In the Middle of Nowhere

Easter Island - or Rapa Nui, in the local language - is perhaps the most isolated inhabited island on Earth, almost half-way between Chile (3,700 km to the East) and Tahiti (4,200 km to the West). One might assume that it could be the stage for native, endogenous, unique species of fauna or flora, like Australia, or where animals behave unafraid of humans, like the Galapagos. Instead it's rather infertile, no lush vegetation,  no significant species to boast. A barren land, grass and bushes, the few trees being those introduced from faraway places. A Pacific island unlike the tropical paradise associated with the idea of a Pacific island, with just two small beaches but cliffs galore. Still it captures the imagination of so many, whether their interests lie in archaeology, anthropology, extraterrestrials, mysticism or exoticism for the sake of it. Not for their natural wonders, that's for sure.

What makes it unique is the civilization that blossomed in such isolation, developing their own set of rituals, their music, their dance, the MOAI. The cultural expressions, including the language, actually don't differ that much from what is found in French Polynesia, where the Rapa Nui apparently came from. But they started the main feature the island is known for, developing an obsession with the construction of ever-bigger rock statues - apparently for the protection of the dead clan chiefs on their tombs, statues that despite having singular facial features, are instantly recognized in their shape and proportions, becoming a sort of international icon, almost a brand and a symbol of mystery, a word in the dictionary.


Apparently - yes, assumptions still overwhelm known certainties about the Rapa Nui - the construction of the moai over 800 years led to the felling of all the island trees (for transportation of the heavy statues from the quarries to their platforms on the coast), impeding the building of large canoes that would ensure long-distance fishing and thus feed the increasing population, the resulting hunger and the hardships of rock carving ultimately leading to war, when the working Short Ears people revolted against the ruling Long Ears and toppled all the moai from their platforms. This time, decimation and havoc were not caused by Spaniards or other colonizer hungry for the islands non-existing precious metals or riches, but by the native population with their hardly unique moral and ethical dilemmas associated with vanity, pursuit of power, revolt against oppression and fight for scarce resources.


Paradoxically, the very moai that almost led to the extinction of a civilization are the ones that ensure today a livelihood for the local population of Easter Island, entirely dependent on tourism and related activities. But no mistakes here, the moai are fewer than one might imagine, maybe smaller than their iconic representation might suggest and the few that are standing were raised to their platforms more as a show of where and how they originally stood. Still they cut a powerful figure against a sometimes unappealing backdrop. What remains in their appeal must be left to the history they represent and the viewer's imagination - and maybe it's the extent of the imagination employed that gives the measure of how interesting - and worthwhile - is a visit to faraway Easter Island.

Closer to the sky in the heart of Asia

After a vicious breakup I feel compelled to reach for the mountains and put my act together, heal the wounds through strenuous hiking while breathing thin, pure air.  Well, it was not exactly like that. The breakup was not nasty at all - not even dramatic - and the trekking in the Himalayas had already been planned. All the same, as I slowly make my way eastwards, long flights, long waits, I feel increasingly yearning to be on my own, in communion with myself, tiny and unimportant, surrounded by the immensity of Earth's highest peaks.


Bewildering impressions from my short break in Delhi, more modern and cleaner than the Delhi I experienced eight years earlier, are quickly left behind as I get in a Royal Air Nepal aircraft bound for Kathmandu, as I realize the so few Westerners and the so many Nepali and Indians taking their seats, surrounding me with their peculiar features, colors and flashing point-and-shoot cameras, recording their soon to start flight to the Mountain Kingdom, or simply home. For me, it is like regaining a lost feeling of bewilderment by the exotic, the mysterious, the assault on the senses that became ever harder to experience the more I traveled and saw. But for renovating the spirits, for an assault on the senses, there's always Asia to count on. And here I am in the heart of it.

And two weeks later... I find myself in a plane bound for Delhi.  Yes, the mountains are impressive, massive, solid, snow-capped, sometimes looking at us below, zealous, or simply indifferent, Pumari, Nuptse, Ana Dablan, standing as forever, oblivious to the movement of people, locals and tourists, the yaks, cows, asses and their cargo, all filling with life the numerous paths and passes that crisscross the Khumbu Valley. The scenery is breathtaking at times, changing from riverbed luxuriant vegetation to high altitude pines, bushes and flowers, then to barren land, where the only colors are the brown of the earth, the snow white of the mountains and the blue of the sky. Surrounded by beauty I was, but not simply a postcard, a slide landscape. It had to be attained, conquered after long and sometimes strenuous hours, trekking on rock and sand, going down 300, 400 meters, just to cross a river bridge and then go up again other 600, 700 meters, in a slow and never-ending pace towards the next village and night rest. The hard exercise, the submission to altitudes of over 5,000 meters were part of the plan, in my preparation of even higher altitudes in the Andes. They were welcome, they allowed me to be more conscious about my body, my physical strengths and limitations, and the power of my will to overcome exhaustion. And that's one of the appeals of a trekking or expedition. To know oneself better, to better oneself. The Himalayas fulfilled my purposes.

What a pity that the attack on the senses I yearned for was matched by an attack on my skin, caused by an underestimation of the effects of the sun at high altitude coupled with an allergic reaction to an antibiotic, resulting in skin burn on 2/3 of my body and an incredible swelling of my feet and hands, making me spend my first comeback days at a hospital in Bogota, needles, blood, serum, pills, bed, boredom. There was indeed a price to pay to be closer to the sky in the heart of Asia. Higher than I had anticipated, but nonetheless worth it! 

Beach

Is a text really necessary?

The sand, the sea

Los Roques, Venezuela 

The sea, the scenery

Fernando de Noronha, Brazil

Tragedy on the mountain

Tragedy on the second day. I slip while crossing a stream and fall in the water. I don't get hurt but my clothes are all wet and my camera, which was in my pant's pocket, and not in the inside pocket of my waterproof jacket, gets wet too. The pictures I'd already taken are saved in my iPad, as there was no damage to the SD card. But the camera is dead, kaput, no matter the patient exposure to the heat emanating from the gas burner, the pleas, the prayers.

Being in one of the most amazing places on Earth without a camera might be good cause for despair. But after some reflection, no alternatives left, better to consider a camera-less life as something in the realm of the possible. Better to turn a fatality into an inevitability then into something else. Maybe it could feel liberating, no more stoping here and there to try the best shot, not having to worry anymore if the battery and its spare, impossible to recharge in the mountain, will last enough to catch the final moments of the journey, the summit.

Oh, the summit! I could always ask someone there, in case there is someone there at the same time as I, to take a picture of me smiling or with an expression of total exhaustion beside the sign that testifies to my reaching Uhuru Peak, the highest point in all of Africa. I could try to impress on my mind the images I see, in order to preserve them until my lucid years are still a reality, not worrying about showing them to other people, posting on Facebook or the like.

In the course of such thoughts, suddenly I realize that I still have an iPhone with me, and, after checking its battery life - at a healthy 2/3 - I come to another conclusion: a camera-less journey to one of the most amazing places on Earth is not a possibility I'm prepared to consider, if I can avoid it. How the iPhone's 2 mb camera will fare under less than optimal light conditions and with no zoom, is something to be found out. Certainly no match to the 14 mb resolution and 14 optical zoom of my dead Canon. At least the dead camera might be replaced by a new one, as the salesman at BH Photo managed to convince me, for the first time ever, to purchase an additional warranty that covered accidents like the one I had. If only I can find the receipt when I get back home...

Anyways, not that much of a tragedy. Not as disappointing as not reaching the summit, even a summit without a camera or iPhone battery. The first moments without the camera proved hard. I keep looking around as if framing the shots. The iPhone camera is limited but its major drawback is the battery, that will decrease faster as the weather gets cooler. I have to refrain myself, waiting for more stunning images in the four days ahead. I can't help but think that maybe if there were no cam at all, I'd be less frustrated than by having it at hand but "unable" to use it, like having a chocolate bar on the table in front of you when you promised yourself that you, for once, would not skip the diet. Better not to have the chocolate bar at all. Still, I'm happy to have the iPhone as a second best. All the while, Mount Mawenzi with its crested snowy peak looks so close, and so majestic. The iPhone will have to do. But there's more to it. As it is slowly enveloped by clouds that look rather like a diaphanous veil, there's a magic that also embraces me and that no camera, no whatever its resolution, could really capture.

Lost but found but lost again but found but

I took someone else's suitcase by mistake when I arrived in Brazil in January. It was a first, after hundreds of flights. I had never seen a suitcase exactly like mine on the luggage belt before and I was about to miss my flight to Ribeirão Preto. Ok, I know it's unexcusable to grab someone elses's bag. Anyways, I open my suitcase when I'm already at my parent's home and think: why would the customs leave purses inside my suitcase when they checked its contents? Sort of a gift after the mess they made? Yes, it took me 5 seconds to realize the suitcase wasn't mine. And mine was waiting for me at the airport where the owner of the suitcase I took by mistake left it (he grabed my suitcase but being smarter than me, he figured the mistake before leaving the luggage area at the airport).
Ok, I cut short my visit to my parents and go back to São Paulo to switch suitcases. And the other suitcase's owners' pregnant wife had to wait one more day for the vitamins and purses that I prevented her from getting right away. How embarassing.
But how's that for a coincidence? When I arrive back in New York, no suitcase is waiting for me. I had decided to leave my jacket in the suitcase, meaning I had to walk outside horrible Delta's terminal in the freezing cold wearing only a short-sleeve shirt in order to reach the Air Train platform (no, I have no money for taxi rides out of the airport). I think: it's payback.
My suitcase arrives the next day.
Ok, it doesn't end here. I wouldn't be telling such a dull story if it did.
Days later, the guy I took the suitcase from when I traveled to Brazil calls me. I think to myself: ok, you deserve to withstand some bashing. He calls to tell me that when he arrived on Wednesday (one day after I did), he grabs his suitcase from the luggage belt, his wife says: "check if it's really yours, remember what happened!", he checks the tag: it was my suitcase, that arrived one day after I did. He ponders if he should take it or leave it at the belt. But the little angel spoke louder: he was not one to take revenge. The strangeness of the situation led him to call me and let me know what happened.
I then decided to invite him and his wife for a drink. After all, I have to make up for the confusion and... one never knows if this sort of coincidence happens for granted or if it's destiny's hand operating in mysterious ways. Anyways, if I don't post anything else in the coming months, maybe the guy was after revenge after all. Maybe his wife lost her baby because she didn't take her vitamins for one day, or maybe they had this huge fight that led them to break up, because her mother and her aunt were deeply disappointed at not getting the purses that, she thought, her husband gave someone else, like a mistress or something, or maybe the guy decided to rid the world of someone like me after he saw what was inside my suitcase...

Exotic Switzerland

A friend, upon learning I was abroad recently, asked if I've been somewhere exotic. I replied: - Yes, Switzerland.

It was my first time there and yes, it was one of the most exotic places I've been to.

Switzerland is an old city on a lake surrounded by mountains. It's the perfect fairy tale,

postcard destination. How's that for exotic?

And it's very rich, but not in an overly conspicuous way. Buildings are not grand and there are no gleaming skyscrapers. Wait a minute, if you are in a small city, waiting for the green light and see yourself surrounded by Ferraris and Bentleys, are you in a filthy rich place or what? Oops, filth is heresy in Switzerland.

Then there are the cows. Cows are a symbol of Switzerland. I saw many in souvenir shops, the small ones. No, one doesn't see live cows, the real deal, in the city. Switzerland is definitely not India. I saw a couple of them on a mountain, but I've heard there are many more. And they too are very rich. If what I've heard is correct, the government pays each cow the equivalent of what 40 Burundians or Liberians earn a year.

Sometimes, there are surprises in Switzerland. For instance, Geneva has its Brasília side. After seeing the communist architecture of some former Soviet capitals, I was not expecting to see myself in the middle of a typical "superquadra", with low and long buildings surrounding a huge green lawn, in Switzerland. But hey, Le Coubusier was Swiss, right? And Geneva has its Jeddah side, with so many veiled women and the jeddau, I mean, jet d'eau.

Back to filth. Or no filth. Although I've previously heard about it, I was impressed by how tidy everything is in anti-filth Switzerland (and as my Swiss experience was limited to the French part and Lucerne, I can only imagine how is the rest of the country). So different from the mess we find in New York or São Paulo. Even construction sites are organized and clean. Now tell me: how much more boring can it get? But if we get bored, there's something really cool to do: eat Swiss chocolates, they are indeed delicious. Or find a job at the United Nations or the Red Cross and help under-salaried Liberians or Burundians (just don't touch our cows!)

The most famous Brazilian in Central Asia was a slave

Uzbekistan, from all places, seems to be the destination of choice of retiring Brazilian soccer stars. World champion Rivaldo plays in Buniadkor, the team from Tashkent. Zico trained the team at some point.

But even more than Ronaldo and Ronaldinho and whatever "Rs" Uzbeks can come up with, it’s the Brazilian soap opera that really connects Brazil to Central Asia. There is a facination for us, exotic Brazilians.

When I was in India a few years ago, a Tajik classmate told me she loved Brazilian films. How the hell the Brazilian cinema reach Tajikistan, I wondered. Then she said she really enjoyed Isaura. She was referring to Escrava ("Slave") Isaura, a soap opera from the seventies that for some reason was a phenomenon in the communist world. Its main actress, Lucélia Santos, who played the white slave of the title, was (and still is) greeted as a star in all the former Soviet Republics, as well as in China and Cuba. Just two weeks before my arrival in Kazakhstan, there she was as the guest of honor of the Brazilian Film Festival in Astana. In Kyrgyzstan, a tour guide told me that the time in the evening when our soap operas played was the one favored by thieves, that would enter the houses and steal their bounty while the family kept their eyes glued to the screen.

The capitals of Central Asia (and of "Planalto Central")

Almaty, Bishkek, Tashkent, Brasília. Sister cities. Low, long buildings; solid, geometric structures; long, wide avenues; parks and trees galore; far from the sea. You’ve seen one: you’ve seen all. Well, not quite so. There are always surprises.

The luxuriously designed lounges in Almaty (design furniture, international cuisine, vodka, live singers, beauties dancing on the counter). Almaty, the "garden of apples", is the former capital.

The intimate scale of the greenest of them all, Bishkek, old Frunze, that manages to keep a human feeling to what would otherwise be a typically cold and gray Soviet capital.

An austere and earnest production of Gisele (or any other ballet or opera) at the Opera Theater in Tashkent, where old and young, rich and poor, virtually anyone can buy a ticket and be surrounded by the simple and sincere beauty of the spectacle and the building.

Brasília, where, well, you will find a lot of Brazilians.


Astana and Ashgabat are rather cousins of Brasília - not sisters, with their brand new (sometimes kitch) architecture.

Astana, the capital that is farthest from the Ocean, the second coldest capital in the world, the Dubai of the steppes. Astana, the city of gleaming skyscrapers, with barely a soul on the streets. Astana, the the capital built in an effort to occupy the Far North of Kazakhstan (a region closer to Russia). Economic crisis = unfinished megadevelopments, half-built concrete mammoths. But Astana is there to stay, to be loved or hated, to be envied or despised. And to become the future home to a few Brazilian diplomats (those particularly critical of Brasília might become more appreciative of it after being "really" far from the sea and out in the cold).

Ashgabat is the odd kid on the block, much like Turkmenistan, which doesn’t quite fit in the lot of Stans of Central Asia. What to make of it? An hybrid of Singapore and Dubai, the immaculately clean city is out of tune with the much poorer rest of the country. It lives in its own dimension, and proudly so. It’s the fruit of the design of Saparmurat Niyazov, or Turkmenbashi (“father of the Turkmen”), the first president of the country, who spared no effort to build a gleaming city that was devastated by an earthquake in 1948, leaving Nyazov’s mother and two siblings dead, along with other 150.000 people. It’s the white city, where all public and main buildings are covered by white marble. One would suspect Turkmenistan might have helped keeping the Italian and the Spanish trade deficits not too out of control simply by buying all that stone. Besides the white buildings, the monuments and statues stand out. And in this domain Turkmenbashi, the president that could be king, reigns absolutely. Though dead since 2006, he lives and shines in the many golden statues in Ashgabat and elsewhere in the country, together with the statues of his mother, father and infant brothers. The main statue, atop the Arc of Neutrality, sits on a mechanism that rotates it in a way that leaves Turkmenbashi always facing the sun. Other unusual sites in Ashgabat are the “walks of health”. When Turkmenbashi decided to stop smoking, he forbade smoking on the streets and built two long paths, one with 8 km and the other with 24 km. Going up the hills, with thousands of steps, they are illuminated and can be seen from different points of the city. Although one’s health might improve after completing the shortest path a few times a year, the effects of completing the longest one are yet unknown.

The current president seems to be slowly undoing some of the more controversial policies of Turkmenbashi. He allowed the use of internet; replaced the old currency (the old bills, no matter their denomination, carried the face of the first president); and restored the old names of the months of the year, which had been renamed by Turkmenbashi with the names of his parents and relatives. Still all public buildings, universities, aeroports carry the name of the first president.

Turkmenistan was my first experience of a country that still has very visible marks of a cult of personality. It's pure travel bliss, like being transported to another time or dimension.

Central Asia's pot - and a lesson on stereotypes

One of the best aspects of traveling abroad is the possibility of overcoming prejudices and stereotypes through a first hand contact with the places and people along the way; of being surprised by how the world is richer and more complex than previously expected. I was surprised, for instance, to know that the cap on the head of my driver-cum-guide-cum-travel companion in Kyrgyzstan wasn’t a kippah, but a taqiyah. I guess I was not expecting a blond, blue-eyed, Russian-named guy in Kyrgyzstan to be a Muslim, just because I’d never seen one before. It shows not only my ignorance but also the melting pot that is Central Asia.

Well, not exactly a melting pot, but a pot where many races live more or less side by side within the same borders, and not always in great harmony. Ethnic Kazakhs make up only half of the population of Kazakhstan, as do ethnic Kyrgyz in Kyrgyzstan. Although ethnic Tajiks are registed as Uzbeks in Uzbekistan, some claim that the first outnumber the latter in the country. Ethnic Russians can be found in all countries, especially in Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. Tajiks living outside Tajikistan outnumber those living in the country. In Uzbekistan, Turkmen, German, Ukrainian, Korean, Tatar, Uighur add to the mix. It’s a festival of faces and features that rival the different landscapes found in the region.

Dichotomies

The most common cliche about Istanbul must be the one on its many dichotomies. I would never pretend to know the city well, after being there only two times in a total of 10 days. But from a timid peek, one can already tell that it's a different place. Not in the "all places are different somehow" way, but in a "je ne sais quoi" way that is hard to explain. I might have been influenced by some readings, including the autobiographical piece by Orhan Pamuk, but it's not hard to realize that Istanbul doesn't easily fit in any category. The biggest cliche of them all: part-Europe, part-Asia, part-East, part-West. And the cliche stems not only from an abstraction but from the evident and unique geographical reality of the city, as one can swiftly pass from one continent to the other just by crossing the bridge on the Bosphorus.

As you walk down Istiklal Cadesi, with its 5-story buildings with ornate facades, you might have the feeling that you're in a European City. Still, it's not quite European. It is neither Asian or Middle Eastern as Damascus so evidently is. The avenues in the more affluent parts of the European side, like Beyoglu or Nisantasi, are not as orderly as in Vienna or Warsaw. Although they can be somewhat grandiose, sometimes there is also an ugliness - and the traffic jams - that is more reminiscent of Sao Paulo. Yet the overpowering energy of Sao Paulo is not there. It's easier to sense what Pamuk described as a feature of the city's people: their melancholy.

Like Buda and Pest on the Danube, the European and the Asiansides have their share of palaces built on the shores of the Bosphorus. Like Budapest, Istanbul has the magnificence of its past to show, but in the faded way of a great empire that ceased to be. Then there's the unmistakably Oriental flavor represented by the ever-present domes and minarets that dot Istanbul's skyline and make it unique in a way that no European city could be.

After talking to a few expats there, I learned Istanbul is one of these special, "love it" or "hate it" cities. This observation reminded me of Brasilia, a city that, like Istanbul, one cannot be indifferent to. Perhaps it would be more accurate to describe them as "love it and hate it". Yet, Istanbul is worlds apart from Brasília, not only for the richness of its history as for the apparently spontaneous urban development that one can't find in the planned and controled Brasília's layout.

Another dichotomy I could feel in Istanbul lay in the Turkish themselves. Eventhough they are very welcoming and friendly, they are quite reserved. Maybe traces of the melancholy Pamuk described?

All in all, its beauty and its ugliness living side by side, Istanbul is a magnetic, magnificent place to be.

Middle East again

Something keeps me coming back to the Middle East. I still didn't reflect upon it. I usually prefer to wait and let things sit or sink and then try to understand them emotionally rather than rationally. But let's stop the autopsychoanalysis!

There's something in the Middle East that really appeals to me. Many things, to say the truth. But these many things are easy to conjure: the delicious (and very inexpensive) food; people's hospitality; amazing historic and natural sights; people's good looks (uhmmm, is this a reason to travel? - as michelin guide raters would say, is it good in this category, is it excellent and worth a detour, or is it exceptional and worth the journey?) Here i come quibbling again.

But the explanation is in the "something".
Is it the thin line between openness and conservatism? Or between wealth and indigence? Is it just the appeal of a culture that is strange and familiar at the same time? Is it the magic that permeates the streets and houses, century-old places and customs, the aura that emanates from the cradle of our civilization and all the honey and blood spilled on so much sacred earth? Is it something in the way that people look at you that's both shy and curious, welcoming and suspicious, innocent and guilty?

Of course all these are somewhat romanticized blanket statements that don't do justice to all the different peoples and cultures and landscapes in the Middle East. Up to what point is Islam such a unifying force in that region? Islam itself has its divisions and contradictory messages. Some countries are much richer than others. Interestingly (or perhaps consequentially) countries that were not blessed with deep and vast oil wells seem to be the most beautiful. Like parties, poor people's ones usually more entertaining than rich people's feasts.

And talking about feasts, then there is the food! From the ubiquitous shawarma to the more elaborate stews and skewers. Some spices so familiar to me. Yet always some new discovery.

For a Brazilian like me, the Middle East is not an "in your face" different world like India or Southeast Asia. But it's neither an "oh, it's just the same" old boring Euroamerican environment. Maybe it's in the shades of grey. The appeal is perhaps in the mystery, in the rugged beauty that does not show itself effortlessly. Perhaps one must deserve it, in order to be allowed to comprehend the beauty of the place. I'm not talking about the superficial, easy to acknowledge beauty, but that one that reveals itself slowly, that demands you to lift the veil. This slow discovery has been worth so far. Every trip makes me thirstier. I can't answer. And I'll probably keep going for more.

Short Indian Dialogues

(1) 

- Hello, Sir.

- Hello.

- Are you Indian, Sir?

- No. 

- You look like Indian, Sir.

- Oh, I'm trying to. But tell me.

- Yes, Sir?

- Why did you start talking to me in English and not in Hindi and called me Sir?

- Uhmmm... (then he looks kind of lost, mutter a few words and disappears as soon as he realizes I'll not buy anything or follow him anywhere). 

(2)

- Hello, Sir.

- Hi.

- Are you Indian, Sir?

- Nope.

- Where are you from, Sir?

- I'm from Brazil. 

- B...?

- Brrrrazil.

- Oh, Ronaldo. 

- Yes, that's it. 

- You like cricket, Sir?

- Oh, yes, sure. But I don't understand the game very well.

- Uhmmm (followed by a stare that betrays his thinking that I must be from another planet)

(3)

- Hello, Sir.

- Hello.

- Where are you from, Sir?

- I'm from Brazil. 

- B... Where, Sir?

- Brrrrazil. 

- How you like India, Sir?

- I like it a lot. I'm almost becoming Indian myself. 

- Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you (followed by that typical Indian smile: blindingly white, sort of childish and undoubtedly sincere) 

More on flying - and falling

This site deserves a peek for its amazing videos of harsh landings on the world't most dangerous airports:

 http://www.otbeach.com/news/airlines-and-airports--1/top-10-most-dangerous-aircraft-l

andings-in-the-world--418.html

I haven't been in such a flight or really bad turbulence but it really looks fun. I guess I could call my bungee jump in Victoria Falls in June 2006 a flight though. No fuselage, just a rope attaching my ankles and a couple of seconds in free fall.

It's difficult to explain what I felt. I was in a Conference in Zambia, held at Sun Hotel in Livingstone, a walking distance to the Victoria Falls Park. It was also possible to visit the Zimbabwean side of the falls, crossing the border on foot. They have this bungee jump platform on a bridge over a stream beside the Falls. It's the second highest jump of this kind in the world, at 108 m from the river. And it would be my first try.

It was the day after the Conference ended and the organizers would have a bus take us from the hotel to the airport after lunch. If I really wanted to jump, I'd have to be among the first in line so as to have time to come back to the hotel and 

board the bus. I wake up early, walk to the bridge, a slight headache that got stronger as close as I got to the spot, questioning myself if I'd have the guts to jump. I arrive, pay the fee, watch a video with instructions and information, sign a form releasing the company of responsability if I died or suffered injury, go to the platform, my blood pressure falls, a towel and a rope are attached to my ankles and waistline, I start sweating, a line forms behind me for the jump, a dilemma becomes unbearable: if I don't jump, I'll feel so embarassed, such a coward, that I'll never forgive myself; but I apparently can't muster the courage and bring my body to obey me. I approach the tip of the platform, feel the wind and the emptiness that surround me. I can't resist doing what I should not: looking down. Then I tell the guy responsible for the jump:

- I can't do it. I can't.

- Yes, of course you can, he replies.

- No, I can't.

- Oh, c'mon, you can.

- Ok, but you'll have to push me.

- Ok, I'll count to 5 and push you. 1... 2... 3...

And he pushes me. It was such a gentle push but enough to make me lose ground. I not only was caught by surprise, I obviously had no strength left in my legs. Absolute despair (see the picture). And then one of the weirdest sensations invades me: the certainty of death. I remember thinking that all was gone and nothing else was important. I thought of my mother. I guess I didn't have time for my whole life story, things done, things not accomplished, to flash before my eyes. I also felt a deep sense of freedom, of liberation perhaps. Until I reach the bottom point and get pushed up to the half of the height by the rope's tension and realize I could still enjoy the rest of my jump, dropping 3 more times and I could still enjoy life. And then as soon as I'm lifted 

back to the platform, I feel this urge to jump again. Unfortunately I had to rush back to the hotel.

Time has passed and I probably lost a lot of the courage I 

mustered just after the jump. But I still look forward for the highest jump worldwide, which happens to be, at 216 m, twice as high (that's Bloukrans Bridge, in South Africa)

By the way, I'd highly recommend visiting Victoria Falls and staying for a few days in one of the hotels in the vicinity. Besides the sheer size and wonder of the Falls and the surrounding forest, the view of River Zambezi at sunset, as elephants and other animals cross it, and an orange light pervades the sky before a quasi-total black sets in, are well worth the trip. Even more so if you happen to be in the hotel's restaurant, facing the river and sipping wine while this nature wonder unfolds.