The Disappearing Lens

It was supposed to be a seamless journey—Mendoza to Buenos Aires, then onward to Puerto Iguazú, all in one day. I’d packed my trusty trekking backpack with everything I needed for the trip, including my prized Canon RF 100-400mm lens, snug in its protective case with a €300 filter shielding the glass. I didn’t think twice about checking it in. After all, I’d done this before. But this time, luck wasn’t on my side.

The Discovery

When I unzipped my backpack in Puerto Iguazú, the pockets were gaping open. My stomach dropped. The lens was gone. Just like that. No forced entry, no obvious signs of tampering—just an empty space where my gear should’ve been. The estimated loss? Around $1,600. Not exactly pocket change.

The Paper Trail

Panic set in. Did I have the original invoice? Of course not—because why would I? After scrambling through old emails, I managed to dig up a duplicate PDF. Not ideal, but better than nothing. Then came the sinking realization: my N26 Business Standard card had no purchase protection, and I hadn’t bothered with travel insurance. The airline’s liability? A joke. Flybondi’s response was a polite shrug—they wanted a police report I hadn’t filed and cited their “fragile/badly packed” disclaimer, which, conveniently, didn’t cover theft. I knew chasing them for compensation would be a waste of time.

The Hunt

So, I switched gears. I called lost-and-found desks at every airport—MDZ, AEP, IGR—reciting my bag tags like a mantra. I set up alerts on Mercado Libre, hoping the thief would be dumb enough to list it. I registered the serial number on Lenstag and StolenCameraFinder, then reached out to Canon service centers in Chile and Argentina to flag it as stolen. A long shot, but worth trying.

Lessons Learned

Next time? No expensive gear in checked luggage. Ever. I’ll zip-tie my bag shut, drop an AirTag inside, and maybe even spring for proper insurance. Or at least use a credit card that actually covers theft. Hindsight’s a bitter teacher, but at least I won’t make the same mistake twice.

For now, though, all I can do is wait—and hope someone, somewhere, slips up.

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.

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.

Yes! Another incredible adventure has just wrapped up, and this one took me back to the breathtaking island of Madeira.

It’s been about a year and a half since my first exploratory trip there. Back then, I managed to tick off the major highlights, but destiny, it seemed, had other plans. My camera decided to give up the ghost on the second day, and the weather was… well, let’s just say it was decidedly uncooperative. So, I left with a sense of accomplishment after three weeks, but also with a quiet promise to myself: I had to return.

The Return and a New Vision

This time, things felt different from the start. Some wonderful clients, who had joined me on a Patagonia trip earlier this year, were incredibly excited about exploring Madeira. They weren’t necessarily photographers, but they craved the kind of immersive experiences we’d shared in Patagonia – the extended hikes, the breakfasts enjoyed right on the trail, and those magical sunset aperitifs. Their enthusiasm sparked an idea.

I decided to tweak the original photo tour itinerary. What was planned as an 8-day trip transformed into a more leisurely 15-day exploration. This extension would give us ample time to travel at a relaxed pace and truly soak in the essence of the island. It involved a good deal of research, as some of the hikes were new territory for me, but honestly, that’s always an exciting part of the mission.

Embracing the Journey

To maximize our freedom and flexibility, we rented a car. Those drives, with good music playing and the windows down, became an integral part of the adventure. It allowed us to arrive at our destinations before the crowds, to chase the best light, and to truly follow the sun. And speaking of light – in September, the light in Madeira was absolutely phenomenal!

The hikes themselves were nothing short of incredible. The diversity was astounding, from coastal walks to trails high up at 2000 meters, and through lush, verdant jungles. Madeira truly offers endless opportunities for exploration. Despite the weather not being perfect every single day, we managed to capture all the key spots in their most beautiful moments. The light, oh, the light!

Overall, this trip was an unforgettable experience, a testament to the magic of Madeira and the joy of sharing its wonders with others.

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!

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.

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.