke up with a man crouching next to me, and his bike leaning against a nearby tree. I'm not sure whether I awoke from him trying to wake me, or whether I coincidentally (or instinctively?) happened to wake up in time. He was attempting to ask me what I was doing there and why I was sleeping on the cold ground. I tried to explain to him that I was warm and dry enough in my Norwegian sleeping bag. "It's OK, I'm on holiday", I said. His English was limited to a very few words and he couldn't speak any German, which I found surprising considering everybody else I had spoken to in this town had spoken German as a second language. I then realised that he was offering to let me sleep in his house. Although I thought it was a nice gesture, I wasn't going to sleep in a complete stranger's house, especially one I could barely communicate with. He eventually left after many more attempts to fathom why I was happy sleeping in the park, shrugged his shoulders, shook my hand and left. Although the incident wasn't particularly strange I found it hard to back to sleep. What if he was to return with the intention of robbing me when I was fast asleep again? It was about 00:30 at this point, so I thought I'd take a walk and see if the first park had become quieter and more suitable for sleeping in. My legs were knackered at this point from walking so much all day and sleeping on the ground. It took a while to get the joints working smoothly again.
I reached the other park again which was at the other side of town over the river. The area was just as busy as before, so after walking around for another hour or so I decided to return to the spot where I had managed to sleep earlier. Maybe the chap had returned to the spot while I was gone hoping I'd found somewhere better to sleep or hoping to steal my belongings. Anyway I fell asleep again, this time for longer, until I actually got quite hot in my sleeping bag. Less people were passing by on the road behind me by this time so I wasn't woken that often. At one point I was woken by a couple sat on the wall behind me at the edge of the park. They were apparently oblivious of me so I just led there watching them wondering when the night would be over. Then, in between myself and the couple who steps into view directly in front of me? The same man, again! He crouches down in front of me with a gesture that seemed to suggest "what are you doing?" I replied with the words "Oh, hello... what?" still half asleep. Perhaps he was being genuinely sympathetic and wanted to help? Perhaps he had gone home thinking "I shouldn't have left that poor young man freezing to death in the park." So he gestures for me to sit on a nearby bench with him. I go ahead with it since any chance of getting back to sleep now seems futile. I put my sleeping bag away and put my shoes on, then follow him to the bench. I begin to get a chill from the sweat I'd accumulated in the sleeping bag. He starts asking me where I'm from and what I'm doing here. I tell him I'm English, I live in Prague and I'm on my way to Lake Balaton to do some camping. I tell him that my tent and other belongings are locked away at the train station and I intend to pick them up in the morning. He asks me if I have any money and I tell him -yes, I don't need any money. He asks "many?" and I tell him I have 1,000 forints. I actually have 10,000 forints but I see no reason to tell him I have it. He asks me to show it to him. It's at this point I start to think he's not looking out for me at all. Why would he want to see my money? He asks me if that is everything I have, and I tell him "of course, I have more in the bank". All I want to let him know is that I don't need or require anything, I just want to get to sleep until the morning. He starts to ask me if i would go to the bank with him to get some more money out, presumably to pay for a room or something. I try to explain to him that even if I did get more money out there is nothing I can do with it since there is no longer anything open at this time of the night. He is blatantly waiting for me to expose some cash so he can nab it and do a runner, I thought. I continue to refuse going to the bank with him and eventually leaves reluctantly with another shrug of his shoulders. Fuck, all I wanted to do was get some free kip [sleep] for the night.
It's now 05:00 in the morning and I'm sat at the train station. It's still dark but the first trains are coming into Győr. Fucking Győr.

Still have my thumbs in the wrong place: in my pockets

myshkin — Mon, 07 Jul 2008 21:32:00 +0000

So, the trip never happened, or at least there was never any hitch-hiking involved. The morning I set off I was completely not in the mood for the trip, I had certain reasons for wanting to leave Prague, but the wrong ones for taking a trip alone.

My first mistake was taking much too stuff. I took a very heavy tent with me that I never used, which made walking for more than 10 minutes hell. At the last minute before leaving I decided to get a bus directly to Bratislava instead. I spent a couple of nights there, hoping to rejuvenate some optimism. I then set off (by another bus) to the town of Győr in Hungary. From here I was pretty much 100% determined to hitch-hike towards Lake Balaton to the south of me. I had a route planned and everything, all I had to do was find the road that would have led me all the way there. There was one problem: the sun was setting. Should I risk attempting to hitch-hike for the first time in the setting sun, until it goes dark and minimizing my chances of finding a suitable place to sleep? I headed off through the town of Győr towards where I thought the road was. It turned out I was walking in the wrong direction. I stopped in my own footsteps, and began to feel the chill of the evening coming on and the points of stars beginning to form in the sky. Shit.

I ended up staying the night there (sleeping in the park, which is another story I'll write about later), before having a pretty similar trip the next day, this time not involving a bus, but a train.
It was only a few days before I was back in Bratislava and then back in Prague. I was definitely not in the right mind for this trip. I had left Prague a little depressed about a problem with a girl, and I think it was this that forced me blindly back to Prague so soon in the end.

Should I have travelled with a companion? Something tells me this would have helped, when I felt like I was defeated I would have had somedy to pull me along. At the same time though, it was something I wanted to accomplish by myself.
I certainly won't take as much baggage with me, especially if I'm not going to use it.
And should I have left with such an absence of excitement? Something tells me that if I'd done as planned and tried hitch-hiking, my face would have been beaming for hours after getting my first ride.

Another year has passed. I still haven't hitched, but I'm planning some shorter trips in the very near future.

Watch this space.

Cyrillicisms

myshkin — Wed, 22 Aug 2007 10:51:00 +0000

Since the last post I still believe I'm sticking with the same route. I'm basically going to head towards the Montenegro/Croatian coast, via Slovakia, Hungary, and Serbia. I'll probably spend a good few days there along the coast and chill out and meet some people. I'm hoping that I meet enough locals along the way that will give me ideas about places to visit and things to do there and on the way back. Which is where Couchsurfing will come in handy.

I don't feel like I have anything to do between now and when I make the trip.
I don't see the point in planning it, I suppose all I can do is find as much local information as possible that might help along the way. I noticed in Bulgaria (last time I was there) how much more difficult it is to get around and understand in a country that has a cyrillic alphabet, even though I wouldn't have a clue what anything meant if it wasn't in cyrillic! At least the spoken language is similar sounding to Czech in Serbia and Croatia, I might then be able to pick up a few phrases quite quickly that might make getting around a little easier.

Possible Route

myshkin — Fri, 17 Aug 2007 16:20:00 +0000

Using Liftershalte I've been checking out possible itineraries for the trip. With this website I can scroll through a map of any area I like and find out about good/bad hitching spots.
The site is not very old as far as I know but already there are quite a few helpful spots along the (possible) route I want to take.

Leaving Prague I will probably head first to Brno, which can be reached along one road over a distance of X kilometres. From there I could head almost directly to Bratislava (where I could possibly meet up with Eva), then head for Budapest and Belgrade, before heading towards the coast in Montenegro.
I don't plan to stay in the cities every time I stop by them, since I want to spend as much time as possible in the countryside. It does make the journey a lot simpler though, especially since any drivers heading for cities are likely to be going a much further distance than any drivers that are not.

Destination Possibilities (still open to edits)

myshkin — Thu, 16 Aug 2007 21:55:00 +0000

The sea! (Adriatic)

Couch Collecting

myshkin — Tue, 14 Aug 2007 21:08:00 +0000

Over the past few days I've been collecting contacts on Couchsurfing from various cities. Hopefully one or two of people can have me crash at their place on my trip for a night and help me experience places with a local as a guide!

The site is amazing. The idea is you search for anybody who has a couch available in the area and you can request to sleep on their couch for a night while you're travelling. Of course you can do the same yourself and host anybody from anywhere to crash for a night on your own couch.

This would be much more in preference to camping out alone all the time or staying at hostels which would 1. cost me money and 2. not give me many opportunities for meeting local people.

Destination Unknown

myshkin — Mon, 13 Aug 2007 18:09:00 +0000

My original thoughts were to travel aimlessly on this trip, to take whatever routes and actions pleased me at any time. I'm beginning to think that this could be a bad idea and could make the act of hitching a lot more difficult. If I'm stood by the side of the road and I'm not particularly bothered where I am going; for one, whoever picks me up is going to be less interested and secondly, when I arrive at my destination I won't be particularly overjoyed to have reached it.

I have then come to the decision that it would be best to have a destination in mind throughout the trip. That way no matter where I am while I'm on the road (whether I'm travelling in the right direction or not) I'll have somewhere in mind as a target, and all matter of the journey will be relative, ie. whether I have enough money/time/energy to make it to the destination.

Question now is, where?

I have a few places in mind at the moment.

If I do decide to return to Prague after the trip:

The coast would be nice (Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria)

Or if I decide to make an extended trip from Prague all the way home I could visit:

France, Austria, Belgium, Holland

I will only be limited by my funds (I will have about 500 pounds to spare) and time (I have until December to return to England, and as long as the weather doesn't turn too bitter I'll be happy to stay on the road).

Inventory

myshkin — Thu, 09 Aug 2007 20:06:00 +0000

I've begun compiling a list of a things I will need to take.

I intend to travel as light as possible, but already this list seems quite large!

a stove of some kind
mess tin
tent
personal medical goods
towel
relevant maps
plastic watter bottle
toothbrush/toothpaste/soap
bog roll
sleeping bag
deodorant (who wants to pick up a smelly hitcher?)
a book or two
dental floss and needle (for flossing and sewing any ripped clothes)
journal
Swiss army knife
matches/lighter
fork, spoon
string/cord
insect repellant
tweezers (if not with Swiss army knife)
sun protection
emergency food rations (nuts, dried fruit)
clothes (two or three changes of socks and underwear, one or two t-shirts, fleece, hooded sweater, raincoat, hat)
camera (I can't go on a trip like this without taking pictures)
battery charger

To begin at the beginning

myshkin — Wed, 08 Aug 2007 17:34:00 +0000

To someone who wants to hitchhike and has never done it before there are a lot of details to take into account, a lot of expectations, a lot of romantic ideas to dream over, and many fears to get anxious about.

This blog is basically going to follow my hitchhiking trip which will depart from Prague, Czech Republic on or around September 10th (for some reason I want to avoid leaving on September 11th).

Whether this trip will take place at all, whether it will be my first and last is yet to be known and is of no use debating about at this point.
I am going to record any thoughts, ideas, fears, mistakes, and any feelings I have from now until after the trip is complete.

At this moment in time I have no plans of a final destination or even an rough itinerary, all I have is a very vague direction I want to travel in. Because I have never done it before I am going to avoid a lot of forward planning concerning arrival dates and return dates. I have no expectations.

Up until the journey has begun I will make verious notes (hopefully they won't be too incoherent) of what I want or think I ought to take on the trip; what precautions to make on the way, what clothes to wear, how much money I will need/exhume and how many toothbrushes to take.

You get the idea.

The general direction of travel I want to take (for now) is in a South Eastern direction, avoiding Austria and hopefully passing through Hungary, Serbia, Croatia, or even Bulgaria. The journey will completely depend on how I feel at various points along the trip. If I wake up after 2 days of travelling and want to follow a river on foot that I happened to camp by all day, then I will do just that. If I didn't even venture out of the Czech Republic after 3 weeks but I was satisfied with my trip then I would still return home.

Here's to hitching.