Vipassana Meditation Retreat: 10 days of silence

Hello my name is Zack and I am addicted to craving. I read addictive, page-turning books, follow the occasional addictive TV series and obsess about food and sex. When the weather is hot I want it cold and when it is cold I want it hot. I hate mosquito bites, waiting for buses, being hungry and the last 5 minutes of an exercise routine. I eat when I am bored. I just want the suffering to end.  I can rarely enjoy something nice, like a sunset, without craving something that would make it nicer, like a beer. Sometimes, even when I am satisfying a long-anticipated craving, I am already thinking about the next thing to crave. I am obsessed with the past and future and spend little time truly in the present. If you don't think these things apply to you, try sitting still and quiet for an hour. Even a minute.

So how does one overcome this addiction? The options available are the same as for breaking any addiction.  You can gradually wean oneself off little by little, or you can quite cold turkey. I opted for the latter. I recently participated in a 10-day residential meditation course in Nicaragua. The Nunnery used for the course was set in beautiful gardens, surrounded by cloud forest. The only distraction I would encounter from the outside world in those 10 days would be the resident howler monkeys demonstrating their namesake ability each dawn and dusk. The group of 60 or so students were a mix of travellers and locals, old and young. For most of us it was the first time, but some were returning for a second or even tenth time. One guy was a recovering cocaine addict. Most were just hippies. Vipassana meditation is not a religion, and people of various faiths attended, as well as many atheists. 

When we arrived we handed over our contra ban items to be locked away. For the duration of the course we were to abstain from as many things conducive to craving as possible. We were to give up talking, non-verbal communication, physical contact, alcohol, cigarettes, caffeine, reading, writing and music. The two genders were separated and where possible divided by screens. Even the mere comfort of eye contact was denied to us. They could not quite deny us the pleasures of food and sleep, but they sure tried. Food was confined to two small meals a day consisting of plain, unspiced vegetarian food without added salt, sugar or oil. Dinner was a small banana. As to sleep, the last refuge, I got 6 1/2 hours to lie down on my thin mattress on the hard floor. We also received a copy of the daily schedule: 10 hours of meditation per day every day. We had lost more freedoms than most prisoners in the world, and we had done so voluntarily. At the last moment, after the silence had begun, I was moved to another room and therefore did not know the names or nationalities of the two guys I would be sharing with for the following days. The stage was set. It was going to be a difficult 10 days as we faced our addiction.

The basic premise of this meditation technique, common with Buddhism and Hinduism, is that most suffering is the product of our own cravings and so is purely mental. It is rooted in a deep-seated tendency of mind that wants things to be different from what they are. The technique is to observe the bodily sensations and practice reacting to them with equanimity and objective detachment; with neither revulsion nor attraction. To do this you need immense amounts of patience and concentration. Thus we started by developing our concentration. On the first day, for all 10 hours, we observed the breath: watching the air come in and out of our lungs. On the second day we narrowed the area of attention down to the nose and nasal passage. On the third day, again for 10 hours, we narrowed our attention down to the small area between the nose and the upper lip. By then I could notice all sorts of subtle sensations concerning the workings of the body that I had not previously been aware of. We were then instructed in the specific Vipassana meditation technique and for the remaining week, day in day out, we observed the sensations of the entire body.

At 4:00AM, like every morning, I was woken by the morning bell to go meditate on the sensations of the body for two hours. But I already knew what the body felt: tired and hungry. I had only been lying on my thin mattress on the floor for 6:30 hours and had not eaten a proper meal in 17 hours. Then, on one such day, a new rule called 'Sittings of Firm Determination' was added. For a minimum of three designated hour-long sessions we were to sit without moving. When kneeling or sitting cross-legged on the floor, this becomes very uncomfortable very fast. In your private bubble of closed-eye silence, it was pure, unequivocal, agony. But with it comes a constant opportunity to practice non-identification with cravings - in this case the craving for the agony to relent.

Half way through the course we were a comical bunch to behold. We would hobble out of the meditation hall with stiff joints and walk to the furthest limits of the campus, delineated by a thin yellow string tied between trees. Lining up along this invisible force-field, we looked like a group of liberated Holocaust survivors that didn't know what do with their newly found freedom. But we were also looking around like people tripping on psychedelics: people were following ant trails, finding bugs on the ground, flowers or just looking out onto the jungle that surrounded us. I saw one old man stand perfectly still and grin with child-like delight when a butterfly had landed on his shoulder. With heightened awareness and an almost complete lack of visual stimuli, everything seemed so vivid and vibrant.
I was making progress day by day. I was managing the discomfort better and becoming more and more aware of my thoughts and more disconnected with my cravings. Indeed, it was only by non-identification with my cravings that I could survive through those hours without moving. Whenever my concentration lapsed and I thought about how much longer must be left to hold the position, or how much longer my grumbling stomach had to wait until its next meal, my agony would spike to nearly unbearable levels. I was forced to detach from my cravings as the only way to survive. However, I was still not getting happier, just less miserable. 

Most participants make some breakthrough, usually coming immediately after their lowest point. For some it happens on day 5, for some day 10. For me it happened on day seven. I was envious and resentful of one roommate and annoyed and resentful of the other. The first was a handsome young man with long blond hair who could sit for hours without moving, apparently without the slightest trace of suffering while I was in a world of pain. The other was constantly fidgeting and irritating me as he would go to the toilet sometimes more than once an hour, just to break the monotony. He would also shower thoroughly, working a thick lather through his body, shave, clean his ears with Q-tips and trim his toenails almost every day. Then all of a sudden, during one particularly difficult meditation session, it just shifted. I felt inspired by the good meditator and compassionate for the suffering of the other. I was excited about making the most of my remaining days and even started feeling, well... good.

I don't know what happened, but I cannot help but make comparisons with overcoming other addictions. After going through the withdrawal of a week without almost any endorphin hits, the body adjusts to this new state of equilibrium. Just like overcoming heroin withdrawal, eventually the body starts producing the endorphins again, but now without the presence of the previous trigger. For the heroin addict he no longer needs heroin to feel good. For me I no longer needed food when I was bored, no longer needed to talk if I had nothing to say and no longer needed a beer to accompany the already beautiful sunset. I was already content.

It was hard to compare progress when we could not speak, but I felt that it was getting better for everyone. On the eighth night, when we were listening to a recorded talk by a past master, the closest thing we had to entertainment each day, the power went out. The stereo turned off and the lights went black. For any other group this would have been a drama, but not for us. Without any apparent signs of even noticing, we calmly sat in silence in the pitch dark until the power came back on. We then continued as if nothing had happened.

So it was, in essence, 10 days of practicing how to suffer well; how to react to sensations of craving with equanimity and objective detachment. By the end you are no longer resisting the craving, but rather observing it passively. The automatic connection between a craving existing and the need to act on it had been broken. I looked forward to meditating (although never at 4:00 AM) and even papaya, the blandest of fruits, seemed sweet and full of flavour. It was a full-on detox - body, mind and soul.

I am still addicted to craving, and I always will be. It's fun to crave every now and then, and chocolate is still better than papaya. But now I have the tools to establish a more healthy, sustainable and satisfying balance. The road will be long and will require constant vigilance and hard work. But I am so glad I have taken these first steps. Those of us who survived to the end of the course were now privy to the greatest secret to happiness: As soon as you truly stop searching for happiness, it will find you.

Vipassana courses are available on a donations only basis all around the world. http://www.dhamma.org/

A flower that I looked at every day during the course

Daily Schedule 
4:00 Wake Up Call
4:30-6:30 Meditation
6:30-8:00 Breakfast and Rest
8:00-9:00 Full Group Meditation
9:00-11:00 Meditation
11:00-12:00 Lunch
12:00-1:00 Rest and Meetings with the Professor
1:00-2:30 Meditation
2:30-3:30 Full Group Meditation
3:30-5:00 Meditation
5:00-6:00 Tea (one small banana) and Rest
6:00-7:00 Full Group Meditation
7:00-8:15 Lecture
8:15-9:00 Full Group Meditation
9:00-9:30 Question time with the Professor
9:30 Lights Out

Crossing the Darién Gap

The Darién Gap bewteen Colombia and Panamá is one of the most hostile jungle swamplands in the world, and is also the home to several Colombian para-military groups and to the main cocaine trafficking route to the USA. Many people have died or been kidnapped trying to cross it. I opted for another, more scenic, route.

San Blas Islands, Panamá

I departed Cartegena, Colombia  at 8:30 with only a few hours sleep after a full moon party the previous night. It took the shitty old bus over an hour to edge its way through the congested traffic and trundle its way through random suburbs before we even arrived at the bus terminal. I was then immediately thrown into a bus to Montería. Other than having to change buses half way because mine was too empty to continue, it was an uneventful, bumpy 7 hours. Then, while waiting for the very last vehicle of the day to my destination of Turbo, I watched a male police officer flirting with a female shop attendant, which culminated in a tickle fight and the woman squirming her way off the chair and onto the floor. All in a days work for the Colombian Police Force.

In the 4WD I was jammed into the back cab with 3 Colombians, including an obese woman. After a while of driving through the countryside in the dark, we stopped behind a line of parked trucks and cars in the otherwise deserted highway. Two soldiers bearing large weapons in hand informed us that there was a blockade ahead. ´OK, some sort of military checkpoint for drug trafficking,´ I thought. Then a gang of rowdy shouting men passed by with shirts wrapped around their faces, leaving only a slit for the eyes open. Their shirtless dark bodies were glistening with sweat under the nearly full moon.

I jumped  down from the cab and walked around the truck parked in front. Further up the road I saw burning bonfires and many shirtless men with covered faces blocking the road. ´What´s going on?,´ I asked a fellow passenger. Its the ´Revolucionarios,´ he said. Knowing that this was one of the most dangerous parts of Colombia frequented by para-military groups trafficking cocaine to North America, suffice to say I was a little concerned. All of this occurring in Spanish added to my unease. But as the time passed and I saw several Colombians sleeping on the ground under their parked trucks I began to settle. I even got the confidence to go take a photo.

After asking around and getting several varied and vague answers, I found out that it was a protest from the local village who wanted to be connected to the electricity grid. So it was not guerrilla or para-military after all.

Eventually our driver decided that he was finished with waiting and burning blockades did not scare him. Despite no one else attempting to cross in the time we were there, our driver sped past the 20 or more vehicles parked ahead of us, almost leaving 2 of our passengers behind. He then eased his way around and over the blockade. The men were all shouting at us, but as we got closer I heard that they were only flirting with the girls in our car.

We continued on for several more hours on the shockingly bumpy road, gradually reducing in numbers as people where dropped off at their homes. Eventually it was just me in the back cab. At 1AM I arrived in Turbo, after over 12 hours of travelling. I checked into a cheap guesthouse and collapsed into bed.

When the port opened 5 1/2 hours later I got up to try and reserve a seat on the one daily speedboat to my destination. At 8:30 I returned with my bag and was squashed next to the captain out in the rain because they had over booked. He was already drinking port straight from the bottle. It was then a 2 1/2 hour ride across the gulf to Capurganá, the last town in Colombia and only a few kms from the Panamá border. 

Upon arrival I wondered around the town and bumped into a cute French girl with dreadlocks riding a bicycle. She took me back to her guesthouse, where I met another guy, also with dreadlocks, who told me about a boat leaving for Panamá the next day. I then went on a mission to find an Italian called Fabio for the details. While there are sometimes infrequent and irregular departures, his was the only boat actually stopping in the San Blas Islands on the way for the next 10 days. While I wanted to spend more time in this cute little town, I had to take this opportunity. So I interrupted 2 men playing chess at the currency exchange office to sell my Colombian Pesos for US Dollars, went to immigration to get my exit stamp then made the most of my first and last day there. No cars, kids hassling you to take photos of them, men playing domino's under a coconut tree, heavily armed soldiers enjoying ice creams with child-like delight, horse drawn carts, old man dancing by himself and everyone super friendly and curious about you. Oh and the beach was pretty great as well. Pretty much what I imagined a little Colombian Caribbean fishing village would be like.

Later that night when I was about to go to bed the hippies came back and said they were going to the beach with other people to drink and play music. So we sat on logs on the beach with beers, Rum, instruments and some joints with a mixture of locals and foreigners, speaking Spanish.

After a delayed departure due to heavy rain and police checks, I climbed onto a little speedboat with Argentinians, Mexicans, Spaniards, Italians, French and Israelis, all of whom spoke Spanish. After a short ride we arrived in Puerto Obaldia, the first town in Panamá, where we got out passports stamped and our bags searched by sniffer dogs. It is indeed the main route for Colombian cocaine destined for the USA, but the traffickers usually ´forget´ to stop there for immigration formalities.

The Colombia-Panamá border

An hour later we arrived on an island inhabited by the indigenous Kuna people. Our room was perched above the sea on stilts and you could see the crystal clear water through the gaps in the floorboards. Not a bad view for $5 a night.

We had lunch with fresh seafood and went for a walk around the village. A great place to be a kid, with children running around everywhere in packs, swimming, wrestling in the mud or playing with balls. Then we got back on the boat to go snorkeling off a nearby island. Super clear and warm water, but not heaps of coral. Someone saw some lobsters though.

I sat on the jetty for sunset writing in my journal and then speaking with an Israeli girl I had briefly met several months earlier in Peru. Just when I though the moment couldn´t get any better phosphorescent plankton started appearing everywhere, glowing fluorescent green.

We got up early the next day for 6 more hours of travel, with a short stop at an island with the biggest Kuna village. I got stuck in the worst spot on the boat, constantly getting sprayed with water and even using a mask and snorkel some of the way to keep the water out of my eyes.

But it was all worth it when we arrived at the island that would be my home for the next 2 days. A tiny island of about 100x50 M covered in coconut trees and cabins made of coconut trees, surrounded by white sand, Crystal clear shallow water and coral reefs. The San Blas Islands arguably have the best beaches in the world, alongside Polynesia in the Pacific ocean, and I could see why. 

After lunch we went snorkeling right off the beach. Corals of alien design, fish of brilliant colours and starfish up to 1/2 M across. Some people saw a ray and a shark as well. Snorkeling is one of the few things that is as good now as when you were a kid, and I explored with child-like delight for hours. Most of the time I was with the Israeli girl, and when we swam in to shore we lay on the beach in awe of where we were. The water was so calm and glassy that we were able to rest our heads on the shore out of the water with our bodies in the water. We then went and watched sunset with the others.

The Kuna people are a matriarchal self-governing indigenous culture living on and managing the San Blas Islands. They provide for almost all of their needs, including vegetables and some other crops which they grow on the nearby mainland. They also do not have individual money within a family. As such, they are still coming to grips with what I would call basic economic theory. Two beds in a private cabin costs twice as much as two beds in an 8 person dorm; 1/2 L Rum costs $6 while 1 L costs $18; goods cost the same whether you by them on a remote island or beside a highway on the mainland.

The following morning we all went to another island 1/2 hour away which was even more spectacular, and the weather was perfect. I felt euphoric. After a period of hysterical laughter trying to come to terms with how beautiful it was, we smoked some weed and went snorkeling. The visibility was incredible and the coral and sea life mind blowing. Such a magical foreign world under there. There was also a quite large shipwreck directly off the shore.

We had lunch back at our island, then said goodbye to most of the group. Me and a few others had elected to stay another night and make our own way to the mainland. I went snorkeling again, this time making a whole lap of the island. As sunset approached I put my mask half under the water so that I could see half coral and fish and half sunset at the same time. I then joined the others on the beach to watch sunset.We just looked at each other in silence. Nothing needed to be said. It was one of the best days of my life

The following morning we said goodbye to our island and the Caribbean sea and took an hour boat ride to the mainland and up a river a way. We then took a jeep a couple of hours along honestly the most roller-coaster like road I have ever experienced, before arriving in Panamá City on the Pacific Ocean. With a huge modern skyline, this wealthy city felt a world away.

For more information on this route, check out:

http://www.facebook.com/sanblascolombia (Fabio was recently interviewed by Lonely Planet so may be in the next edition, and was organising buying his own, better, boat when we left him in Panamá City)

http://www.thedariengapster.com/ (has good info on the transport details)

Currently, these are the only 2 operators undertaking this route.

Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cocaine Cartel

Pablo Emilio Escobar Gaviria was a Colombian criminal kingpin most renowned for his leading role in smuggling cocaine to the USA. At the height of his power, Pablo Escobar and the Medellin Cartel were smuggling 15 tons of cocaine to the USA each day, accounting for about 80% of all cocaine consumed in the USA and valued at some half a billion dollars per day. From humble beginnings, Pablo worked his way up to become one of the richest men in the world, and was eventually gunned down on a Colombian rooftop by a huge team of USA funded and CIA controlled men deployed to track him down.



Pablo was born 1 December 1949, the third of seven children to a farmer and school teacher parents. When asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, Pablo answered that he wanted to be a millionaire. As a teenager he began his criminal career reselling stolen gravestones, stealing cars, smuggling contraband cigarettes and even assisting in the kidnapping of a business executive. At the age of 25 he got into the business of cocaine in earnest. After a rival dealer was murdered, ostensibly by Pablo, all his men were told that they now work for Pablo. The following year Pablo was caught in possession of 18 kgs of cocaine after returning from Ecuador. While his attempts to bribe the judge were unsuccessful, after less than 2 months in prison he was eventually able to bribe the arresting police officers, and the case was dropped. This pattern of corruption and intimidation characterised Pablo´s manner of dealing with problems. As Pablo once said, ¨Everyone has a price, the important thing is to find out what it is.¨ Bribing was the first choice, but Pablo was not afraid to take more dramatic actions if necessary. He once said, ¨Sometimes I am God. If I say a man dies, he dies that same day.¨ This policy became to be known as ¨Plata o plomo¨ meaning ´silver or lead´.


While Pablo Escobar was the most well known member of the Medellin cartel, he was not the boss and held an equal, or perhaps only a somewhat greater, share to about 10 other senior members. However, over 10% of a cartel that at its prime smuggled 80% of the USA cocaine supply made him an exceedingly wealthy man. Indeed, by 1983 his fortune was loosely estimated at US$20 Billion, making him the 7th richest person according to Forbes Magazine rich list. As cash was the primary mode of transaction, stashes of millions of dollars continue to be found hidden in the walls of country villas and warehouses across Colombia.


The cartel was mainly a smuggling operation, with most of the cocaine coming from Peru and Bolivia. After is was further refined, it was transported to the USA via other Caribbean countries, mainly the Bahamas, where the cartel bought an island as a smuggling headquarters. They had a fleet of planes, helicopters, boats and even submarines at their disposal, and Pablo, unlike most of the other cartel leaders, famously piloted some deliveries. There were jetliners that could carry 11 tonnes of cocaine per flight and a record delivery of 23 tonnes in a cargo ship.


But controlling so much money has its costs. In addition to constant fighting with rival cartels involving frequent bombing and counter-bombing of cartel owned properties, they were also at war with the US-backed Colombian Government. In a rare offer of peace, Pablo and the cartel offered to pay off the entire national debt of some US$13 billion in exchange for immunity for cartel leaders.  The government said ´no´ and confiscated nearly 1000 cartel owned properties. They then signed an extradition treaty with the US whereby Colombian drug criminals could be imprisoned in the US. As Pablo famously said, `I would prefer to be in the grave in Colombia than in a jail cell in the United States.` The cartel responded with violence. A presidential candidate was gunned down, banks,  newspapers and a Government building in Bogota were car bombed and a commercial flight on which the President was supposed to be was bombed, leaving 107 dead. It was also alleged that Escobar financed an attack on the Colombian Supreme Court in 1985 by a guerrilla group which left have of the Supreme Court judges dead. With so much conflict, Medellin became the murder capital of the world, with over 25,000 violent deaths within the city in 1991 and over 27,000 in 1992. A portion of this high murder rate was attributable to the cartel´s offer of US$1000 for every police officer killed. Over 600 officers were killed in this way in only a few years.



After a period of relative peace, when a new president rescinded the extradition treaty and Pablo was voluntarily imprisoned in a luxury house he built for himself, the position was changed again under pressure from the USA. The war was back on, and Pablo let himself out from his prison and was on the run again. Throughout all these periods of different levels of violence, the rate of cocaine trafficking never faltered.

It took a US funded and CIA controlled team of 1500 men 499 days to track down the escaped Pablo. Using radio triangulation technology provided by the US, Pablo was tracked down to a middle-class neighbourhood in Medellin while talking to his son on the phone. As forces moved in Pablo and his one remaining bodyguard, who had been by his side since almost the beginning, fled the building rooftop to rooftop before they were eventually gunned down. It was 2 December 1993, the day after Pablo´s birthday. There is some controversy about how he actually died. Some claim it was the CIA, who have photos with the body moments later, while others claim it was a vigilante group called Los Pepes who had been pursuing Pablo for over a decade and had captured and killed his cousin earlier that day. Other´s claimed that Pablo shot himself and assured his wish to end up in a Colombian grave rather than a US prison.



While seen as an enemy of the US and Colombian Governments, Pablo was a hero to many Colombians, especially the poor. He built many hospitals, schools and houses in Colombia, most notably a 500 residence housing project in a poor area of Medellin that he gave to the locals. He was also patron of football, building sports centres, sponsoring children´s football teams and paying for about half of the Colombian national team. He did however, have umpires assassinated on a couple of occasions when he did not agree with a decision. He also built a massive zoo on his private country residence. It was abandoned upon his death and there are now some 300 wild hippos roaming the Colombian mountains.



Since 1995 Pablo´s widow and two children have lived in Buenos Aires Argentina, under different names. Pablo said that his wife was the only person he was ever scared of, and other than  being unfaithful was actually a good husband and father. While the family could only get away with a small fraction of Pablo´s wealthy, they still live a very comfortable life.

Now days, about 90% of cocaine used in the USA still comes from Colombia, usually via an intermediary Mexican cartel. The murder capital on the world is now Juarez, on the Mexican border with the US. In the post Escobar era supply and production of cocaine has not dropped, but now it is a collection of guerrilla and paramilitary groups in power operating from the jungle regions of Colombia. It is though that 50-300 thousand hectares of virgin Amazonian rainforest are cleared each year for the production of cocaine. But the situation in Colombian cities and highways has improved dramatically. Medellin is now a growing city with a perpetual spring-like climate, streets lined by mango trees and more beautiful women with breast and arse implants than you could poke a scalpel at. Once the murder capital of the world, this fun, safe and progressive cosmopolitan is now leaving many Western cities for dead. However, some bombed cartel buildings, including a highrise tower used as the cartel´s headquarters and the house of Pablo himself, remain unrepaired and vacant, serving as a constant reminder for the still too recent pasts.

Sacred Sueños Regenerative Farm Project

I recently came back from volunteering for a couple of weeks at a farm in Southern Equador. On the first morning I met up with Yves (pronounced Eve), the guy who runs the project. He is  Swiss born, Canadian raised fiery red headed ex-psudo-anarchist who completed a Bachelor and Masters in Environmental studies. Eight years ago he bought some land serverely degradaded by years of unsustainable farming where almost nothing grew, and committed at least 15 years of his life to help restore it. Today was his 37th birthday.

Clyde the baby donkey having his weekly bath

After a 15 minute taxi ride out of town I was handed the reigns to a horse loaded with a week´s worth of supplies just purchased in town, and we hiked about 1 1/2 hours up a steap, narrow and sometimes muddy trail. Huge respect to Jocito (the horse). We unloaded the weekly bounty of food. One of 12 eggs were cracked, several avacados and papayas were damaged, a few pears were uterlly destroyed, one bag of rice split open, and the bag of oranges and mandarins was left left in the chaos of the market. ¨All in all not too bad,¨ said Yves, who on other accasions had lost almost everything when the bags slipped off, sometimes bringing the horse with it over the edge of the trail. Then Yves, I and 4 other volunteers sat down to a hearty lunch of stewed vegetables, beans and grains.

The kitchen/dinning room/sitting room/library that we ate in was made by Yves at the begging of the project. After months of clearing flat land on the steep slope, he then dragged timber by horse from a tree plantation further up the mountain, and combined it with hand made adobe/mud bricks. After more than 6 months, there was a single room. The whole area was still covered in ferns and other weeds following the previous mono-cropping of sugar cane.

Now, after 8 years of using what he calls regenerative design (roughly permaculture principles), much progress has been made. With the help of a transient community of volunteers (up to 1000 over the 8 years), the soil quality has improved and now there are a number of productive vegi patches, greenhouses, native trees and fruit and nut trees. There is also running water from a nearby spring, solar panels for some eletricity, a composting toilet (aka the shit bucket), bee hives, 2 chicken coops, a solar shower, a dormitory and several cabins for sleeping. There is also a surpisingly extensive library with such titles as: Home Cheese Making; Butterflies of South America; 1984 (Orwell); Packin´ In on Mules and Horses; The Road; Ishmael and Human Manure. The other residents of the property include 2 milking goats, 1 baby goat (aka  a kid), 2 cats, 1 kitten, 1 dog, 2 puppies, an old horse, a donkey and her baby. Yves now lives on another part of the property intermitantly with his girlfriend, raising the goats and making goats cheese which he sells in town each week.

Mani (or Peanut in Spanish), the baby goat

We were expected to do 6 hours of work each day, and after splitting the chores to maintain the place, we could work on whatever projects we chose. I did such things as: weeding and caring for plants, planting seeds, transplanting seedlings, washing puppies, maintaining trails, fixing water tanks, feeding the animals, watering the garden and harvesting. I loved harvesting. While there is room for improvment in vegetable production, there were certainly enough beans. When I traced a thicket of climbing beans down to their stems, sometimes what I thought was 1 plant turned out to be 5, and other times what I thought was 5 plants turned out to be 1. These self seeded beans from past cropps were everywhere. I also harvested root vegetables, salad greens, some squash-like thing called Sambo, berries, a few types of fruit and eggs from the chickens. You could go pick a bowl of salad in a few minutes for lunch or pick some strawberries, rasberries and blackberries to go with your pancakes in the morning.

Living at a farm that did not import fertiliser or chemicals and that did not take any rubish off the property made you very aware of the consequences of your lifestyle. The rubish was sorted into careful piles. The planstics and other things that could not otherwise be reused were mixed with mud to make bricks, the food scraps were fed to the animals or composted, and the paper was burnt so the ash could be used in the garden bed. Furthermore, carfeully selcted plants were used to help improve the soil. Some brought up nutrients from deap in the soil, others fixed nitrogen, and all, even the weeds, produced organic matter that helped to improve the quality of the soil. As Yves said, even when removing undesired plants from the vegi patches, trim them back with love, and thank them for their contribution to the soil. Everything grown on the property -- and everything brought up in the form of food -- will return to improve the soil. Whether it is directly broken down, composted, eaten by the chickens or other animals and pooped out or eaten by the humans and pooped out (yes, even the human waste was used as fertiliser). At Sacred Sueños you can see the miracle of life in action.

You don´t need to sacrifice your lifestyle to be more sustainable; you just need to adjust it. My time at the farm was not at all unpleasant or unduely difficult. In fact, it was wonderful.

For More information, please checkout http://sacredsuenos.wordpress.com/ 

Kuelap Ruins

Near the city of Chachapoyas in Northern Peru lies some magnificent ruins made by the Chachapoyans. This pre-Incan civilisation reigned over an area of cloud forest in the Amazon Basin about a third the size of modern day Peru from about AD500 to 1470. They were called The Chachapoyas by the Incans (of Machu Pichu fame) who eventually conquered them, meaning Warriors of the Clouds. They were fierce fighters who took the skulls of victims as trophies and were believed to also eat their hearts. They worshipped mainly pumas, eagles and snakes, with a mummified jaguar found in a royal tomb and images of these animals depicted in their art and constructions. Animal and human scarifies were also performed at the temple in the ruins. They even had their own language.


Radiocarbon dating shows that construction of the fortress began sometime in the sixth century AD. The structure is located at an altitude of 3000 on a ridge above a narrow valley some 1.2 kms vertically below. It consists of a huge exterior stone wall as much as 19 m high made without the benefit of cement. Some of these stones have aquatic fossils from before the sea bed was forced up to form the Andes Mountains. The fortress is roughly 600 m in length and 110 m in width. It had two levels, one for the Military, Religious order and Ruling class and one for the common people below, and had over 500 buildings. This is believed to have support a population of up to 4000 people at its zenith. Each house has a huge stone on the floor, usually embedded bedrock, used to grind flour for the household´s needs. They would live amongst their Guinea Pigs (i.e. their dinner) during the day to share body warmth, but would sleep separated on a platform or on the other side of a low stone wall during the night. Most houses had tombs for deceased relatives at the door for the believed protection it provided from evil spirits.

The Chachapoyas were eventually conquered by the significantly more powerful and numerous Incans; but it was not done without difficulty. The citadel itself could never be taken by force. Instead, it was sieged for about 20 years -- cutting off access to outside food and water -- until they eventually surrendered. They survived off huge stockpiles, some farming within the fort, but mainly by their intense hatred of the Incans. Only 60 years later the Spanish invaded. Even with the advantage of arms and other technology, they could not take the citadel by force either. However, due to the highly infectious Small Pox brought over by the Spanish, this siege of the now Incan held fort took a little under a year.

That this citadel was never taken by force is incredible; unless you look at the design. The only entry points through the high walls were two gates, one on either side of the complex. The gap in the wall starts wide then narrows as it ascends the steep stairs, like the shape of a pizza slice. Many attacking soldiers could charge in together but would get jammed as the passage narrowed, and the top was wide enough for only one person to pass at a time. This single soldier would be met by a wall of spears and other weapons, and both sides of this gauntlet would be defended by soldiers slinging down rocks and other instruments of harm. Even to reach the outer wall you needed to charge 1.2 kms vertically up from the river below. At 3000 m altitude, this is no easy feat by itself. Furthermore, there was a guard tower at the top of the complex that had a direct line of sight to the fire or smoke signals of the three nearest villages, providing an advanced warning signal for attack.

For a civilisation that ruled over a large area for almost 1000 years, surprisingly little is known about the Chachapoyas. But from what we do know, they seem pretty bad arse.

Authors Note: Most of these ´facts´ came from my memory of the tour I took through the ruins, and should not be relied upon in more than a general sense.

The Amazon River

Day 1

After almost 30 hours of bus travel from Lima I had arrived in Pucallpa, a steamy Peruvian jungle town on a tributary of the Amazon river. The bus had been stopped by a police roadblock because there was too much snow on the highway ahead, so we waited on the bus until morning to attempt the pass. Too much snow to get to the jungle? Only in South America.

In Pucallpa, first I went to the market to buy a hammock, Tupperware and a spoon, drinking water and some snacks. Then down to the docks. Luckily, a cargo ship was scheduled to depart for my destination - Iquitos - in only a few hours. I walked past all the various cargo under tarps and in metal barrels and tied up my hammock in a big metal room on the third storey of the boat amongst at least 40 others. It was going to be cosy. I also bought a small mesh hammock from a tout on board so that I could store my backpack above where I slept. Apparently it would be more safe. I then went and payed directly to the captain - 100 soles (about $35) for food, accommodation and passage for the 4 day journey.

I then took off my shirt and went up on deck with a book to watch sunset. After talking to a kid for a while I was approached by a relatively hot group of Peruvian girls who wanted to take photos posing with me. I´m sure they were going straight on Facebook. This could be an interesting few days. I spotted another non-Peruvian and went to talk to him. He was a 24 year old Spaniard from Barcelona who had already been travelling for a year and a half. We then joined up with a 22 year old Argentinian and the only three non-Peruvians on board went out for dinner. Apparently the departure time had been delayed until 10AM the following day as we waited for a truckload of flour. $1.50 for a fish dinner is not bad.

Back in my hammock on board people had moved in on each side of me, both with crying young babies who were sleeping on the floor virtually underneath me. If I fell out of my hammock in the night (a genuine concern because it was my first ever night sleeping in a hammock) I would fall on a baby. Not the best night sleep ever.

Day 2

Went and got breakfast and new batteries for my headlight in the market, then waited in my hammock for departure. As I got hungry around lunch time I asked around and found out that departure had been pushed back to 5pm. As I was looking for a place to eat, I was beckoned into a bar by a bunch of rowdy old drunken men, who wanted to buy me beers. It was filthy hot and Peruvian party music was blaring loudly. They shouted and competed amongst themselves to talk to me and ask me questions. My Spanish comprehension was being tested by their slurred speech. Eventually all of them had gone back to work, save two. One had fallen asleep with his chin on his chest and the other, the oldest of the group, had taken to the dance floor by himself. He then invited me back to his house to meet his family. So we piled into a motortaxi with his bundle of whiteboards (he was in the business of selling whiteboards on the street). We then sat on his porch as his wife served us cold Fanta and he introduced me to his kids and grand kids. His granddaughter was definitely giving me eyes. I then thanked my hosts and went to a place they recommended for Ceviche, and dish of uncooked fish marinated in lemon juice.

Back on the boat I had an epic siesta like you only can in a hammock in the jungle. I then found out that the departure time had been pushed back to 5AM the following morning. Went for another fried fish dinners and an ice cream. Then stood out on the deck and watched a lightning storm over the river, preparing for my second night on the boat without leaving.

Day 3

When I awoke the following morning we had actually departed. Although I couldn´t be sure until I got up and checked, because the ship has a top speed travelling down river of about 15 km/h. I was informed of this my a guy in a white polo shirt, jeans and a fanny pack, who ostentatiously was showing off his GPS. He worked in the logging industry and explained how logging areas must be charted by GPS and approved by the Government. Apparently it is not a very stringent approval process, because I saw plenty of barge loads of old growth Amazon hardwoods passing us on the river. He also explained about how the girls in the jungle are Caliente (hot, passionate) and how he was ¨fucking¨ (the only English word he had used) a girl in town while we waited for the boat to leave. In the 5 minutes I was talking with him he had hit on about 3 different girls, and kept on trying to show off his GPS which he repeatedly produced from his fanny pack.

I had missed breakfast, but the lunch of rice, chicken, beans, potato and platano was pretty decent. Although it got pretty repetitive when you ate it every day. You lined up and they mark it off on your ticket as they serve you into some vessel that you must provide yourself. I then joined up with the Spaniard and Argentinian for a joint amongst the cargo. We sat on a front end loader at the very front of the boat and watched the jungle go by. We were joined by guy with red cargo pants, a crew cut and a purple wife beater singlet saying ´Student´ in Spanish with lude stick figure drawings of drinking, having sex and sleeping. As soon as he started talking to us he put one leg up on the side of the boat, with his crutch in our face, and started these unconscious thrusting motions. He had joined us to see if we wanted to buy weed from him. No thanks.

After a siesta, I was back out on deck for sunset. I talked to a guy who each month had to do a 2 day voyage each way to the nearest town with an ATM. He also explained that a boat we passed was full of Peruvian made beer, near the beginning of a 1 month round trip far into Brazil.

Whenever we stopped at the larger villages, a hoard of people would come on board selling anything from food to animals. For 30 cents I got a bag of a peeled jungle fruit I had never heard of before that tasted something between a guava and a pineapple. Other people bought parrots taken from nests in the jungle with clipped wings so that they could not fly. I also saw a kid with a baby monkey, also stolen from its mother in the jungle. I had heard of the trade of Amazonian animals, but  had no idea it was so prevalent. The Spanish guy had volunteered a couple of months in a refuge for animals rescued from the illegal animal trade. He told me about a Puma there that was purchased off the black market and kept in the courtyard of a butcher, being fed the off cuts each night. Eventually the cute little puma became a big adult (which tends to be the case) and they gave it to the refuge, saying they could no longer care for it.

Each time we passed a village, almost everyone on board would go and stare at the villagers that would themselves gather to watch the boat. People would even put down the meal they were eating and cross to the other side of the boat to get a better view. At first it was no big deal to me, but by the end I got it. With so little external stimulation, any human contact was the best entertainment available. Sometimes virtually the whole village would assemble to watch the boat pass, with kids rushing out of their houses to try to get a good seat.

Each time we stopped at a village the boat´s population would swell. Like a spreading patch of mushrooms, new hammocks would crop up everywhere. Previously that day I had counted 64 hammocks inside, but when we docked at a village at 10PM at night we took on many more passengers. A hammock squeezed between me and the woman with two young children that I thought the laws of physics, let alone human decency, would not permit. It was a friendly guy that was always staring at me whenever I looked. That night, I later found out, our population swelled to about 150 people, although for most of the journey there was only about 100. Apparently, at the beginning of the Peruvian holiday season, the boat can accommodate up to 400 people. I felt like an insect squished together with so many others in our suspended cocoons/hammocks. That night the phones of the Argentinian and another person were stolen. But they were left on top of bags or charging and not inside closed let alone locked pockets.

Day 4

I woke up late, thinking I had missed breakfast. I went down to the kitchen to check, but ended up being the first in line of the entire boat. After we docked in a large village, this Christian conspiracy theory group started taking over the boat. They put up these banners everywhere explaining how the Government was planning to put microchips and bar codes on us, and where already watching us from small cameras hidden in our television sets. Certain world leaders, mainly Americans (eg Obama), were named as false prophets or even the anti-Christ himself, all apparently with ´the mark of the beast.´ The Apocalypse is coming. Then they explained the key principles of Christianity and how the church was our only saviour from this impending evil. The people who put up the banners were on their way to an annual congregation of people from all over the Peruvian Amazon.

We went to have another smoke, but it started pouring with rain, so I sheltered in my hammock, read, then had a siesta. Then had dinner. Eat, rest, sleep. Eat, rest, read, sleep. That was the routine.

From the deck I watched a few canoes with outboard motors catch up with us and tag a ride to the next village. We passed a naked man bathing in the Amazon River from the flooded front steps of his house, and someone on the boat gave a wolf whistle. Everyone laughed. After some hesitation, the naked man gave a wolf whistle back. Nice come-back. When we arrived in the village I witnessed some astonishing feats of unloading cargo. Into one canoe was unloaded 14 cases of beer and two of cola. Just when I thought he could not possibly fit more into his boat, the cherry on top was carried out: two large stacks of eggs precariously balanced on top of everything else. Then two live chickens were passed across upside down by the feet. So at least in this case, the chicken was not before the egg. On another canoe was unloaded a brand new double bed, still wrapped in plastic, which wobbled its way uncertainly to shore.

Day 5

Each time I returned to the toilets they were in a worse state of repair. Less locks working (one had no door at all) and more toilets blocked and filthy. Sometimes I had to decide between working toilets or working locks. But today, on day 5, it finally happened - the water stopped working, leaving the toilets un-flushable. It was only ever water pumped up directly from the dirty river, but it was better than nothing. Later that morning I was up on the roof where I saw the water tanks overflowing. The pump had obviously been repaired. I saw a man amble up the stairs in a self-satisfied manner, as if he had just repaired the water system of the entire boat. Then he was met by a small torrent of overflowing water. His expression changed in an instant, and he turned on the spot and ran back down the stairs.

I watched a child play with two puppies as I ate my watery oatmeal for breakfast, then climbed up onto the roof of the fourth storey control room with the Spanish and Argentinian guys for our first joint of the day. It was only 8.30AM. I asked the Spanish guy why we were smoking so much. His reply, ¨Lo tengo, me gusta, prque no?¨ (I have it, I like it, why not?) pretty much sums it up.

From up on the roof we got a better sense of both the boat and the surrounding jungle and river. The boat was on the larger end of the scale, with a huge cargo area, and was made only a few years previously in Pucallpa, the shitty little city from which the boat departed. I was surprised they had the capacity to make such a large boat. I was equally surprised about the manoeuvres that such a large boat was capable of. When ever it ´docked´ in a village it would turn around so that it was facing upstream, and thus would not need to tie up to anything. This huge boat would literally poke its nose up against the washed-out muddy bank of tiny little villages. From up on the roof we spotted a pod of 4-5 river dolphins.

After the other guys went down, I sat at the front of the roof and watched the landscape float by until lunch time. From this perspective I could see further into the jungle, and got a better sense of how the boat was controlled. At one of the villages we passed a little boat was blasting ´Eye of the Tiger´. Strange but somehow appropriate.

After lunch I talked to a nice lady for about an hour, who gave me an open invitation to come and stay with her in her village beside the amazon. Tempting. Siesta, dinner, then watched sunset with the other two guys up on the roof again. Next stood on the deck and talked to some wistful old Peruvian men about their world and a little of mine. A plastic bag of food scraps was thrown into the seemingly lifeless river (yes all the Peruvians threw rubbish into the Amazon) and I saw it torn apart by a hoard of fish within half a second. I later found out that four years ago a similar boat on the same route had sunk. Most survived, some drowned, and some were eaten by fish. Yes! There are actually man eating fish in the Amazon River. While eating a full grown adult will probably kill them in the process, they will take you down with them. With that image in mind, I went to bed.

Day 6

I woke up well past normal breakfast time, but went down to the kitchen to try my luck and see if they had any left. Just as I asked they announced the begging of breakfast and I was again the first in line of the entire boat. Smoked with the guys again, but this time not on the roof since it was raining. I sat and watched the mist shrouded flooded little villages on stilts with half naked children as we floated by. Very Heart-of-Darkness.

It was the end of the wet season and the water level of the Amazon River was as high as it has been in about 40 years. Twenty-four years ago there was another flood, but not as bad as this one. Many have had to flee to higher ground in the cities and towns as their homes are submerged, but even the outer suburbs of the cities have been flooded. I met a guy living in Iquitos who was sleeping in the collage gymnasium with his wife and two children, since his house was underwater. I also saw a bunch of government issued refugee-like tents and portable toilets lining one of the main streets of the city. Others have decided to stay in their houses and sleep on tables with water below them.

Those who stay in their villages outside of the cities and towns have problems too. There is little land on which to cook or sleep when they are out on fishing expeditions, and fishing, the main livelihood of many people, is more difficult because the usually abundant lakes have now been linked to and flooded by the main river. It is also more difficult to access drinking water and the brother of the guy working at my guesthouse was sick with a pretty serious fever from drinking dirty water when out in his village. This guy working at the hostel was also just recovering from a week in hospital after contracting malaria.

The high water level has also had a devastating effect on the crops grown alongside the river. It will take at least a year to replant and grow bananas, for example. While quick growing vegetables can be planted as soon as the water recedes, there will be a food shortage for some time to come. It will be another two months before the water has receded enough for the people to start planting crops and rebuilding their homes and lives. Without crops to earn income, the people will be forced into more clearing of forest for timber for the next year.

As I was returning to my hammock, I was intercepted by a group of children who I had been trying to play with, without success, since the first day one the boat. For some reason they had now decided it was OK, and we played for almost an hour. Horseback rides, ´airplane ´other forms of physical gymnastics, pile ups and lots of squealing and giggling. A couple of mothers came outside to see what the noise was, and at first looked sceptical about a Gringo playing with their children. But by the end I had a crowd of onlooking mothers with approving looks on their faces. One even thanked me afterwards.

After lunch I went back up on the roof with the other guys to watch the official begging of the Amazon River, as two large rivers merged. Then my usual lunch-siesta-dinner routine.

We arrived in Iquitos, our final destination, at about 11PM. I was woken the narcotics trafficking police, who wanted to search my bag. My search was OK, but another guy was not so lucky. He was caught with a big stash of cocaine destined for Brazil and was escorted off the boat. I played a bit more with the kids, who had been roused by the commotion, then went back to bed. There I was hit on by the very obviously gay cook, who had been talking to a friend in a hammock near mine. Later I heard is friend ask him (in Spanish): Do you want the Gringo? Yes or no? Yes or no? I then replied (in Spanish): I understood that. And I´m sorry, but I like women.

The following morning I awoke and the Spaniard, the Argentinian and I were the last ones on the boat. It was 7AM. We quickly packed our bags and tried to exit the boat, but it had moved further down river and was no longer attached to land. So we payed a passing little boat to take us and our baggage to dry land. We had arrived in Iquitos, the largest city in the world unreachable by road. It had taken 6 days to travel about 1000kms as the bird flies, but much longer including all the bends in the river. From here, at 106 m above sea level, the Amazon River travels more than 3000kms more before it reaches the Atlantic ocean in Brazil. At its mouth, the river is 240 kms wide and discharges more water than the following 7 biggest rivers in the world combined. I had not spoken a sentence of English in 10 days.

A Day in the Life - 17 March 2012

I woke up at about 8AM, at first disorientated, but then remembering I was free-camping in a valley near a thermal hot spring, just out of Juljuy, Argentina. It had been my 24th night since leaving Ushuaia in Southern Argentina, and I had camped at almost as many places. I had my usual breakfast of cold porridge, packed up my tent and my bag, and secured it to the back of my motorcycle. I then oiled the chain and adjusted its tightness. Only the previous day I had lost a screw holding the rear wheel on its bracket, and was using an old screw that was severely warped from a separate incident when the chain came off on a gravel road. I could not screw it in past the bend in the screw, and thus I was going to have to make do with a very loose chain. All going well, I would be in Bolivia today.

After only a couple of attempts on the kick start (the battery and electric starter had given out on me a week or two earlier), I was on the road. Within an hour, the lush sub-tropical jungle gave way to epic desert canyons peppered with huge cacti. This UNESCO world heritage area (whatever that means) had bizarre patterns scoured into the canyon walls and such a variety of distinct and striking colours in the stone.

I stopped at a service station and filled my bike with only enough gasoline to get to Bolivia, where fuel is subsidised and about half the price. I produced from the pocket on the inside of my leather jacket a banana which I had purchased the previous day. Experience showed that such precautions were necessary. Just as I was about to go, a guy rolled in with a big BMW touring motorcycle, and a woman on the back. They had the full outfits and helmets complete with radios. So I went to talk to them (in my broken Spanish of course). They were Argentinians from a nearby city and were riding only for the day. I told them about my travels (over 15,000 kms) and showed them my bike (150CC Chinese made). They said I was Loco. 


As I continued to climb in altitude, everything started to become more and more Bolivian. By the time I had reached the sparse Altiplano, where even the cacti cannot survive, I was basically back in Bolivia: women in Bowler hats carrying large loads, broken down buses destined for Bolivia and little street vendors and markets everywhere.

After some difficulty at the border, I actually crossed into Bolivia. Not only was it the slowest and worst organised border crossing I have ever encountered, at first an armed guard refused me entry. I could not produce the entry paper for my Bolivian registered bike because to get the entry paper I needed to show them the exit paper, which I had never been given. After quite some time of waiting for the boss, I was able to explain the situation and convince them to let me and my bike back in. My Spanish was being tested. This was also the border which, three months earlier, on the Argentinian side, had refused me and the guys I was travelling with entry with our Bolivian bikes. Instead, we crossed over and travelled South in Chile until we were able to pass into Argentina at a small border post in the far South.


With much relief I got some Bolivian cash from an ATM (I had only about $12 left, and Bolivia is known for unreliable ATMs). Back in cheap Bolivia I was rich again. I treated myself to an ice cream, a freshly squeezed orange juice, empanadas, fries, chicken and a soft drink.

After a while asking around, I was able to locate a motorbike workshop where I could get a new screw to hold my rear wheel on. The shop keeper next door said it would be re-opening soon after the lunch break, so I waited. After a while I asked another shop keeper, who called them and told me they would not be open until the the following day. I was feeling impatient, so decided to continue on with my dodgy screw.


After buying some food for a night of camping, I continued on. In some tiny village there was a big soccer match going on, so I pulled over to check it out. One of the many benefits of travelling with your own vehicle. I then continued on to a small river that was packed with kids frolicking in the water and adults just sitting around in the sun with food and drinks. Ten buses and a host of private cars were there this Saturday afternoon. I really liked the vibe so decided to camp there rather than press on. Waded in the creek (it was a hot day) I indulged in some serious people-watching. The first day of high altitude in a long time left me panting if I walked too fast. 

Lying on a grassy bank I smoked a joint that I had smuggled across the border (the last of a small stash purchased weeks earlier) and watched the people return to the buses as the sun went down. They took so long. After some people had been sitting in the bus for over an hour, a small group would come trudging around the corner, which I though must surely be the last people. But as they neared the buses, another group would appear. There were several times when I was sure that these people must be the last, but they just kept coming. At first the bus drivers took it patiently, but by the end they were shouting, honking the horn and edging the bus away a couple of metres at a time. A group of young teenage girls started some chant to pass the time. A good couple of hours after the buses started leaving, when only one of the ten buses remained, and had edged its way towards the highway rather than waiting in the parking area, the last people came. I heard the girls excuse (spoken in Spanish): ¨I had to pack up the tent.¨


I had just seen a kid hoon done a rough hill on his motorbike, and I wanted to try it. Especially since only that day I had decided for sure that I would sell the bike when I got back to Sucre. I put on my leather jacket and boots and went to kick start the bike. Of course it did not work. So I pushed it halfway up the hill and roll started it instead. I blasted up the hill and continued on down the little dirt track. I then came hooning down the hill, cutting off the track and riding over grass and dirt. I was having too much fun, so I continued out onto the highway, cruising the almost deserted desert road as the last of the purple from sunset faded from the sky. When I passed a little Bolivian couple trudging along carrying huge loads on their backs it certainly dampened my spirits, but I felt more grateful for my position than guilty for theirs.


When I pulled off the highway back down to the river in the dark, I was abruptly confronted by a herd of cows in the way. After they went around, I parked my bike and set up my tent. With my head torch I looked around for the empanadas I got for dinner, but found only the Muffin that was in the same plastic bag. Whether they were pinched by hungry little hands when I left my bag unattended or I just lost them I never found out, but my dinner consisted of a half packet of biscuits. I had another packet of emergency ration biscuits which I had bought in Ushuaia and carried for 23 days and almost 6,000 kms, but I wanted to make it back to Sucre with them untouched.


First I marked off another day of traveling on my map. Then I lay on my bike with my head propped up on the dashboard and watched to epic starts as I reminisced about the incredible trip that was coming to an end. All going to plan, I would cover the remaining 450 kms to Sucre tomorow and end my journey with the motorbike which had begun 89 days and almost 16,000 kms earlier. Shooting stars blaised accross the crystal clear sky. I then crawled into my warm sleeping bag and fell fast asleep.