Salento is a cool, small town, set in the mountains which are thickly and colorfully covered in tropical forest and surrounded by coffee farms.

The locals wear big cowboy hats, very short ponchos and hang metre-long knives on their belts. Most are big fans of General Wellington's boots. It is also the first town where moustaches are frequent, bushy and awesome. Possibly due to the rubber booots, they all have that slow John Wayne walk, throwing each leg forward and then letting it flop down.

That, the actual cowboy attitude, look and eyes, the small town feeling, the horses galloping down the square, the colonial church around which the city is built, the number of pool houses and saloon-like bars all add up to give the town a "tropical western" sort of feeling.

You could easily imagine Clint Eastwood riding into town with a single bullet in his colt, speaking in dubbed Spanish.

In short, we and I like Salento very much. The fact that the locals grow their coffee and their moustache goes a long way towards this, admittedly, but the Old West atmosphere is a great and unexpected bonus.

As part of a long series of bets, dares and challenges, which I never turned down, never lost, and even (and only) won a free lunch back in Puerto Natales, Maria challenged me to eat her little jar of jalapenos in a shot. We set the reward at five Euros.

Doing the maths (asked Duarte, our currency specialist), it would almost pay for the night's stay at the hostel. Pros and cons weighed, needless to say, the challenge was accepted.

The referees decreed the move legal so I poured in a little ketchup. I took a deep breath. I weighed the glass in my hand. If I had any sense, I'd be feeling pretty stupid at this point.

But I don't and it went in one go. The dozen jalapenos, the ketchup, and a spicy vinnager they were soaked in. I choked on the vile vinnager and the jalapenos nearly made me beg for a quick death. My whole tongue felt like it would set the table on fire if I licked it. My throat swelled up, burning. But I chewed every one of those jalapenos with their nuclear seeds. Red as the ketchup, eyes all wet, I smiled proudly at a job well done.

One by one Maria counted the coins in front of me. Five euros, as promised, in a handful of twenty cent coins. Five euros that I can't change anywhere or do anything with. The jalapenos hadn't made me want to cry half as badly as the ringing sound of coins piling on top of each other.

"Well, you'll have the souvenier to carry around so you can remember me and this bet," she said, laughing. I'll have that souvenier for a very long time.

If I had any sense, I'd feel pretty stupid.

Tinhamos andado o dia todo a percorrer o Parque Nacional Tierra del Fuego.

-Vinte minutos para o fim do mundo,- disse a Maria a apontar para a placa que assim o indicava.
-Realmente, Duarte, se tivesses vinte minutos para o fim do mundo, que é que fazias?
-Aqui?
-Não sei, em qualquer lugar.
-Se fosse aqui, deitava-me.

--

À espera que o mundo acabe

After over eight hours of Spanish dubbed torture, the final scene of the final Twillight "saga" film sparkled on the tiny screen.

Bored, twelve hours into the bus ride, I looked out of the right-hand window and noticed the dizzying height at which our thin tar road unwound along the mountainside. The bus turned a sharp turn. A silver box emerged on our left. I couldn't tell what it was but it was awfully close.

Breaks screeched.

An old lady gasped.

...

The kid on my left had had to take off his shirt after throwing up on it. He peed into a plastic bag. Throughout the night, he had slept with his mother and his younger sister in a pretzel of limbs that had a tendency of flopping onto me: heads on my lap, hands on my face, feet on my knees. His sister cried every three minutes and a half and needed diaper changes about twice as often.

The two men on my right smelt like black horses when they run in the midday heat. Due to some unexplainable physical impediment, they couldn't keep their arms down. One of them kept the mugshot of his son in his wallet.

To the sound of a dull thud, we crashed against the oncoming silver truck.

We would later laugh about choosing the cheapest bus and the dangerous route.

Note: Later.

I remember an old conversation with a good friend, not so many months ago. I was going through a rough time at work, and there were three of us on the roof, and I was getting it off my chest.

"You know, most times I come home and I can't even remember what I've spent my day doing." She's always been so much older than me, where it counts. She said:

"That's what you call growing -"

"Hmm?"

"You know what, never mind." I shrugged, a little smug.

I remember this old conversation and I stretch out my arms. I yawn a little bit. Across from me I watch islands like hills like ghosts drift by in chiaroscuro layers. I've had three days to think about a lot of things.

And every day I know exactly what I did.



(-on the Virtues of Being Normal)

Aboard the Evangelistas

--

"In Argentina, among some intellectual circles, we read a lot of Fernando Pessoa.
He is, I think, very Portuguese. You are at the same time open like the sea, but so closed."
- The polyglot Argentine, hiker, guide, naturalist and intellectual in Puerto Natales

"Tell me, nurse, what´s wrong with me?" The French girl said, putting down her white wine. The nurse was a tall blonde danish girl.

Now I realise that this sounds just like the opening for an adult-rated film, but bear with me here.

"Every day I am tired. I sleep too much. Tell me nurse."

"Nothing," the nurse said. "You're just bored. You've spent three days on a boat. You don't have anything to do so you sleep and you eat, is all."

"But I'm always like this. Even when I'm working, I wake up feeling tired. I worry about it, I think about it a lot."

"You're not working now - you're on holidays so you can sleep as much as you want. Without worrying. Maybe you're only tired because of that."

"Yeah. That's my problem. Maybe I think too much."

"You should drink not think!" The nurse said, raising her glass of boxed red. My kind of nurse.

Later, the French girl said:

"The Swedish are my dream. That's my mission you know? To fuck a swedish every place that I go. It's been a problem, though. There's so few of them travelling."

Now I realise this sounds like the premise for an adult-rated film, but bear with me here.

Old Chum

When I arrived at Carmelo, it was smelling like it had just rained, fresh and wet and strong. I was crossing the first road, going downhill, when a one-eyed dog came running up, wagging its tail, barking in delight. It jumped up, knocked my headphones off, licked my hands when I reached for them. It was a greeting between old friends.

He must have mistaken me for somebody else. I guess his one good eye wasn't all that good after all.

"Maf, what's the deal with the buses? You can only pay for them in coins but nobody gives us any change."

"Ah, porque voces nao estao a ver. If you've got coins here you're king. There are almost no coins left. They realised the metals the coins are made of are more valuable than the coin itself, so a lot of people melt the coins and sell the metal. You can get a card though, for bus rides called the Monadero."

I have seen the future and will be building myself a foundry in the basement back home.

The PA announces something incomprehensible. Dozens of people move around us, arriving and departing. Maria, with that backpack on, which is as big as she is (and about twice as heavy), asks:

"So, your phone doesn't work, the machine just ate your card - Kiko, what would you do without us?"

A banner hangs on the wall, reads: Beinvenidos a Buenos Aires.

--


"Resistencia"


From the rooftops

Goodbyes

At the last supper, with family.
"Will you take a nespresso?"
"No, no, thanks."
"Think about it - this is the last decent coffee you'll have for months."

--

-Voltas?

--

Manha do dia seguinte, na cama.
- Eu nem sei que te diga. Por um lado até fico um pouco triste. Tu por nós nunca ficaste assim. Acho que é a primeira vez que te vejo sem vontade de partir.

--

À saida de casa.
- Se eu te conheço, tu em quinze dias vês um par de olhos bonitos e isso passa-te.

--

At the airport, about to board.
"So, which of you takes an iphone? Nobody? Three people traveling and not a single iphone?"

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

- Frost

When you wake up, you realise you're sleeping in somebody's couch. There's a green cup on the table next to you that is half full from the sunlight that it catches from the open window. In big white letters, the words:

WHAT THE F*CK

HAPPENED

LAST NIGHT?

Then that feeling hits you, and you force yourself back to sleep again: in slumber you have one last defence against facing yesterday's memories, drinking and decisions.

It won't last long but at this point you can't be picky.

(Stolen from Oriane, teacher, host and friend)

Some day, I'll open up my heart, show my hand and let everybody know about you.

Some day, I'll write about how much you changed me - when you asked me never to change.

How much you made me want to stay - when you told me to go.

How you were the worst thing that could have happened to me at the worst possible time - because you were the best thing that ever happened to me.

Some day, I'll thank you for showing me how to be myself, and, more importantly, how to forgive myself for what I am.

One day, I'll write all this and publish it so that all the world can know.

Wait, no. I'll take that back. I don't think I'd be comfortable with that.

"And you feel, like, when you're furthest away from everything is when you're most connected." - Anissa Jkhan.

Some of the wisest minds are hidden in twelve-year olds' bodies.

Caspar David Friedriech, Wanderer above the sea of fog

From A Softer World

But you won't let me.

Buttercup Festival

When I saw him for the first time, he reminded me of a Ken doll. His skin was like thick rubber. His face had been sculpted, distorted to some surgeon's concept of perfection. It wasn't just the plasticity that bothered me, though, there was a meanness in his eye that his fake smile couldn't hide. An ugliness inside.

At the end of the night, with all the make up sweated out he's not nearly half as pretty. He's drunk and he's loud and he tells you that he will invest in interstellar trade, that you are petty and ungrateful, that you should learn how to shake the hand of a man. He tops it off by telling you that in ten years time, it will be 2015.

We don't really care. We laugh some times, others we shrug our shoulders. He's our boss and he's not worth the trouble. Serve him another drink, make it a double and make it strong. Call it bartenders' revenge, with a smile.

(Fight Club)

By Michael Dumontier and Neil Farber

A Hungarian lady receiving us at her house for dinner, telling us an anecdote of her time as a university physics professor. The English is fluent, but there's an accent to it, more Latin than Hungarian. The story went:



I used to work in labs a lot, I was doing my research. I had two assistants, and one day they walk into the lab carrying some stuff, it's early in the morning and they don't notice I'm in my office, just next door. I heard that they were talking and knew that they didn't know I was there, but I let them talk and I listend.



One of them was saying,

"Oh my god, I can't stand all these immigrants, coming over here, taking over, stealing our jobs, keeping our money. Last week a new abasto (a groceery store) opened outside my house."



And the other one says,

"Don't say that. I have an abasto outside my house too. Have you ever observed these Portuguese? Really watched them carefully?"



And the first one says, "No, why should I?"



And he says "Well I have. At 5am, their lights are on. At 7.30 they open for business. At one they close for lunch but don't even leave their shop, they just clean up. At two they open and stay open until 8. At 10 they're still in."



And the assisstant asked: "So?" because he couldn't get where the other was getting at.



"So, the other assistant says, "So you think any Venezuelan would be that stupid to work that much?"



She delivers the punchline masterfully and everybody laughs.

William Kentridge

"I'll be dead but never dying and I say that with a smile. It's just my way of trying to be alive." - Frank Turner, Vital Signs

‘You know, a minute ago I was telling you your job must be the best one in the world. I mean, you were getting to take out three girls for the night. Now it’s only getting better: they’re actually offering to pay for your drinks,’ Suzanne said.

‘Come now, this is a one-off, it’s a once in a lifetime kind of thing. It probably won’t happen again any time soon. It’s not really part of my job.’

‘Ha, come off it, won’t it be the same again tomorrow?’

I didn’t answer that. I couldn’t. Mostly because it was true.

So now it's official. After the ironic end of a permanent vacation, the Gallery has signed me up for what seems to be the best job in town.

Alex Supertramp, Ramblin' boy.

"I just felt so sorry for his mother. How could he do that to her?"

"You can't think like that, Pri" - a man, after all, must be his own self before he is anybody's son.

"Nobody gained anything from it. He didn't die for a cause, he died running away from society. Alex should have accepted that we live in a society."

"Society's not unescapable. It can't be: that's our very last hope."

"But still, he died."

"Maybe, but when he did he was perfectly free."

You see, some men will sail on until the day the seas dry up.

Mochima

'It's a good life man,' Achilles says, swinging in his hammock, through the smoke.

'Sometimes so much shit happens you forget, but when you come to a place like this, it reminds you life is a blessing y'know?'

Simon Bolivar

"What killed him was seeing his dream come true, only to fall apart again." - Miguel.

Toulouse-Lautrec, In the Salon of the Rue des Moulins

As I walk out of the Mayflower, a Frenchman cries out

'Salut!'

and for a second there the look on his face is of such comraderie that I think this old man is going to bro-fist or high-five me. He just walks on, smiling proudly.

Three minutes forty-six seconds earlier, three girls had surrounded me in a dark little lane, right outside the Mayflower. They invite me to come see their bar, and I politely refuse; but my hand is in their hands and I'm being pulled in. Inside, several women of all shapes and sizes sit around looking coy.

I am pushed into a little cubicle and this little lady is explaining the rules to me.

10 Euros and I can choose any one of them and have a dance in the cubicle. It doesn't look or smell like it's been used for dancing in many times. I say

'Thanks, I really just want dinner and a drink,'

and it's about half-true.

'I can come with you for dinner if you like,'

she says.

'Yeah, I'd like that, really would, but I don't think my girlfirend would so much.'

She laughs, somebody steals my hat, somebody's dancing, somebody's trying to pull me back in. I grab the hat and dash out.

This old Frenchman sees me come out of that brothel and smiles like I'm the only tourist he's ever liked.

'Salut!'

the old man cries.

Old Montmartre

In Montmartre, a Rasta sits at a bar next to two spanish girls. He dunks a beer down, sighs in despair and complains about how sad he is that he can't afford designer clothing.

A city within a city

In Saint-Michelle, a young homeless guy sits by the roadside, his hat upside down with a few sprinkled coppers inside. He reads as he smokes a thin cigar and the paper bag at his side droops to reveal the tell-tale golden wrapper bottle-neck of champagne.

Rotterdam (the world died yesterday)

--

"So. How do we do it? How do we change the world?" Daniel asked, finishing off his glass of wine. He might not know all the answers, but he always asks the important questions.

I had met up with Daniel in old apocalyptic Rotterdam's train station. It was raining heavily that day. We walked by the riverfront before we settled in a pub, to dry out.

It's hard to explain, and I don't mean to try too hard anyway, but when Brother Daniel talks of salvation he reminds you that you believe in it too. His heart has no bars: he is like a second Jesus - sans fanatic followers, except maybe me.

Every year I take a shot of Daniel. If it doesn't keep me alive, at least it keeps me humane, a little bit closer to sane, and always leaves me thinking.

--

Ongebroken Verzet (Unbroken Resistance)

We are Anonymous.
We are Legion.
We do not forgive.
We do not forget.
Expect us.

(in Anonymous message to NATO)

Obstreperous.

Gil Scott-Heron

April 1, 1949 – May 27, 2011

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the            instant replay. 

There will be no pictures of pigs shooting down brothers in the             instant replay.

I was thinking about Ipod boy and Russian girl again today and how they're perfect for each other.

She doesn't say much -

and, well, he never listens.

Dan Perjovschi at the Art Gallery of New South Wales, Sydney

From A Softer World

"Nothing is interesting, the rapture came and went, and we got left behind along with every single other person in the world, and not a single one of us has any idea what to do now, now that it's Tuesday except go downstairs for more coffee."

Unremitting Failure

A democracia e' um megafone partido que se recicla de X em X anos.

Por favor deixar as pilhas no pilhao, nao custa nada.

Things to do before you die:

write a letter home reading 'Send lawyers, guns and money- Dad get me out of this.'

Happy rapture day.

(i'm not there)

Jo and I walk into a bar and take a seat. The Moroccan waiter, Ali, shakes our hands and asks:

"The usual, right?"

Success at twenty-two.

From A Softer World, to anybody else celebrating today.

Listening to the songs we love, there's something in my eye.

I met up with Mr Castro, a teacher I had from back when the internet still clicked and games came in floppies. He introduced me to the bunch he's teaching these days. Nice kids. Curious things. They probably weren't even born when he first taught us.

'Don't take things too seriously,' he told me. The best advice always comes in small words.

If I could pass on a lesson to those kids he teaches that's exactly what I'd tell them. Well, that and maybe never stop trying to fly.

Why the hell not?

"Listening to the Songs We Love
Makes us feel sad sometimes, reminding us as they do of happier times. Of times when we had what we thought we wanted, and were not mistaken on that count. Now we have what we have, mainly memories and an apartment that's a tangle of wires and a bed without a boxspring and a few books and an absolutely empty refrigerator and a stove we've yet to use. People say put something in your refrigerator, it'll make your house feel more like a home, they say buy furniture, they say lots of things that cannot cure us of the conviction that we're living the life of a ghost. About all we've learned since we've been single is this: we can do whatever we want, but there's nothing we want to do."

found at Unremitting Failure, the web's deepest blog about futility.

Calvin & Hobbes, Bill Watterson

Another Calvin strip, this was not what I had in mind when I named the blog.

"Between us there was, as I have already said

somewhere, the bond of the sea."

- J. Conrad, Heart of Darkness

Rebel with a cause

--

We met Abdul one night in an illegal drinking den in Essaouria.

An unnamed bar, an unnamed street: a haven that the locals kept to themselves.

Away from tourists.

Away from police.

It was the kind of spot where stray dogs and alley cats met to drink gallons of cheap beer and smoke hash joints and weed pipes.

Abdul was a prince among beggars, another son of the shadows. He talked all through the night. He said God gave us two ears but one mouth - so we could speak only a little and listen to a lot. He hadn't slept in two days. He was taking the weekend off from his job as a mechanic in the north. He spent forty-eight hours spread evenly between bars, brothels and fishing.

'Hoder!' He cussed. He had been a sailor and picked up slang words in every port. He slammed his fist on the table. The hands were titanic and rough like all wise men's. 'You go to Taroudant? Why? You read this in book, no? Fuck that. I tell you, you must live in your own time. You are what you feel, what you see. I am not a philosopher of politics, but I know this. You are your eyes. Believe only as you see.'

Oualidia.

We came.

We saw.

We left.

Fisherman's wife, Al-Jedida

--

The three of them stood in the middle of the little road, in their dark clothes and lively shawls. They cast long shadows in the morning sun, long shadows on the sand.

"You are beautiful, Monsieur," said Fatima. She was big, friendly and standing in front. Behind her, her two friends talked with her in a hearty arabic. She alone spoke with me, a few words of French, a few words of English. With the abandoned Portuguese houses of Al-Jedida around them, it is striking how similar they are to our own; any of them could have been a Portuguese wife in a fishing village just like this. "This one," she said, holding up the baby from her warm bosom, "she can be your femme. Marriage." I laughed, loud and long.

"No, no, thank you!"

"This one, then!" She said, pointing at her second daughter. This one old enough to walk, had just come running around the corner. "No? I have third one, in here-" she wrapped two thick arms around herself.

I thought about it for a second. I laughed and took my leave and left the three fates behind me.

Blinking, I pry my eyes open. My head feels like it's been vacuumed twice and my mouth tastes of dead cat. I swing myself into a sitting position and the world spins just a little bit. I suppose it does that all the time.

"I'm a bit hungover," Duarte says.

"Uh-hum," I grunt. The watch says it's 8.30 but there's a midday brightness in the room:

Welcome to Morocco.

--

Al-Jedida