It is hard to recall all the time we have spent thinking about the future. And either our thoughts about “what-will-come” have been of concern or excitement, these past thoughts seems to be gone once we are in that future. As soon as we enter a new place, the thinking that we’ve had about that place is already a faded memory, collected and erased in the pile of hours spent on being somewhere other than we are. And this is the misfortunate downside of the fortunate upside of not having decided a single destination of my trip in advance. My mind is often occupied by that little bird who wants to wander off to the next destination.
Happy folks. Fucked-up politicians.
“Don’t worry!” Says the biggest bloke of them all, as he points his flashlight in our face. “We’re not gonna be talking with you for long. I’ll rather be honest and say it straight: All of us are poor and what we want… is your money.”
Sister sisters & love-motels
Luckily they recognize me from my Facebook-pictures, and scream out my name. The airport-hallway is full of Dominicans with flags and signs, and I must have looked confused as I’m coming out of the departure-exit. Or so they describe me. The two sisters Sara and Sabrina, born and bred in the Dominican Republic (DR), have invited me to stay with them and their family.
One night in Curacao
I am wearing my nicest colorful dress, a flower in the hair and my finest make-up. I am going on a date in Curacao, one of the Dutch Antilles in the Caribbean.
Adicora and the surfing twin
Adicora, the quiet beachtown in Venezuela (slash Cuba), is a village filled with pastel-colored houses. Most of them are empty vacation-houses, but the few of them that are occupied, are the homes of the sweetest most hospitable Venezuelans. The next president-to-be (?) of “Europe”, the trash-guy, a lovely German couple. And the surfing twin; A german who was part of founding the surfsport back in the days.
Cars, gasoline, Cuba, Chavez
Hugo Chavez, with his anti-globalization stand and romantically socialist vision for Latin America, speaks on the telly an hour a day. Sometimes ten, if he feels like it. Most of the locals we’ve gotten to know here are against Chavez. And the few ones who do like him and watch his hourly propaganda everyday, are still against his regime…
Van-hell to Venezuela
It is 3:30. Dead black. We’re in the Colombian desert. I count the incredible number of 22 Indians, a baby, us and a Sierra-Nevada-luggage-mountain on the roof.
Freaky Cabo de la Vela
The first night here I woke up beside my hammock screaming out load, freakin scared, of something. I didn’t drink of the locally-made spirits around the bonfire earlier in the evening and I’ve never done this before, so I’m wondering what has affected me.
There is a myth that the Wayuu-indians are dangerous…
The story of our guide
Miguel remembers: A woman and a child his age fully armed amongst the masculine guerrilla. He remembers that they stole their cow and ate their food, and that the leftist rebels took away his older cousins and wondered off in the jungle to new assignments like cidnappings and killings in the name of cocain and political dissidence.
Pablo Escobars tigers
The dangerous hippos are territorial, so they were left as guards in the muddy waters surrounding the coca-fields. The rest of Escobar’s Ark was left in captivation. Including the tigers. But when the big cats later were stolen by the rivalry Magdalena-cartel, they managed to escape. Now they reproduce and live freely in this excact area. Pablo Escobar on the other hand, was captivated and died in the hail of bullets in 1993.