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Between a five-month internship in Argentina and a one-month field mission in French Guiana, I found myself with two months of freedom — and two unmissable deadlines:
So I set out.
I chose to follow, loosely and instinctively, the path of Che Guevara — tracing a line north from Argentina to the edge of Central America. I left behind what I had come to love in Argentina, carrying little more than a backpack and a one-way bus ticket to La Paz. From there, I began to drift
Weeks passed in the mountains near Cuzco, walking slowly, sleeping high. I followed the Salkantay trail to Machu Picchu, and by sheer coincidence, met again my Argentine companion on his birthday, in the shadow of the ruins. I kept heading north — to the Cordillera Blanca of Huaraz, where the mountains opened like old stories, and I wandered through valleys and up to sharp, wind-cut peaks. I tried surfing in Trujillo. It went poorly. But the sea laughed with me, and I moved on. Eventually I flew to Bogotá to meet my sister, and for a few days, I let myself fall into the rhythm of Colombia — its music, its pace, its colors. Then my parents arrived. And so, for a brief and luminous time, we were all together — after six months apart.
But the river called again. And the forest. And the road.
I left once more — boarded a plane to Manaus, caught the first ferry down the Amazon River, and floated for five days through the green vastness, to reach Macapá. I guess I can check “going to school by boat” off my to-do list. I crossed into French Guiana at the Oyapock River, on foot. Six months after leaving France, I returned — not home, but somewhere else entirely.
Tired.
Wide-eyed.
Heart light.
And finally at peace with the road (or was I?).
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