Carnets de voyage

San Antonio de los Cobres - Argentina

San Antonio De Los Cobres

The Grueling Road to San Antonio de los Cobres

Leaving Tolar Grande was a necessity driven by a ticking clock; my visa was running out, and I had to keep moving. The journey to San Antonio de los Cobres proved to be a brutal test of endurance. Between the bone-jarring corrugations and the damaged tracks, my motorcycle was taking a serious beating. At one point, the road turned treacherous, and I found myself sliding across a frozen river. A passing truck driver stopped to help me up, but the chaos didn't end there. As night fell and the temperature plummeted, my top box—carrying all my essential gear—rattled loose and fell off. I had to backtrack into the dark, shivering and exhausted, until I finally rolled into town to find a bed for the night.

A Local Expert and the Secret of the Puna

The following day was dedicated to recovery and research. I had seen a specific location on the internet that I was desperate to find, but hours of scouring Google Earth had yielded nothing. I went to the local tourism office, which was manned by a policeman. It turned out to be a stroke of incredible luck; he was a member of the local indigenous community, born in the remote countryside near the very place I was looking for. He recognized the photo instantly. He didn't just give me directions; he shared the wisdom of the land, warning me about the treacherous state of the roads and even offering to guide me so I wouldn't get lost in the vastness of the Puna.

Preparing for the Chile Border Crossing

Amidst the planning, I had to deal with the logistical nightmare of my lost wallet. Without my original motorcycle papers, I spent time printing every digital backup I had. These papers are my lifeline for the upcoming traverse between Argentina and Chile. It’s a nerve-wracking situation, but I am hopeful that these documents will be enough to satisfy the border officials in a few days. Traveling this way requires a constant balance between chasing beauty and managing the mundane, often stressful, realities of life on the road.

Volcanic Islands and the Salar de Salinas Grandes

After a morning spent fighting with non-existent hotel Wi-Fi, I set out for the location the officer had described. The drive took me through a tiny village of only three or four houses, a place so remote it made me wonder how anyone manages to carve out a life there. Eventually, I reached the volcanic islands in the Salar de Salinas Grandes. The landscape was breathtaking—a stark, prehistoric beauty that felt entirely disconnected from the modern world. Even though the sky was a bit too clear for my photographic preference, the sheer scale of the islands against the salt flats was magnificent.

The Cost of the Journey and the Frozen Horizon

The return journey was a reminder that this lifestyle is far from a staycation. Another vibration-induced mechanical failure struck when the screw on my phone holder jumped out, sending my phone tumbling to the dirt for the tenth time. Despite disassembling part of the bike to find it, the screw was gone—another small but costly frustration in a string of daily surprises. As the sun dipped, the cold became predatory. Even with two pairs of gloves, the chill seeped into my bones. I saw the lights of San Antonio de los Cobres on the horizon and felt a surge of relief, thinking I was close. But the lights were a cruel illusion; I drove for what felt like hours, and they never seemed to get any closer. It was a long, freezing battle to get back, but looking back at the photos of those volcanic islands, the sacrifice felt entirely worth it.

San Antonio De Los Cobres Salta Argentina
Tolar Grande - Argentina

Tolar Grande

The Cold Welcome to Tolar Grande

Arriving in Tolar Grande felt less like a homecoming and more like a test of patience. I rolled into the village after a long journey, exhausted and desperate for a shower, only to find a wall of silence. It happened to be the National Day of Argentina, and it seemed the entire town had simply shuttered its doors. Even the municipal refuge was closed. I spent hours standing in the harsh sun, trying to find a single bed or a friendly face, but there was nothing. The situation was draining, a laborious start to what I hoped would be a spectacular leg of the trip.

Ojos de Mar and the Frozen Battery

The next morning, I planned to head out to Ojos de Mar early to catch the best light. Nature had other plans. The high-altitude cold had completely frozen my motorcycle battery overnight. I had to scramble, pulling out my toolbox in the biting air and using my Noco Boost to jump-start the engine. By the time I finally reached the site, the sun was higher, but the view was worth the struggle. The colors at 11 a.m. were sublime—vivid shades of green, blue, and turquoise shimmering in the deep natural pools. I launched my drone for some abstract shots, capturing the patterns of the earth from above. As I sat there taking notes, three vicuñas wandered into view, watching me with quiet curiosity. It was a peaceful, cherished moment that made the morning's mechanical frustrations melt away.

Exploring Cueva del Oso and El Arenal

In the afternoon, I rode out toward El Arenal, a landscape that mirrors the red, jagged beauty of the Devil’s Desert. My target was the Cueva del Oso, a cave tucked into the hills. I wanted to explore the interior, but the passage required crouching low to reach the other side. Being a big guy with a bulky photography bag, I quickly realized I was more likely to get stuck than to make it through. I decided to play it safe and returned to the main entrance, spending the rest of the day wandering the moss-like landscapes surrounding the dunes. The drone went up again, capturing the vastness of the terrain before a quiet sunset signaled the end of a long, productive day.

Desierto del Diablo: A Martian Landscape

The journey to El Desierto del Diablo began around 1 p.m. under a bright, clear sky. The hour-and-a-half drive was breathtaking, with snowy peaks framing the horizon. Once I arrived, I spent hours scouting for the perfect angles, setting up my tripod and climbing hills to use my telephoto lens. As the sun began to dip, the rocks turned a deep, fiery red, and the lighting became soft and ethereal. I felt like I had been transported directly into an episode of Dragon Ball Z, standing amidst alien rock formations and endless dust. I pushed my drone to the limit to capture the scale of the desert before the light vanished entirely.

The Ghost Town of the Puna

The ride back to Tolar Grande was a brutal reminder of where I was. As night fell, the temperature plummeted, and I spent the two-hour journey shivering, praying my motorcycle wouldn't stall in the freezing air. When I finally arrived, the refuge was still locked tight. With no response from the person in charge, I was forced to break in through a bathroom window just to get out of the cold. It was an unsettling end to the night, highlighting the strange, ghostly atmosphere of the village. Tolar Grande is a place of contradictions; the streets are empty, the houses look abandoned, and yet you feel watched. People only open their doors a crack, acting as if they are afraid of the outside world. There is no fuel to be found, only the sound of dogs barking in the silence. It is a beautiful, haunting corner of the world, but the isolation is heavy enough to make you wonder how anyone survives here once the magic of the landscape fades.

Tolar Grande Salta Argentina
Tolar Grande - Argentina

Cono de Arita

A Morning of Geometric Wonders

The day began at 7:00 AM, the kind of early start that feels heavy until the first light touches the horizon. I climbed onto my motorcycle and rode for twenty minutes through the crisp morning air to Ojos del Campo in Antofalla. Reaching the site felt like stepping onto another planet. Below me, small lagoons formed perfect, natural geometric shapes, their colors shifting as the sun climbed higher. I launched my drone, capturing the symmetry from above—a perspective that made the early wake-up call worth every shivering second.

The Warmth of Antofalla

After the flight, I returned to the village, resting briefly in the family house where I’d been staying before moving over to the Casa de Altura. The logistical side of travel—settling the bill and hunting down extra gasoline—was quickly overshadowed by the hospitality of the locals. The hotel owner invited me for breakfast, and we sat together, talking deeply about their indigenous roots and the culture that defines this high-altitude desert. I felt a surge of pride sharing photos of my girlfriend, GoraWin, and explaining her own indigenous heritage. There was a beautiful, unspoken bridge built in those moments. Later, the owner’s daughter surprised me with a plate of milanesa and rice, a simple, generous meal that fueled me for the long road ahead.

The Climb to the Cono de Arita

Leaving the village, I began the ascent toward the Cono de Arita. The road was a grueling stretch of vibrations and biting cold as I climbed to 4,500 meters. Every bone in my body felt the terrain, but the scenery was so breathtaking it acted as a distraction from the physical toll. When the Cono finally appeared on the horizon, it was awe-inspiring—a perfect, dark pyramid rising out of the flat salt desert. It looked entirely otherworldly, a monument left behind by a forgotten civilization. I spent hours capturing the moment with my camera and drone, trying to bottle up the scale of the place.

A Sentinel in the Desert

I had originally planned to camp right there, under the shadow of the cone, but the nearby mining operation had strict security protocols. After a brief conversation with the staff, they informed me I’d have to relocate for security reasons. It was a minor setback that led to a magical encounter. As the sun began to dip, setting the sky ablaze in a riot of oranges, pinks, and deep purples, a desert fox appeared. He didn't run; instead, he posed against the vast landscape, a silent witness to the sunset. Later, as I settled in near the mining facility, I noticed him observing me from a distance. I felt a strange, quiet connection to this mysterious creature and decided to share some of my bread with him. Watching him, I couldn't help but wonder how such animals survive in this barren environment with no visible signs of life. It was a moment of pure magic that added a soul to the journey.

Unexpected Hospitality

The day ended not in my tent, but in a staff room generously provided by the security personnel. They went above and beyond, supplying me with water and food, turning an uncertain night into a comfortable one. Looking back on the day, from the geometric lagoons of the morning to the fox at twilight, I am struck by the incredible kindness of the people in this region. The landscape of the Atacama is harsh and unforgiving, but the warmth of its inhabitants leaves a mark that is impossible to forget. The image of that sunset, with the sky on fire over the salt flats, is something I will carry with me forever.
Tolar Grande Salta Argentina
Antofalla - Argentina

Antofalla

I set off from Antofagasta thinking it would be a straightforward two-hour ride, but I made a classic traveler’s mistake: I didn’t check the map closely, and I completely underestimated the altitude. It was a freezing wake-up call. As the road climbed, the temperature plummeted, and I soon found myself shivering in the biting high-altitude air.

The route led me through the Quebrada de Calalaste, a ruggedly beautiful stretch of land home to herds of vicuñas. They were as elegant and timid as ever, watching me pass from a distance. I wanted to soak in the scenery, but my hands were so frozen that every mile felt like a battle. At one point, two other motorcyclists passed me heading toward Tolar Grande, their engines echoing briefly before the silence of the desert swallowed them up again.

After pushing through the cold, I finally crossed the summit. The reward was a spectacular mirador that offered a bird’s-eye view of the landscape just before I descended into Antofalla. The town itself is incredibly small—barely ten houses in total. I found a warm, welcoming refuge at a little hosteria called Casa de Altura, where I finally managed to shake off the chill.

I couldn’t stay inside for long, though. I checked in and headed straight for the main attraction: the Laguna Verde. When I arrived, I found the access restricted, but since the area was completely deserted, I put my riding skills to use and navigated a steep slope around the gate. Being alone at the edge of those turquoise lagoons was an incredible experience, even if the wind was howling. I tried to launch my drone to capture the scale of it all, but it nearly crashed in the fierce gusts. I decided to call it a day, hoping for calmer skies when I return tomorrow morning.

Antofalla Catamarca Argentina
Antofagasta de la Sierra - Argentina

Antofagasta de la Sierra

It was a short drive from El Peñón to Antofagasta de la Sierra, but the scenery made every mile feel significant. The road carved through vast extensions of lava that spilled out from ancient volcanoes, a stark reminder of how small our human presence is compared to the immense geological forces that shaped this land. Looking at those black, frozen waves of rock, I couldn't help but wish for a million-year timelapse to witness the violent, beautiful birth of this landscape.

Antofagasta de la Sierra is technically one of the largest towns in the Argentine Puna, though "large" is a relative term out here—it still feels wonderfully intimate and remote. My first stop wasn't for sightseeing, however; I had to head straight to the local police station to report the loss of my documents back in Villa Vil. The officers were welcoming and efficient, and within thirty minutes, I had the paperwork I needed. I’m crossing my fingers that this official report will be enough to get me across the border when the time comes.

With the administrative weight lifted, I doubled back to the entrance of the town to catch the day's final act. I launched my drone as the sun began its descent, and the view of Volcano Antofagasta from above was nothing short of breathtaking. I stayed there, mesmerized, watching the very last beam of golden light graze the volcanic peak before the desert chill set in. As the colors faded into twilight, I headed back into the quiet streets of the town to find a warm hotel for the night.

Antofagasta De La Sierra Catamarca Argentina
El Peñón - Argentina

El Peñon

The road from Villa Vil to El Peñón was a two-hour stretch of pure magic, where every curve revealed a new, breathtaking surprise. I arrived in the small, high-altitude village feeling invigorated, eventually finding a room at a family hostel called Celina. For 30,000 pesos, it was one of the most economical spots in town, but more importantly, it felt like a home. After weeks of staying in sterile hotels, having a kitchen and a warm, lived-in atmosphere was a relief, especially since the air at 3,500 meters turns bone-chilling the moment the sun dips. The main attraction in this corner of the world is the Campo de Piedra Pómez. Local guides offer 4x4 tours for about $150 USD, a steep price for a solo traveler. Since I was on my motorcycle, I decided to tackle the journey alone. I had spent hours watching YouTube videos of riders warning about the treacherous, deep sand, but my bike was light and I felt prepared. My first stop was the giant dunes, where the access was every bit as tough as promised. Navigating the shifting landscape was a workout, but standing alone amidst those massive peaks of sand was a reward like no other. The real challenge began as I headed toward the main stone fields. I remembered the technical advice from the videos: keep the speed up to stay on top of the sand and avoid getting stuck. For a while, I felt like a pro, skimming across the desert. Then, inevitably, the terrain won, and I took a tumble. I laughed it off, dusted myself off, and kept moving. By the time I reached the heart of the Campo de Piedra Pómez, the only other group was just leaving. I was suddenly the sole inhabitant of a giant, white-stone paradise. It is hard to describe the beauty of those geological formations; Mother Earth truly has a way of surprising us with the inexplicable. As evening approached, I was blessed with a sunset that turned the clouds into a carnival of colors. I saw something that defied logic: light rays stretching across the sky not from the direction of the sun, but from the exact opposite direction behind me. It felt like the Puna was putting on a private show just for me. I stayed as long as I could, layering up my clothes as the temperature plummeted. To avoid the treacherous sand on the ride back in the dark, I opted for a loop behind the Carachi Pampa Volcano. The map suggested the distance was similar but the ground was firmer. It was a massive mistake. For over an hour, I bounced over jagged volcanic rocks, barely making any progress. There was no marked road, only faint tracks that seemed to disappear into the void. I got lost multiple times in the middle of nowhere, and if it wasn't for my GPS, I would have been stranded until morning. Three and a half grueling hours later, I finally rolled back into El Peñón, exhausted to death. My host was relieved to see me; she had already sent a message to the town’s WhatsApp group asking the local guides if anyone had news of the rider. I was humbled by the landscape and my own exhaustion. The following day, I didn't even look at my bike, choosing instead to stay in the warmth of the house and work, letting the memory of the white stones and the desert wind sink in.
El Peñon Catamarca Argentina
Villa Vil - Argentina

Villa Vil

The Road to Villaville

The ride to Villaville was one of those journeys where the road keeps offering gifts you didn’t know you were looking for. Just as I reached the outskirts of Belén, I stumbled upon the Quebrada de Belén. It is a stunning, lush green canyon carved by a winding river—a sight so unexpected in this landscape that I ended up riding through it twice: once just to soak it in, and a second time to capture the light with my camera. Further down the road, I encountered a massive flock of vibrant green parrots. I couldn't resist pulling out my long lens and spending a good while "hunting" them through the viewfinder, enjoying the challenge of tracking their frantic, colorful flight.

About fifteen minutes later, the landscape shifted again, revealing a geological marvel that looked like a fleet of stone ships. Whether they are called Los Botes Hundidos or the "Boat Cemetery," the sight of those massive, inclined pyramids rising from the soil was astonishing. The erosion had aligned them perfectly, like ancient monuments. I decided to pull the motorcycle over and make it my lunch spot, taking advantage of the midday sun to launch my drone and capture the geometric patterns from above.

Solitude Among the Castles

I eventually rolled into Villaville, a quiet village of only about 200 inhabitants. It’s the kind of place where time seems to move at a different pace. I managed to find a municipal hostel that was incredibly affordable—only 15,000 pesos—which is a rarity in Argentina these days. I had a massive room all to myself, and the woman in charge treated me with a warmth that made the simple accommodations feel like home.

The next morning, I set out at sunrise for Los Castillos de Villaville—the "Castles of Villaville." I had studied the maps and knew exactly where I wanted to go. While the local regulations technically require a guide to visit the site, I chose to head out solo. For my photography, I need silence and the freedom to move at my own rhythm without the pressure of a group. The hike was spectacular. Being alone in that hidden, vast site felt like a privilege. The "castles" themselves are a revelation of Earth’s history, with distinct thermal layers of white and orange sediment revealing the evolution of the planet through millions of years of erosion.

An Unexpected Vanishing Act

As I was making my way out of a small valley, I heard a persistent yelling. At first, I worried it was someone shouting at me for being there without a guide, but after fifteen minutes of searching for the source, I realized it was a baby goat. The poor thing was stuck on a cliffside, unable to find its way down. Shortly after, I spotted a group of people approaching in the distance. Not wanting any trouble or awkward explanations about my solo hike, I looped around the other side of the ridge to avoid them.

While walking, I instinctively patted my pocket to check for my wallet. It was there. But by the time I rode back to the hostel and reached for it again, it had vanished. It was gone—totally and completely. I checked my bag three times, then a fourth, but the reality set in: my driver’s license, my motorcycle property card, and my Colombian credit card were all gone. I visited the local tourism office and left my contact information, but as the days passed, nothing turned up. It’s a stressful situation, especially knowing I’ll eventually have to face border officials without my original papers.

Work and the High Puna

Since I was stranded in a way, I turned the misfortune into a productive retreat. I stayed in Villaville for five days, hunkered down and working. I spent my time researching and designing a new travel itinerary for Guatemala, focusing on a blend of avian biodiversity and local culture. Between the research and coding new features for my website, the week disappeared quickly.

I’m a bit behind my original schedule for April, as I’ve spent more time working and traveling slowly than I intended, but finishing these projects was essential. Now that the work is delivered and my mind is clear, I feel a sense of freedom again. Despite the missing documents and the logistical hurdles ahead, I’m ready to leave the quiet streets of Villaville behind and climb toward the high altitudes of the Argentinian Puna.

Villa Vil Catamarca Argentina
Belén - Argentina

Belen

The Long Way Round to Belén

Waking up at 4,000 meters in the heart of La Ruta de los Seismiles is an experience that stays in your lungs and your soul. The air is thin, sharp, and incredibly fresh. My original plan to reach Laguna Peinado had been thwarted the day before, which meant I was facing a significant detour. To reach my next destination of El Peñon, I had to commit to a two-to-three-day roundtrip, backtracking all the way through Fiambalá. While backtracking can often feel like a chore, the road was so spectacular that seeing it from the opposite perspective felt like a gift. I took my time, riding slowly and soaking in the vast, arid beauty of the high desert before finally rolling back into Fiambalá.

Rhythm and Regret on Ruta 40

With plenty of fuel still in my tanks, I decided to push straight through toward Belén. I had considered stopping in Villaville, but the day was drawing short, and Belén offered the security of being one of the last major towns on my route. The ride was hypnotic. I found myself back on the legendary Ruta 40, the backbone of Argentina. At one point, I crested a rise and passed the iconic kilometer 4040 marker. In the flow of the ride, I didn't stop for a photo—a small decision I’d later kick myself for—but at that moment, the connection between the bike and the road felt too perfect to interrupt.

The Cost of Inattention

The sense of peace evaporated the moment I arrived at my hotel in Belén. As I began the routine of unloading the motorcycle, I noticed something was wrong. One of my waterproof side bags had shifted during the vibrations of the ride and had been pressed firmly against the red-hot exhaust pipe for hours. The thick plastic hadn't just melted; it had fused. When I tried to open it, the bag tore apart like a cheap grocery sack. My heart sank as I looked inside. The heat had burned straight through to my gear, melting a jagged hole through both my sleeping bag and my sleeping pad.

There is a specific, stinging disappointment that comes with a self-inflicted error on the road. In the world of motorcycle travel, a single minute of inattention during the morning pack-up can be incredibly costly. A loose strap or an open pocket isn't just a mistake; it's a lost piece of essential equipment. At home, if you forget a detail, you can usually recover. But when you are in constant motion, you are always exposed. A sixty-euro sleeping bag and a thirty-euro pad were ruined simply because I hadn't double-checked a clearance of two inches.

Patchwork and Preparation

I had no desire to play the tourist in Belén; the city held no interest for me beyond its utility. My evening became a mission of damage control. I went out and bought more gasoline to pack for the upcoming mountain stages and hunted down some heavy-duty adhesive tape. Back at the hotel, I performed a sort of roadside surgery on my sleeping bag. Feathers were leaking out of the charred holes like snow, so I meticulously patched the fabric with tape. It wasn't pretty, but it seemed to hold. The sleeping pad, however, was a total loss—a plastic casualty of the road.

That was my time in Belén: a lesson in vigilance, a bit of Scotch tape, and the quiet realization that the mountains don't care about your mistakes. With my gear patched and my fuel topped off, I prepared to leave the pavement behind once again.

Belen, Catamarca, Argentina
Fiambala - Argentina

A beautiful day in Dunas de Taton

I found myself in Tatón, a tiny speck of a village tucked away in the rugged landscape of northern Argentina. Calling it a town feels like a bit of a stretch; it is more like a scattered collection of houses that the world somehow forgot. I arrived there looking for a break from the noise, and what I found was a silence so profound it felt almost tangible.

I set up my camp deep within the massive, rolling dunes that define the region. Looking out in any direction offered nothing but endless waves of sand, framed by the jagged, imposing peaks of the Punas. There was no cell service, no hum of engines, and for a few days, no other human souls. It was just me, the shifting wind, and a vast, open sky that turned a deep, bruised purple every evening before the stars claimed the darkness.

Spending that time completely alone in such a raw environment has a way of shifting your perspective. You realize how small you are against the backdrop of those ancient mountains, yet there is a strange, grounding comfort in that insignificance. Leaving Tatón was difficult, but I carried that stillness back with me, a quiet reminder of the beauty waiting in the places where the map ends.

San Jose de Jachal - Argentina

An un-expected detour !

The Unexpected Detour

I set off with a simple plan: a two-hour ride to my next destination. However, the road had a different agenda. I hadn't anticipated the sheer, breathtaking beauty that awaited me at every turn. Each curve in the pavement unveiled a new masterpiece of nature—towering rock formations and jagged, alien shapes that seemed to shift with the light. What was meant to be a quick transit transformed into a six-and-a-half-hour odyssey, and I didn't regret a single minute of it. Instead of rushing, I let the landscape dictate my pace. I found myself pulling over constantly, brewing a warm cup of tea while staring out at the horizon or enjoying a snack whenever a particular view felt too special to pass by. It wasn't just a journey from point A to point B; it was about soaking in the environment and letting the scale of the world truly sink in.

Connections on the Road

At every stop, I was greeted by the incredible warmth of the Argentinian people. They are some of the most open-minded and friendly individuals I have ever met, and it was a constant delight to strike up a conversation with them. My motorcycle, heavily loaded for the long haul, acted as a natural icebreaker. People were naturally curious, and their eyes would widen with genuine amazement when they learned I had ridden all the way down from Colombia. What struck me most was that many of the locals I met were on their own journeys of discovery, exploring the hidden corners of their own massive country for the first time. There was a shared sense of wonder between us—a mutual appreciation for the wild beauty of the land we were all traversing.

The Silence of the Vastness

One thing that truly humbles you in this part of the world is the sheer vastness of the country. It is a scale that is hard to wrap your head around until you are in the middle of it. There are long stretches where you can ride for over 250 kilometers without seeing a single soul—no towns, no passing cars, and no signs of civilization. It is just you, the wind, and the endless road. Driving through these desolate areas requires more than just a sense of adventure; it requires respect for the environment. When you are that far out, your vehicle is your lifeline. You quickly realize that keeping your machine in top shape isn't just a matter of maintenance—it's a matter of safety. Out there in the beautiful nothingness, you have to be ready for anything, because the horizon is the only thing keeping you company.
mirador cuesta de huaco (jáchal argentina)
Mendoza - Argentina

Let’s give the moto a dose of fresh air

Lately, it feels like my motorcycle has spent more time gathering dust than eating up the miles. With three back-to-back trips confirmed in Colombia starting this March, I found myself facing a bit of a logistical headache. Before I could truly settle back into the Colombian rhythm, I had to make a detour to Argentina to handle a bit of unavoidable bureaucracy: renewing my Temporary Importation Permit, or TIP.

I caught a flight down south to Mendoza, where my bike was waiting. The mission was straightforward but a bit frustrating—I had to ride all the way to the Chilean border just to keep the paperwork legal. To be honest, these permits often feel unjustified and far too inflexible, especially when you consider the cost and effort involved in maintaining them. If I could have avoided this trip and the expense that came with it, I certainly would have.

However, once I was back in the saddle, my frustration began to melt away. There is something about the road to the border that captures the soul; the setting is undeniably beautiful, and the winding pavement offers a sense of freedom that office paperwork never could. Even though the trip was born out of necessity, I couldn't help but enjoy the rhythm of the ride and the stunning vistas that defined the landscape.

With the new permit finally in hand and the formalities out of the way, the stress has lifted. The bike is legal, the paperwork is sorted, and my mind is clear. Now, I can finally focus on what matters most: getting back to Colombia and diving headfirst into the new adventures waiting for me there.

Quimper - France

Kenavo. Another departure

The salt-laced air of Brittany still clings to me, a familiar, comforting scent that always marks the end of a visit. Another departure, another incredible time spent in my homeland. It’s a strange sensation, this passage of time. For me, it feels like I just left a few years ago, a blink of an eye. Yet, the calendar tells a different story: twenty-two years have unfolded, filled with countless adventures and experiences since I last truly settled here.

This time, however, the farewell feels a little heavier. Leaving behind my family and dear friends is always a wrench, a bittersweet ache in my chest. It’s a feeling I’ve grown accustomed to, but it never truly gets easier. The goodbyes linger, the hugs are a little longer, and the promises to return feel more earnest.

But I know the familiar rhythm of the road. Once I’m back on my journey, once the miles stretch out before me, the ache will begin to fade. It’s the nature of the adventurer, I suppose – to carry the love of home in your heart while embracing the call of the unknown.

And the unknown is beckoning again. New adventures are on the horizon, just around the bend, waiting to be discovered. I can hardly wait to dive into them, to gather new tales and experiences. Soon, I’ll be ready to share them all with you!

São Luís - Brazil

Back to Sao Luis after 17 years !!!

What an overwhelming rush of emotions—I had finally returned to São Luís do Maranhão, the city where I spent two of the most intense years of my life. Every cobblestone, every melody, every familiar face carried memories that hit me like a tidal wave.

Walking those streets again was like stepping into a time capsule. I traced the same paths I once hiked daily, back when I sold crepes in the bustling city center. The air hummed with reggae rhythms drifting from open windows, and the taste of a fresh Guaraná Traditional brought back a flood of nostalgia. But nothing compared to the vibrant pulse of Bumba Meu Boi, its colors and energy so alive it felt like the city itself was breathing.

Then there was Carla—an old friend from Tambor da Crioula—who swept me back into the heart of it all. She took me under her wing, and together, we surrendered to Carnival for eight straight days. We danced until dawn at the Bumba Meu Boi de Maracanã, losing ourselves in the songs of life and the electric buzz of the crowd. Those sunrises, painted in sweat and laughter, are moments I’ll carry with me forever.

Now, as I sit here, the question lingers: Should I come back every year, even if just for a few months? This place isn’t just a city—it’s a piece of me. And leaving again feels like tearing away a part of my soul.

Foz do Iguaçu - Brazil

Back to Braziuuu !!!

Return to Brazil

After seventeen long years, I finally stepped back onto Brazilian soil. My stomach had been in knots the whole flight—would they slap me with a $300 fine for leaving the country as an undocumented immigrant all those years ago? But when I reached customs, the officer barely glanced at my passport before waving me through. Just another gringo arriving for the first time. I nearly laughed out loud with relief. My wallet, already stretched thin from travel expenses, silently thanked the universe.

A Warm Welcome

The moment I stepped outside the airport, Brazil wrapped me in its familiar embrace. The air hummed with laughter, chatter, and the easy rhythm of life. Brazilians moved with a warmth and ease I’d almost forgotten—no rushed shoulders, no tense glances. Even in Foz do Iguaçu, a city teeming with tourists, the vibe was unmistakably Brazilian. Bossa nova melodies drifted from mall speakers, softening the edges of the day. It was like slipping into a favorite old song, one that still knew all the right notes.

Surprises in the South

I hadn’t expected the south to feel so… modern. The architecture, the streets, even the way people dressed—it all carried a faint European elegance, a stark contrast to the rawer, wilder north I remembered. It was a Brazil I hadn’t fully known before, one that balanced tradition with a quiet sophistication.

The Price of Comfort

But the real gift? The prices. After months in Argentina, where a simple meal cost a small fortune and fresh produce felt like a luxury reserved for the wealthy, Brazil was a revelation. Here, I could sit at a café and order a proper meal without wincing at the bill. No more surviving on sad, greasy sandwiches. For the first time in ages, I bit into a ripe mango from a street vendor and grinned. This was the Latin America I’d missed—alive, vibrant, and mercifully kind to my wallet.

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