(These are, in red, the 40 countries of the five continents, involved in my 40 risky adventures)


Blessed be they who have chosen the Way of the Tourist, because they will peacefully visit interesting foreign countries carrying with them an airplane round trip ticket home, bookings in a comfortable hotel with 3 meals a day, programed excursions with local guides, an insurance policy, and will increase their points count in the rankings of the virtual travel clubs.

But woe to those who have chosen the Way of the Traveler! for they will only buy a one-way ticket to a remote destination and will never know when they will be returning home. They will throw themselves into the world, into the unknown, and will set out on the journey without any hotel bookings, without guides, and without tourists’ excursions. Improvisation and constant unforeseen exciting adventures will be the daily bread of those who have chosen the Way of the Traveler, although, in compensation, they will have a direct understanding of the world as well as unique human experiences that will elevate their souls.


Since I was a boy I aspired to become a connoisseur of the planet Earth, and in order to fulfill that purpose I had to explore all the inhabited corners; I wanted to admire the ingenuity of the people, to contact the wise men older than me to learn from their experience about this world in which I was born.

Not all of these 40 incursions listed below were deadly dangerous, since from the large majority of them I escaped without negative consequences, but it could have been worse. I recognize that I was lucky most of the times.

In several occasions I paid my boldness with jail, for instance in Afghanistan for having reached Kandahar without Afghan visa, or in Batumi, when the Georgian authorities discovered that I had been in Abkhazia and treated me with cruelty.

Except these two occasions, I do not want to describe some unpleasant situations that I survived only after paying a high price, among them being imprisoned one week in Asuncion, Paraguay, for having entered the country through a dubious entry point frequented by Argentinians smugglers; when I was robbed of all my possessions in downtown Johannesburg (South Africa) after been beaten on the floor by three young Africans; or when carefully avoiding thousands of landmines, kilometer after kilometer, in my long journey by trucks through the roads in northern Mozambique, until Tanzania, just a few months after the end of the Civil War. Finally, in Mount Tai (Ivory Coast) I contracted malaria and had to be urgently hospitalized several days.

Sometimes I have been asked: Why that strong desire taking risks to penetrate in dangerous and even forbidden places?

My first answer is: because they exist. Then I explain about the necessity of man to learn about all that surrounds him, to understand the world. It is something innate; you see a mountain and wish to know what is behind; you want to know who lives beyond the seas, it is our nature, it is even the libido that prompted our ancestors to quit the caves where they lived and launch themselves to discover the world and improve their living conditions.

I only recently carry photo camera, which is why several of the pictures shown here have been kindly provided to me by the travelers Artur Anuszewski (Poland), and the spaniards: Carlos Useros, Juan Pons and Sabino Antuña.

After this long prolegomenon, I list below the 40 conflictive places (by chronological order):


1 – (Year 1982). Traveling disguised as a Uyghur from Urumqi to mythical Kashgar (Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region) via Korla, Kucha and Aksu, in the times when it was forbidden for the foreigners.

2 – (Year 1982). Across Sulu archipelago on boats and vintas, from Zamboanga to Borneo, via Jolo Island.

3 – (Year 1984). Escape from the war in El Salvador, to Honduras and sandinista Nicaragua, after many military controls with the young soldiers pointing and touching my chest and forehead with their rifles.

4 – (Year 1986). Amazonas. Up the Vaupes River on canoes, from Sao Gabriel da Cachoeira (Brazil) to Mitu (Colombia), and further to Villavicencio across leper villages, gold seekers, guerrilleros and Tukano Indians.

5 – (Year 1986). Captured by FARC guerrilleros at the sources of the Magdalena River.

6 – (Year 1986). Up the Huallaga River in wild settlements where all the locals were armed with automatic rifles, in Sión, Tocache, Tingo María.

7 – (Year 1986). With the gold seekers in Indian territory in Madre de Dios.

8 – (Year 1989). Battlefront of Jalalabad in Soviet Union times.

9 – (Year 1989). Through Elephant Pass to Jaffna outwitting the Indian Peacekeeping Forces.

10 – (Year 1989). Crossing from the Kingdom of Mustang to Tibet through the Kore Pass for the first time by a foreigner in History by a foreigner.

11 – (Year 1989). Aksai Chin plus Jammu and Kashmir. Long trekking across Ladakh and Zanskar, at the border of the disputed Aksai Chin territory with Indian, Pakistan and Chinese military controls.

12 – (Year 1989). Baluchistan, from Quetta to Kandahar, via Chaman.

13 – (Year 1990). Penetrating 3 days and 3 nights in the forbidden Vladivostok during Perestroika times.

14 – (Year 1991). On rebel Bougainville Island, meeting with Bougainville Revolutionary Army (BRA) leader Sam Kauona.

15 – (Year 1992). On Trans-Saharan trails, from Tamanrasset to Gao in trucks, and further to Timbuktu through the Niger River.

16 – (Year 1992). Overland across Biafra. From Lagos to Calabar and Cameroon, via Port Harcourt.

17 – (Year 1993). Crossing Darfur in trucks, From Khartoum to Ndjamena.

18 – (Year 1996). Surreptitious intrusion in Panjakent (Tajikistan), from Samarkand, in civil war times.

19 – (Year 1997). Exit from Pyongyang (North Korea) by train to Dandong (China) through the conflictive Sino-North Korean Friendship Bridge over the River Yalu.

20 – (Year 2001). Hazardous adventures in Liberia and Sierra Leona in prewar times.

21 – (Year 2001). Bombings in Baghdad during Saddam Hussein times.

22 – (Year 2003). From Bangui (Central African Republic) to Moundou, south of Chad, via Cameroon, avoiding bandits.

23 – (Year 2003). Surreptitious incursion to Berbera, from Hargeisa, in Somaliland.

24 – (Year 2004). Magical encounter with the elusive Jarawa indigenous people on the island of Baratang, in Andaman and Nicobar Islands.

25 – (Year 2005). Wild adventures in the restricted and disputed Kuril Islands.

26 – (Year 2006). Risky incursions in the forbidden Indian states of Mizoram, Manipur, Nagaland and Arunachal Pradesh, without the restricted area permit.

27 – (Year 2006). From Derbent (Dagestan Republic) to Abkhazia, via the destroyed and forbidden Grozny, in Chechnya.

28 – (Year 2007). RASD (Sahrawi free territory controlled by the POLISARIO) from Tindouf in the company of the traveler Charles Veley.

29 – (Year 2007). Penetration in the forbidden Tskhinvali (South Ossetia) through Gori, outwitting the Georgian, Russian and United Nations military controls.

30 – (Year 2007). In “hot” places of Nagorno-Karabakh during the Armenia – Azerbaijan war.

31 – (Year 2007). In the forbidden Ma’rib, coming from the Hadhramaut Valley, Yemen.

32 – (Year 2008). 1 month in restricted Chukotka living with the Chukchi people, before crossing the Bering Strait to Alaska through Diomede Islands without USA visa.

33 – (Year 2008). The Darien Jungle. Overland, walking and in canoes, via San Blas Islands to Turbo in Colombia.

34 – (Year 2009). Three days in the ghost country of Transnistria.

35 – (Year 2009). Up to the restricted military base of Tiksi in the Arctic, sheltering the Tupolev-TU-95 bombers, through the Lena River, plus the Road of Bones from Yakutsk to Magadan.

36 – (Year 2010). Harmless excursions with Military Historical Tours, of Washington D. C., in the company of veterans of war from Japan and USA, to two most dangerous places during WWII: Wake and Midway, that today shelter US Army bases.

37 – (Year 2012). Expedition in the Myanmar bellicose states of Rakhine and Chin two months before the riots and massacres between Buddhists and Muslims, in the company of the traveler Jeff Shea.

38 – (Year 2014). With the Yazidis in Lalish (Iraqi Kurdistan Region) before being almost exterminated and enslaved.

39 – (Year 2014). Conflicts with the Serbian soldiers for having crossed on foot the border of Kosovska Mitrovica, protected by war tanks with armed UN Italian soldiers.

40 – (Year 2017). Republic of Donetsk from Rostov on Don.




After having spent three days in exotic Turpan, with the majority of the population being Uyghur, I found Urumqi too Chinese. That is why I immediately projected a journey to the legendary Kashgar, which, every Uighur told me, is the most precious town in Xinjiang.

I (on the right) was disguised as a Uyghur

In those times, Kashgar was a forbidden city for foreigners, like Lhasa and the Island of Hainan. Therefore I bought Uighur clothes and the next day I acquired a ticket by bus to Kashgar. There were some military controls in the main stops, Korla, Kucha and Aksu cities, but they were not too severe and nobody noticed that I was a European.

I chose the Uyghur canteens to eat and drink chai

During the nights, all the passengers slept in subterranean dormitories, like dungeons, that were locked until the morning.

I liked the journey; I saw the Tian Shan Mountains and crossed the Taklamakan Desert. I felt that I was following the steps of Marco Polo along the Silk Road.

Finally, the fifth day on the bus I reached the fabulous city of Kashgar.


The great mosque in Kashgar

I did not want to sleep in a hotel for fear to be discovered, and instead I chose a kind of caravanserai. In the daytime I strolled around the narrow streets, near the Great Mosque, and ate the typical kebabs with aromatic tea and fruits in the bazaars. I was lucky to be during the weekly camel market.

But the second day a soldier came to the caravanserai. I had been betrayed by the owner.

During the interrogation I showed to the Police the separate Immigration permit where there were noted all the cities that I was allowed to visit within China, like Turpan and Urumqi, but no Kashgar.

I apologized to have traveled to Kashgar, and said that my intention was to cross to Lhasa, in Tibet, what actually was true. I was 28 years old, and that situation was my first real international “adventure”; I had traveled to Kashgar for the exoticism of the name, and resolved to decide in situ where to travel next, either to Lhasa, or to Pakistan through the Khunjerab Pass, or to Kyrgyzstan, or to Afghanistan… I was traveling to know in depth the planet Earth, the people inhabiting it, and wanted to have enriching experiences to develop myself and to feed my soul.

The Police treated me very kindly. They sent me to the Officers Headquarters and offered me an individual room. In the evenings I was invited to the dinner room, in the company of captains, lieutenants and generals.

In the morning I was free to walk around by my passport was kept by the Police.

After one week they received instructions from Urumqi regarding what to do with me. The order was to send me back to Urumqi, by bus, accompanied by a soldier who will keep my passport.

The fifth day we reached Urumqi where my name and other passport details were registered in the Police, and then, perhaps after one hour, I was given my passport back and released without consequences!

Uyghur people




The Philippines are composed by more than 7.000 islands. If you want to see them all at a rate of 1 island per day, you will need 20 years of your life. In the present journey across Sulu I managed to disembark in no less than 10 islands.

I was in Manila ready to leave the Philippines after discovering the country for over 2 months. Now, my next destination was Indonesia, but an airplane ticket to Jakarta was expensive and I was short of money. Furthermore, I avoid flying as much as possible, so I planned to reach Indonesia overland and oversea, via Singapore.

Then I consulted a map and noticed many tiny islands in the south of Philippines from where I could reach Borneo travelling across them like a ping pong ball.

When I told of my plans to my Pilipino friends in Manila, they all were against that journey and said that it was too dangerous to cross the Sulu archipelago, because they, being from Philippines, would never risk because of the fighting with the guerrilleros, plus the pirates and the possibility to be kidnapped.

But I did not listen and with great determination I bought a cheap ticket in an overcrowded boat from Manila to Zamboanga, which took one and a half days to arrive there. In the port I read in clear Spanish language the following welcome sign: BIENVENIDOS A ZAMBOANGA. (In Zamboanga and Basilan, people speak a language called chabacano, which 90% of its vocabulary is Spanish, and Tagalog contains about 40% of Spanish words). From Zamboanga I continued by boat to Basilan two days later, and soon I navigated to Jolo.

Playing chess with some passengers on board I made acquaintance with a Badjao, or sea gypsy, who lived in Jolo, and he gave me the name of one of his uncles in his village, called Sitangkai, near Borneo Island. His family name was the same than my mother’s (practically all the Filipinos have Spanish family names) and because of that he considered me a faraway relative. He told me that Jolo and Tawitawi were dangerous islands, even for Pilipinos. In those places friendship is more valuable than money.

In vintas like these ones I traveled from Zamboanga to Borneo Island

Jolo is a rebel island. It was never completely conquered, nor by the Spaniards, or by the Japanese, or by the Americans, or presently by the Filipino Government.

During the days that I spent in Jolo I did not venture to go much further than the port, because in that area are hidden the guerrilleros of the Moro Liberation Front, or muslim warriors who constantly fight against the Pilipino Government.

The Joloans are notorious for assaulting, robbing, kidnapping and even killing the passengers of the ships that they board in those waters.

After Jolo and a stay of several days in Tawitawi I reached Sitangkai, called the Venice of the Philippines because its main “street” is a sea entrance in the island.

In the badjao villages, such as Sitangkai, you have to make friends; otherwise there are no hotels, lodges or something of the kind except the meeting hut where local people gather regularly to discuss common matters.

People in Sitangkai used small sailing boats (called vintas) to travel. I witnessed a wedding between two boys; he has 14 years old and the fiancé just 13. They put me the better chair in front of the ceremony. For them it was an honor to have a European as guest. After the ceremony we all ate fish. I noted that they eat the meat of the fish face and even the small white ball inside the eyes, or the iris.

Sitangkai is the Venice of the Philippines

During my stay in Sitangkai I saw two women fighting because one had “robbed” the husband to the other.

People lived in palafitos with wooden pillars and palm leaves, and were mainly fishermen. The Badjaos are sea gypsies but not thieves, as the Joloans pirates are. Badjaos are peaceful people.

You will always eat monotonously fish with rice, or rice with fish, plus fruits (coconuts, bananas, Davao fruit, etc.), and if you are lucky you might find chicken sometimes. In the nights it is very popular to eat “balut”, or a gigantic egg.

Dogs are also eaten in the South of Philippines.

I waited in Sitangkai 5 days until there was not moon and therefore no light, in order not to be discovered by the Pilipino or Malaysian, or Indonesian patrol motor boats.

On board my last “vintas” there were pregnant women and many young boys.

Heading to Borneo Island I saw “villages” not far from Sitangkai, completely in the sea, without land, like “floating” in the nothingness.

To cross about 100 kilometers it took us one day and two nights. The first day we stopped to sleep in an islet called Panguan, the last Philippines possession. Sometimes on the floor of the boat appeared water and we all had to help emptying it with the help of buckets and even cups and dishes, or the engine did not work and the men were forced to paddle. In the “vintas” you do not sleep, just remove water from the boat, pad, or help the sick women on board.

Before arriving to Borneo we were detained by the Pilipino patrol soldiers. The “captain” of our boat spoke with the officials affirming that his trip was specially organized to transport a foreigner to Borneo, that is, me. Then I was called, given that for them it was completely unusual to find a European in those conditions. After exchanging jokes with the officials and drinking coffee with them, we were allowed to proceed further ahead.

Reaching Borneo we disembarked around midnight near a remote village to where we had to swim the last 100 meters. Once on the beach many disappeared in the darkness, and I was invited to sleep in a huge hut besides the beach together with some of the “passengers”.

Next day I walked for about two hours until a village called Bakapit where there was a paved road and took a bus to Lahad Datu, in the civilization. From there I continued by buses to Sandakan and Kota Kinabalu. In Labuan Island the immigration officers were surprised to see my passport without the stamp in Sabah State, Malaysia. After consulting with Sandakan I was allowed to continue by boat to Brunei, then, a few days later, I proceeded to Sarawak State, and finally I took a cargo ship in Kuching until Johor Baharu, in continental Malaysia, in front of Singapore.



I was in the patio of a hostel in San Salvador on 16th March 1984. There was curfew outside, so we, all the customers and owners were talking, drinking coffee and listening to the radio. Suddenly they informed that John Hoagland, a well known and respected photojournalist and war correspondent working for Newsweek, in San Diego, had just been killed by the guerrilas not far from San Salvador.

Welcome to El Salvador

Then I decided to quit El Salvador the next day by bus to Honduras. I sensed that the war situation was going to get worse in the coming days.

But I would not arrive very far the next day, because of the continuous military controls of the soldiers. In the last check point at the entrance of San Miguel I was interrogated by a young soldier. I though that he was going to shoot at me. He did not believe me when I said that I was from Spain, therefore a neutral foreigner. His index finger was on the trigger of his rifle, pointing at my chest first, then at my forehead. He was very nervous, even more than me.

The Divino Salvador is the symbol of San Salvador. My hostel was just in front

Finally I entered Nicaragua

At the border, the Nicaraguan agents asked me if I was a contra or an internacionalista, and I replied that I was an internacionalista. They were pleased and let me go in. They did not ask me money, while in El Salvador asked me a few US Dollars but I refused.

The social situation and war atmosphere in Nicaragua was not better than in El Salvador; there were soldiers and checkpoints in every corner, the communist Daniel Ortega had just won the elections, there was black market and everybody was looking for US Dollars.

Arriba los pobres del mundo, says Daniel Ortega in the poster, but he has robbed so much to the poor people of Nicaragua that now he is immensely rich

I first visited León, and then in Managua I resolved to travel to Isla del Maíz (Corn Island) overland via Rama, by buses and boats, never flying, like the real traveler

The journey from Managua to Corn Island (Isla del Maíz) was very exciting.

The first day I could only reach Rama, in the jungle, where I spent the night in a hut invited by the locals. Then the next morning I boarded a boat along the Río Escondido in a lovely navigation, until Bluefields, and there I waited several days for a boat to Corn Island.

Bluefields reminded me Livingston, in Guatemala. There live mostly African descendants, Miskitos and Chinese people. They use mainly English but everybody also speaks Spanish. The boat to Corn Island (about 80 kilometers away) took about 5 hours to reach its destination, and we, a couple of Danish internacionalistas and me, had very bad time owing to the rough waters. In Corn Islands I found a bungalow to sleep. The inhabitants were selling coral souvenirs, bracelets, and lobsters at a very cheap price. I forgot about the war atmosphere that I had lived for two months since I left Mexico, and rested as an authentic tourist in that island/paradise during a whole week.





My journey from Belem (Pará, Brazil) to Bogotá (Colombia) would take me 3 months of time. First I traveled in a boat to Manaus and spent several days visiting it. I wanted to continue to Venezuela or Colombia. Then I was informed that I would not comply with the entry requirements for Venezuela, so I headed to Colombia using boats along the rivers.

I left Manaus by boat and stopped for a few days in Barcelos, then proceeded to Santa Isabel do Rio Negro, and finally spent one week in beautiful Sao Gabriel da Cachoeira (Cachoeira means waterfall in Portuguese). My objective now was the small town of Mitú, in Colombia, but it was not easy to get there. Only after drinking several bottles of cachaça with a Greek garimpeiro (gold seeker) who owned a motorboat, and beating him in an exciting chess game, he agreed to take us (I made friendship with four travelers to share the expenses, two from Germany, one from Argentina and one from Mexico) until the border with Colombia in a dangerous journey across garimpeiros settlements without law that would last ten days, sleeping in villages inhabited by leprous and eating piranhas and coconuts. In some villages we were the first Europeans that the Tukano Indians had seen in their life. They looked at us with naïve curiosity and touched our body, arms and the hair of our chest. At the border there were neither military controls, nor FUNAI (Fundação Nacional do Índio) agents, nor garimpeiros, so we paid to the Greek and crossed the River until a village called Yavaraté, in the Colombian Indian Reserve of Vaupes.

Yavaraté was populated by ten families of Indians Guanano, a few soldiers and a kind of superintendent or Corregidor, el Señor Luis, a real gentleman who gave us hospitality during three weeks until we were sent to Mitú by a small airplane to report our illegal presence with the DAS (Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad).

The view in that plane was overtaking; the jungle appeared beneath us as a giant green carpet.

In Mitú, the verdict was: Deportation. We were embarked to Villavicencio first, then to Bogotá, and given a period of ten days to leave Colombia.



In my way from Bogota to Ecuador I decided to stop for a few days in San Agustín Archaeological Park to visit amazing religious monuments of the Pre-Columbian era that today constitute a UNESCO World Heritage Site.

I spent 3 days visiting around those mysterious megalithic statues. Then, In the Tourist Office, I was advised to make a trekking to the sources of the Magdalena River to enjoy the nature of Colombia. I was told that the path was well marked and I would find accommodation along the several small settlements scattered, until the village of Valencia.

I was joined by five Europeans backpackers. We slept in a farm. In the middle of the night some Colombians arrived.

MAGDALENA RIVER. Early in the morning we saw several young Colombians from 18 to 20 years of age, who said that they were guerrilleros of the FARC (Fuerzas Armadas Revolucionarias Colombianas) and showed us their revolvers. They asked us our passports and when they read our nationalities (one Swedish, two Swiss, one German, the only girl was Norwegian, and me) called us “capitalists”. They requested our money, sleeping bags, cameras, watches, etc. I was not robbed at all (I had nothing valuable to be stolen from), what looked suspicious to the foreigners. I made the mediator because nobody of them spoke Spanish, and convinced the chief of the guerrilleros, Victor, a young idealist who was studying Russian language, to let us continue our journey given that we were just harmless travellers.

We walked across the jungle together until Valencia. We, all the foreigners, feared that they would kidnap us.

Once in Valencia we were interrogated but released afterwards. The five tourists headed north, and I took a bus to Popayan and two days later I traveled to Ecuador.

(Some years later I met Victor in Moscow, and presently he lives in Kharkov and has formed a family with a Ukrainian beauty).

Religious monuments and megalithic sculptures of San Agustin Archaeological Park



Entering Peru, from Ecuador, it was my wish to attain the Machu Picchu following part of the 40.000 kilometers of roads of the Old Inca Trail through the Andes uniting the Incan Empire, called in quechuan Tawantinsuyo, or Tahuantinsuyu, which means Four Regions (from Ecuador to Chile and Argentina, and from the Brazilian jungles to the Ocean).

I stopped in Cajamarca, where Atahualpa, the last Inca King, was sentenced to death by Pizarro for having ordered the murder of his half-brother (and also Inca King) Huascar and all the members of his family. Then I spent one night in Kuelap, which was the first Inca fortress that I visited. Via Chachapoyas, Moyobamba and Tarapoto I arrived to Juanjui. In order to continue further, to Tingo Maria, I had to travel by motorboat along the Huallaga River via Sión. I was advised not to go there because in Sión there was no law. But it was too late to back down.


HUALLAGA RIVER. In Sion there was no law, no policemen, and no priests. Every day landed two small airplanes from Colombia to buy crude extract of the coca leaf. I was inquired for the purpose of my visit and explained that I was broken, in transit to Machu Picchu. Then I was offered a job as a waiter serving beers and chicha in a night club with twenty young girls practicing the oldest feminine profession.

I needed money and would have been suspicious if I refused; therefore I accepted the job and would work there during a whole month. The customers were workers who picked up leaves of coca. I was given a revolver caliber 38 for my self-defense, because every night they were shoots, and in the morning, in the only street, laid several cadavers that were thrown to the river. I always slept with the revolver under my pillow. One of the girls, nicknamed China, came to see me one morning, and crying said that the Colombians wanted to kill me that evening because they suspected me as being a DEA agent. I thanked her, drank the tears from her face, returned my revolver, cashed my salary and left to Tingo Maria.

When I left lawless Sión and arrived to Tingo María, I felt safe



MADRE DE DIOS. I arrived to Cusco via Tingo Maria, Jauja, Huancayo and Ayacucho, but instead of heading directly to Machu Picchu I boarded a truck to Puerto Maldonado, in Madre de Dios, near Bolivia, to work as a garimpeiro because I needed money for my travel plans in South America. I was accepted at once in a camp in Colorado, near the Manu National Park, were supposedly is hidden the legendary city of Paititi, searched by the English colonel Percy Fawcett and his son, who in 1925 disappeared in the jungle.

I worked as a “cascajero” removing the stones from a wooden box called “tolba”. The work was hard but well-paying in grams of gold every day. The worst were the thousands of mosquitoes. Some of my companions explained me that some patrons killed with a machete their employees while sleeping in their hammocks, to rob their gold. After hearing this I resolved to quit my job. Now, with all the grams of gold that I earned in one month of work I was ready to visit the Machu Picchu.

 After many hardships I could make on foot the Sendero del Inca until Machu Picchu



Being in Peshawar, I tried to enter Jalalabad in order to learn from the human behavior in times of the social cancer of war. However, in spite of wearing a turban, wide afghan trousers, and having not shaved for one month, I was discovered in Torkham, just after passing some kilometers the border into Afghanistan, controlled by the Pakistani.

The Pakistani border officials forced me to back down to Peshawar, escorted by two soldiers, until the Khyber Pass. But I was “un enfant terrible” those days and determined to try a second attempt, this time from the wild Kafiristan.

That long journey until the Pakistani post of Arandu, in the border with Afghanistan, mainly on foot, in winter, sharing for a time in the Bumburet Valley the form of living of the Kafir Kalash (believed to be the descendants of Alexander of Macedonia), visiting the fabled towns of Dir and Chitral, admiring the splendid Tirich Mir peak, crossing on foot the treacherous Lowari Pass of the Hindu Kush, eating only some raisins along the way, “drinking” snow, sleeping in caravanserais crammed with contrabandists and Pathan bandits, and outwitting the Pakistani border posts was, indeed, a very risky one.

Here below are some abbreviated impressions of my second entry in Afghanistan and the week that I spent with the mujahideen, as I wrote in my diary:

First Day, 5th January 1989, Thursday. ARANDU – NARAY.

I left charming Chitral early in the morning and crossed on foot the bridge over the Kunar River and the international Durand Line, thus entering the Kunar province of Afghanistan. The Afghan border was protected by mujahideen carryings Kalashnikov AK 47. I met their “commandant” and offered him my Swiss knife as a present to allow me to enter Afghanistan. Then he explained me before a map:

- “Look! This is the present situation. After eleven years fighting we are about to win the war. Now our battlefront is located at the gates of Jalalabad, where you are heading. All Afghanistan is controlled by the mujahideen except Kabul, Herat, Kandahar, Mazar-i-Sharif and some small enclaves in the corridor of Waham, in the Pamir. But the communists only dominate the cities! The rest of the country is owned by the mujahideen!”.

I walked until Naray where another mujahidin group invited me to have dinner consisting on rice plus a bread called naan. Suddenly all shot joyfully their Kalashnikov and laughed. I asked the reason and was informed that they had listened in the BBC of London, transmitting in Pashto, that the Russians would leave Afghanistan on 15th February that year 1989.

Second Day, 6th January 1989, Friday. ASMAR. That day, in my way to Asmar, I observed the miseries of the war: corpses everywhere with signs of having been pilfered the boots and other possessions, houses bombed, villages razed, women and children fleeing to Pakistan, etc. I will always remember that second day because I saw coming in my direction an armed old man together with a beautiful young girl with lovely green eyes and sensual long black hair, also carrying a rifle. I continued gazing at her and, when we crossed, I turned back and continued staring at her for her unusual appearance in that situation. Then, the man with her also turned his back and directed his rifle towards me. In that same moment one of the mujahideen accompanying me, caught me violently from my shoulders turning me in the frontal direction and yelled me:

-“Are you crazy? Never put you at the back of an armed man! Fearing to be killed, he will fire at you first. You are very lucky that he did not!”

Third Day, 7th January 1989, Saturday. ASADABAD.

Asadabad was a guerrilla stronghold with mujahideen belonging to fifteen different parties fighting against the Communist Government and, sometimes, fighting among themselves. The town was a festival; there were buzkashi games (two groups of horsemen disputing a lamb) and lots of food. I was introduced to the leader of a minor party who promised to send me in a lorry until Kuz Kunar, in Nangarhar province, the gate of Jalalabad. There was a contest to shoot to some caricatures on cardboard representing Russian soldiers. When somebody hit the target, shouted: “One Russian less, ha-ha!” And everybody laughed, except me. I have family in Siberia, and moreover I felt sorrow for the human being situation. The mujahideen were born in one part of the planet by chance, and the Russians in another part of the same little planet, also by chance, and now they were killing each other. I was sad.

Fourth Day, 8th January 1989, Sunday. DONA’I. After breakfast I was called to embark in an old Russian lorry “Kamaz” going to the front of war, together with legions of mujahideen. Most of them walked. Having a truck was a privilege of the mujahideen parties receiving help from the Western countries or from the Wahhabis of Saudi Arabia. I was not immediately accepted in Nurgal. A Hafiz, who was a kind of spiritual mullah directing the prayers (Hafiz is the one who has completely memorized the Koran), suspected of me as being a KGB agent. Then a mujahid started to talk to me in Russian employing elementary phrases, the type of “kak delo tovarish, vse v poriadke?”, but I answered in English that I did not understand. When the nice mujahideen brought me straw to lie comfortably on the floor of the ruins of the building where we all lived, or gave me a candle to write my diary when it became dark, or chai with “naan” for the dinner, the Hafiz observed disapproving it.

Fifth Day, 9th January 1989, Monday. KUZ KUNAR. After the first muslim prayer I was asked: “This is the moment of the truth, engris (all the Europeans are called Engris in Afghanistan), do you come to the war?”

Finally I reached the gate of Jalalabad and could even see the city at the distance. Mujahidin took positions and started to shoot. After the dinner suddenly we heard noise of engines. There were the Russian airplanes flying twice daily from Tashkent to bomb the mujahideen mountainous places for one hour each time. We hid in subterranean holes and tunnels forming labyrinths in the mountains. Every bomb impact blew up several houses. Even in the tunnels the earth trembled around us at every blast and parts of earth fell on our heads. The mujahideen prayed in Pashto: “Kher Allah!”. For me that was more than enough, and I gave up my plan to travel to Jalalabad city.

Sixth Day, 10th January 1989, Tuesday. KUZ KUNAR. The schedule of the war was as follows:

- 5 AM: Wake up. Toilet. First muslim prayer

- 6 AM: Chai and naan

- 7 AM: Russian Good Morning: one hour of bombs

- 8 AM: Shooting in the front

- 12 AM: Break for the second muslim prayer. Chai and naan

- 13 PM: Renewal of hostilities, missiles SCUD and grenades throwing

- 15 PM: Break for the third muslim prayer

- 16 PM: Clash intensification, bazookas and machine guns

- 17 PM: Pause for the fourth prayer

- 18 PM: End of the war journey. Chai and naan

- 19 PM: Russian Good Night: one hour of bombs

- 20 PM: Fifth muslim prayer. BBC news

- 21 PM: Toilet. Sleep

Seventh Day, 11th January 1989, Wednesday. PAKISTAN REFUGEE CAMP. That morning I left Afghan Kunar province to Pakistan surreptitiously together with many prisoners. Some of them asked me socks for their bleeding feet. There were all Afghanis; Russians prisoners were decapitated on the spot (most of the mujahideen used Russian belts that they wore with the communist star of the buckle put down). In our way up the mountains bordering Pakistan there were many women and children heading to the Refugee Camp in Pakistan. In the way down came often many donkeys carrying enormous howitzers, heavy shells and other weapons. Of course, they had preference and we (refugees, prisoners and me) had to let them pass first through the narrow, winding and dangerous paths. That evening I entered Pakistan and slept with the refugees, the next day I reached Peshawar, and some weeks later I travelled to India.




JAFFNA: It was not easy to get into Jaffna in the year 1989. The Peace Indians Keeping Forces were still in Sri Lanka and controlled all the strategic places, like Jaffna and Trincomalee. There were checking points on the road in the way to the north, Elephant Pass, and further to Jaffna. I was discovering the Buddhist people of Sri Lanka visiting their holy places, but felt that I could not yet leave the country until I could access to the places where lived the Tamils, in an area called Tamil Eelam, with its capital in Jaffna, city controlled by LTTE (Liberation Tigers Tamil Eelam), Muslim guerilleros opposing the Buddhist Government of Sri Lanka.

I tried to cross the Elephant Pass undetected, with success at the beginning. In the last check point there was a gurkha who discovered me, but he must have been a rookie soldier because, noticing that I was an European, smiled at me and let me proceed further, to Jaffna!

I had been very lucky!

Indian tank controlling Elephant Pass. Jaffna was the Vietnam for India. Many Indian soldiers were killed by LTTE guerrilleros

Where to sleep in a city with curfew? I found a Catholic Mission where I was accepted to overnight. The next day I explored Jaffna. I saw desolation everywhere, statues of Buddha without head, Buddhist monuments destroyed and painted in red, like blood, because of the hatred, bombed houses, bricks on the streets, many soldiers and checkpoints… all that was the results of the guerrilla warfare.

All Buddhist statues had been destroyed when I visited Jaffna. Only Hindu temples stood

The second day I was not aware of the time and curfew started. I asked for help to the soldiers in the street and finally one jeep brought me to the Catholic Mission driving slowly, in the darkness, and one of the officers shouting:

-Do not shoot; we bring a European to the Catholic Mission!

Since I do not like wars and could not travel outside of Jaffna city because of the controls requiring a permit, I decided to return the third day to the Buddhist part of Sri Lanka, to Trincomalee first, and then to the Adam’s Peak, to start the famous trekking up the mountain and forget about the social cancer called war.




I was enjoying the popular trekking of the Annapurnas when, arriving to Kagbeni, I saw a caravan of Gurungs with their yaks carrying rice, with whom I made friendship. They told me that they were heading to the walled city of Lo Manthang, the capital of the ancient kingdom of Lo. I felt excited at the idea of visiting that ancient kingdom, but it was forbidden to foreigners. I then borrowed a Tibetan cap to one of the Gurungs and camouflaged myself into the group passing the control without being noticed. The soldiers at the border were drinking chang, playing to a kind of billiard with wooden buttons and did not pay much attention to the caravan. We crossed the Kali Gandaki gorge, powerful rivers, and in the first village, which in my diary I wrote as Chusang, I decided to continue alone.

I crossed Chele and slept in Samar. The second day walked across Geling and Ghemi and spent the night in Charang.

The third day, after climbing a pass I turned my head to the front and: Oh my God, what emotion! That was really unbelievable! Never in my life I will I forget what I felt upon that vision. Lo Manthang appeared as if my magic in the horizon. It looked a lovely walled city surrounded by the Himalaya Mountains. I continued my trekking and after two more hours I traversed the main gate and entered the medieval city, but continued my way to the border with Tibet through the villages of Nipu, Guru and Nhichung. After crossing the Kore, or Kora La Pass through the border number 23, I noticed in the distance a Chinese military base, but I surround it to avoid it because I had no Chinese visa. After a few more hours I saw some houses. I had arrived to Changguoxiang, in Tibet. It was already dark. I was so tired, feeling pain in my hips, that I knocked at the first house that I saw, asked for water in Chinese: “Tsuei ching, gewo Tsuei” (Water please, give me water), and fall down to the floor. There was a family. The husband, afraid of my presence, disappeared to come back half an hour later with two Chinese soldiers with rifles. I was sleeping. They lighted me with their lanterns and after a short interrogatory allowed me to spend the night with the family, but next day they sent me back to Mustang through the border number 23.

I returned to Kagbeni without consequences and could finish my trekking around the Annapurnas through the Thorung Pass. In the way back I was robbed by the Tibetans part of the 20 kilos of Chinese canned food and delicious biscuits that the Chinese Army gave me in the Kore Pass. In the caravanserai of Lo Manthang I paid twice more than the locals for the momos, for the tea, for the tsampa, for the bed, etc. But I did not complain. I was conscious of the cheating but I did not argue and observed from their behavior in order to learn more about the human nature.

Back home after 1 sabbatical year in the south of Asia, I investigated about the travelers who preceded me in visiting the Kingdom of Lo Mustang and found out that I had been the fifth foreigner to enter Kali Gandaki gorge, the second to overnight in the capital Lo Manthang, and the first to cross the Kora La Pass (4.660 meters).

In 1992 the first tourists were allowed to visit Mustang in the company of a guide and paying a fee of 50 US Dollars per day for the special permit, apart from the expenses of travel plus the compulsory Nepalese guide.

But before, the first visitors were:

1 – 1899, Japanese Ekai Kawaguchi, a Buddhist monk and at the same time a spy at the orders of the British who, thanks to the information that he supplied to the English, these could invade Tibet in 1903-1904. He spent 10 months in Charang (Mustang) and then visited Lo Manthang. After that he penetrated Tibet through a pass in the Dhaulagiri Himal, further west, but did not use the Kora La Pass, which was nearer.

2 – 1952, Tony Hagen, from Switzerland. He was an explorer and geologist who entered Mustang, but did not visit the capital Lo Manthang.

3 – 1956, David Snellgrove, British tibetologist.

4 – 1964, Michel Peissel, from France, is considered the first foreigner to overnight in Lo Manthang.

5 – 1989, Spanish Jorge Sanchez, fifth foreigner to enter Mustang, second to sleep in Lo Manthang, and first westerner to cross the Kora La Pass well into Tibet, and to return through the same Kora La Pass to walled Lo Manthang.



11 – (year 1989). Aksai Chin and Jammu and Kashmir. Long trekking across Ladakh and Zanskar, at the border of the disputed Aksai Chin territory with Indian, Pakistan and Chinese military controls.

If you look an Indian or Russian map, Kashmir region will be located into India. But if you look a Pakistani or Chinese map, then Kashmir will be inside Pakistan


This was one of my riskiest adventures in the Himalayan regions shared by Pakistan, India and China, during the years 1988 and 1989.


These were the trucks that I used to travel along the Karakorum Highway, between Rawalpindi / Islamabad to Gilgit and Karimabad, penetrating fragments of Azad Kashmir territory

In Srinagar I took buses and military trucks to travel to Leh, in Ladakh. There were many military controls; even the soldiers picked picked me up on the road in Kargil.

Rizong Gompa. I was allowed to spend one night

I was ready to start a long trekking across the old kingdom of Zanskar, until Manali

Buddhist monks helped me everywhere, especially in Phuktal Gompa, Zanskar

I made friendship with the saddhues and lived with them in caves and in Hindu temples at the sources of the River Ganges. In their company I could penetrate a fragment of Aksai Chin from the Hindu temple of Gaumukh

GOMUKH GLACIER is at two hours walk from Pracheen Gufa (a cave where I was living with saddhues). Besides the glacier there is a famous ashram ruled by Lal Baba. There I met “naga” sadhus naked, covered only with ashes, summer and winter. Others never move one arm, which soon gets atrophied, others never lay to sleep, but lean instead to a tree or tie to it with ropes, some never cut their nails, which are very long and curled, others never speak, and still others remain in the river without ever going out. Many carry a “danda”, or spear, that is called tridanda if has three points, and hold a “lota”, or milk can. Most smoke ganja. If pilgrims give food or money, the sadhus eat, if not they look for herbs or fast, and if they die from hunger they do not care, it is considered their karma. I also saw Sikhs with their turbans and swords, and sannyasins, or men over 50 years old, dressed with white loincloths, who had given up everything, house, work, family, etc., to pilgrimage around the holy places of India until their death.
Many of my friends had made the pilgrimage to Mount Kailash, in Tibet, but they dissuaded me to try because I was not Indian and there are many Indian and Chinese military controls. Indian saddhues are tolerated to go, but not the foreigners.

The weeks that I spent in these mountains of the Himalaya were of the most precious of my life. I did not find Shiva but I think that I got to understand myself a little bit better. I must confess that I travelled up to the Himalaya with the hope to become a “Superman”, but when I returned down my only wish was to be just a man.



After almost one year travelling in India, Afghanistan, Sri Lanka, Tibet, Nepal, Bangladesh, I felt the time had come to go back home to see my parents.

I was in Islamabad, trying to obtain, in vain, a transit visa in the Iranian Embassy to cross Iran in my way back overland to Spain.

Realizing that it was impossible, I planned to try again in the Iranian Embassy in Kabul. Since through the Khyber Pass I could not cross because the war was going on in Jalalabad, I decided to get to Kabul through Kandahar.

Consequently I bought a train ticket to Quetta, in Baluchistan. From there it would be possible to reach Kabul avoiding the war in Jalalabad. Furthermore, I was informed that in the border between Baluchistan and Afghanistan there was no control and nobody would request me an Afghan visa.

I would try, I thought. I have nothing to lose. Besides, I had no much money. If the Iranian visa was granted, I could very cheaply find my way to Turkey, and from there it would be easy to hitchhike until my country.

The train schedule was: Rawalpindi – Lahore – Multan – Quetta.

The train journey was fantastic. I crossed the Indo River and stopped in historical towns, such as Multan, the city of the Sufis.

Once in Quetta, capital of Baluchistan, I got lodgment in the roof of a caravanserai, because it was very hot in the rooms. There I made friendship with four Afghan mujahidins that the next day would go with their land rover to the border with Afghanistan, to Chaman.

Quetta bus station

They advised me to buy Baluchistan clothes to get, without any problem, to Kabul, without looking like a European.

Following their recommendation the next day in the morning I bought in a souk a Baluchistan suit, including a wide trouser and a jacket with long sleeves, plus a turban, spending almost all my remaining money. Then, disguised as a Baluchi we left to the border, to Chaman, where we arrived some minutes later. Then we entered in a chaikhana to celebrate it, drinking tea and eating some sweets without coercion, and then we separated.

The first village in the Afghan side was Spin Boldak. I had no visa but observed that in the border there was no control, I did not even see any Afghan soldier, so I went ahead disguised as a Balochi. During two weeks I had not shaved my beard.

Everybody carried weapons in Chaman, even women. But I was not afraid.

I met many ghost women in Afghanistan

I walked slowly but with determination, I crossed the famous Durand Line and finally I had Spin Boldak at sight. I had entered the province of Kandahar, in Afghanistan. The next day I would reach the charming Kandahar city.

Finally I reached Kabul. See Najibullah portrait




I traveled by train from Moscow to Khabarovsk in the times of Perestroika, in Soviet Union times.

My aim was to get to the Pacific Ocean in order to visit in a row all the 14 countries registered in the United Nations included on the continent of Oceania, from Palau to Papua New Guinea and from Marshall Islands to Tonga. I had a whole year time for that travel plan but no ticket back to Spain, and money left for one month only, so I planned to find a job in any of those 14 countries of Oceania.

Those days in Russian Far East nobody loved the president Mikhail Gorbachev because all was confusion around, the laws changed too often, and the prices of the products went up exaggeratedly from day to day; nobody guessed how it all would end; people were skeptical and even scared.

In that state of affairs I went to the tickets office and asked to a lady one way ticket in class Platzkart, from Khabarovsk to Vladivostok.

You needed to show your passport to buy a train ticket in Russia, even now.

Vladivostok was a closed city in those times, even for Russians and everybody needed a military permit, but in Perestroika times everything was tangled, the woman did not know whether to sell me the ticket or not. When I saw that she doubted what to do, I insisted saying that I was heading to Japan, and the boat was sailing from Vladivostok a few days later.

Finally she issued me the ticket. I did not expect it. I was afraid that I would have to fly to get to Niigata, in Japan, thus spending most of my money left in the airplane ticket.

I boarded a night train to Vladivostok. The provodnitsa, or girl taking care of the train carriages, could not believe her eyes when she saw my Spanish passport. But she finished up accepting me.

The next day I reached Vladivostok, but I was afraid to register in a hotel because, for sure, in the reception would call the Police.

I just walked around with my small travel bag. I liked the town; because of its hills, Russian compare it with San Francisco. I went to the port with the hope to see Russian submarines. Then, in the terminal, I noticed many Vietnamese people waiting for a ship to Haiphong a few days later. Since most of them were students and had no much money, they slept there, in the wooden benches or on blankets put on the floor.

In Russian Far East you meet many Vietnamese students and North Korean workers.

I asked for the next boat sailing to Japan and was informed that within four days there will be a departure from Nahodka (port at about 6 hours distance by bus from Vladivostok). I bought a ticket for scarcely 200 rubles, a real bargain. The seller was not surprised because –it is my opinion-she must have thought that, since it was a fact that I was in Vladivostok, I must possess the correspondent permit.

¡Fortune always favors the brave!

In the night I went to the “dormitory” of the port, and made my place on the floor among the Vietnamese. That terminal would be my “hotel” for three nights, avoiding being registered by the Police or the Army.

Every night several Russian young soldiers came to the “dormitory” and checked around, asking some of the Vietnamese their documents, although few of them could speak Russian. I turned my head down, as if deeply sleeping, so they could only see my black hair, and was never molested.

The fourth day I travelled to Nahodka to finally board my boat to Yokohama in a wonderful journey, with musicians on board plus good food including red caviar and champagne. I remember my emotion when we passed the Tsugaru Strait, between Hokkaido and Honshu islands.

One week later I flew from Tokyo to Guam, where I worked during two months in a kitchen preparing food for the American soldiers of the Andersen Air Force Base.





I entered in Bougainville Island from the Solomon’s, by motorboat, from the isle of Shortland, to a beach near Buin. The journey took me 4 hours.

I had not passed through Emigration in Gizo (Solomon), I had no PNG visa, but anyway I wanted to cross Bougainville Island in order to reach Port Moresby.

At the beginning I was not welcome in Bougainville because of the Civil War going on. Some local people, with rifles, sent me in a pickup jeep to Arawa to meet the leader of a revolutionary movement for the independence from Papua New Guinea, called BRA, or Bougainville Revolutionary Army.

In Arawa I met the leader and military commander of BRA, Sam Kauona, who, after talking with me for about one hour, decided to let me stay in Bougainville for a few days, but not to continue further to the island of New Guinea, or even to the nearby island of Buka, as I pretended, because it was too dangerous. I had to go back to the Solomon. In fact, those days Bougainville was an independent country, or at least it had so being declared a few months earlier.

I stayed in a catholic mission in Kieta, the main port, thanks to be invited by the German priest, since there were no hotels in Bougainville when I was there.

Then I learnt that most of the natives of Bougainville, including Sam Kauona, were cargo cultists, although they combined their cult practices with the Catholic faith.

Germans controlled Bougainville Island and some of the Solomon’s during part of the XIX and the XX centuries. Then Santa Isabel, Choiseul and Shortland were exchanged to the British for Western Samoa, but they did not give Bougainville, although culturally and ethnically is related to the Solomon, but not to Papua New Guinea. Bougainville was later Australian and when they gave independence to PNG, Bougainville remained within this country, instead of the more logical Solomon Islands.

People in Bougainville, Shortland, Santa Isabel and Choiseul belong to the same race and are very black, more than the african people, while in the rest of Papua New Guinea people are not so dark, and they are even called Red Skins.

The main richest is the fabulous copper mine of Panguna, which was closed when I was in Bougainville, and Sam Kauona did not give me permission to visit it.

There were no policemen or soldiers in Arawa; in fact there was no law, except the armed guerrilleros under the orders of Sam Kauona. They even used old weapons left by the Japanese in the jungle during the WWII.

People had almost nothing to eat, in the market I saw turtles, worms, rats, bats. Almost everybody chewed betel nuts.

Sam told me that they were very angry with the Papua New Guinea government because recently they had sent to Bougainville several mercenaries from Europe and Australia, to catch him dead or alive, and to dismantle the BRA. Finally, after the scandal produced between the Government and the opposition, the mercenaries, already having arrived in Port Moresby, received their money promised but were not allowed to get to Bougainville to fight against the BRA guerrilla, instead they were sent back in a chartered airplane to Australia.

After five days in Kieta and Arawa, I returned from the beach of Buin to Shortland Islands by motorboat, then to Gizo, Honiara, etc.

The Civil War had started in 1988 and would finish in 1998, causing about 20.000 deaths in Bougainville Island.

(I returned to Bougainville in the year 2016 and tried to contact Sam, but he was a successful businessman, very rich, well integrated into the Papua New Guinea society, and did not want any independence anymore. People told me that he was too busy with his commercial activities and had no time to meet anybody. Then I traveled to Gizo, in the Solomon Islands, in a motorboat, remembering my first trip 25 years earlier).




I started this dangerous journey in Ghardaia. In fact I had reached Tamanrasset with the hope to cross the Sahara desert to Niger, but after 10 days waiting I realized that the only way to cross the Sahara was via Bordj Mojtar.

Ghardaia is the gate to the desert

In a bus I arrived from Ghardaia to Adrar. Then, the next day I took a shared taxi to Reganne. Now I had to cross the desert of deserts, the feared Tanezrouft. I went out of the town and after 5 hours waiting, hitchhiking, a car stopped and the driver asked me 20 US Dollars for a ride to the border with Mali, to Bordj Mojtar. I agreed to pay. After three days waiting in the border a truck transporting dates accepted me to take me to Gao for 80 US Dollars.

We left very early in the morning. I was told to wear a chéche (a kind of turban) to cover my head and to behave like a muslim, otherwise I could be kidnapped by the Touaregs. The journey to Gao would take us 6 days and 5 nights.

At the border with Mali I was asked by the Malian soldiers 20 US Dollars baksheesh. At the beginning I refused. I already had my Mali visa issued in the Consulate of Mali in Tamanrasset. But they did not want to allow me to continue my journey. Finally the truck driver convinced me to pay half that amount, 10 US Dollars, and then I could cross the border.

Once in Tessalit, Mali, we continued to Aguelhok, where we spent the night and all the passengers, including me, bought a lamb for dinner. I was travelling on the top of the truck, with the dates and dozens of other passengers. I was the only European. In the evening we all listened to the radio with the news. We reached Anefis, and one day later Tabankort. Finally the sixth day we saw Gao in the horizon. I went to the port and learnt that, two days later, a boat, the Kanku Musa, would sail to Mopti, but first would make a stop in Kabara, the port of Timbuktu. I paid the price and waited for the boat.

The boat journey from Gao to Mopti would take me six more days along the Niger River. I did not have any cabin, but slept on the floor like most of the passengers. It gave me the impression that on board the small, but crowded boat, we would be over 1.000 passengers.

The fifth day we reached Kabara, the port of Timbuktu. The captain said that we would stay there during the down and uploading and downloading operations, which will take half a day.

I was excited and started my trip walking and at the same time hitchhiking to the mythical Timbuktu.

I have to recognize that I only spent a few hours in Timbuktu, what I considered enough since it has lost the old charm. I had to hitchhike to reach there from the port of Kabara and then to Korioume. The distance was about 10 kilometers and the local people helped me with rides. I went there more for the fame and evoking name of Timbuktu than for the tourist’s attractions that the village has to offer. Apart from a couple of old mosques I did not see much more. But anyway I felt happy because one of my most admired travellers is French René Caillié, who was the first no muslim traveller who got to Timbuktu and left the city alive.

Two more days later the boat arrived to Mopti. From Tamanrasset, where I arranged my visa to Mali, then Ghardaia and the trucks to Mopti and the Dogon Country, I had been traveling, practically without stopping, during 30 days.

I obtained my visa to Mali in Tamanrasset




I obtained my Nigerian visa in Cotonou, Benin, valid for only one week; I had to hurry up to cross the country.

When I crossed the border between Benin and Nigeria, the Emigration officers, asked me:

- Do you have a Christmas present for us?

- No. Besides, we still are in the month of November.

Then, for the reason that I did not give them any baksheesh, they carefully checked my small bag, weighing only 3 kilos, but seeing that I only carried some clothes, my sleeping bag and toilet utensils, plus a notebook to write my travels impressions, they returned it to me somewhat annoyed because they could not “confiscate” me anything of value.

I would spend an intensive week in Nigeria, traversing it in horizontal from one side to the other. That was during my eight months journey around Africa without using a single airplane, visiting 26 countries. I started in Melilla and reached Cape Town three months later, thus crossing the whole of Africa in vertical, then I went up until Sudan in three more months, and instead of getting into Egypt and back to Spain, I imagined the Horizontal Africa journey, thus I changed my plans and went West from the Red Sea until the Atlantic Ocean via Chad, Niger, Burkina Faso, Mali, Senegal and Mauritania, where a gentle captain of a fishing boat took me to Canary Island.

In Nigeria almost everybody have scars in their faces forming geometrical lines, or semicircles, owing to tribal traditions, what add some sinister aspect to the people, especially when you are walking alone in the downtown of Lagos during the night. I even heard that there is a secret travel agency that organizes shows for rich tourists consisting on humane sacrifices and cannibalism.

Because Nigeria is a Federal Republic divided by states, like in USA, they like to compare Lagos with New York and Nigeria with United States.

There are three main races in Nigeria, Yoruba in the West, Ibo in the East and Hausa in the North.

During my stay in Lagos the first trouble was getting visas for the next countries, which were Cameroon and Equatorial Guinea. I went to Victoria Island, where the Embassies are located and applied for a visa to Cameroon. I was told that first I needed a visa of the next country where I intended to travel after Cameroon, that is, Equatorial Guinea. In Equatorial Guinea Consulate I was requested a letter from my Embassy stating that I was a bona fide person, in order to issue me a visa.

In the Spanish Embassy they could not believe their eyes when they learnt that I was crossing Africa overland, without much money. The staff of that Consulate never walked alone in the streets of Lagos, but in company of policemen or local friends from the Embassy. The Consul tried to convince me to go back to Benin and from there to Spain. But I said to him that I did not fear to be robbed (my money was hidden in a secret pocket, and my small bag contained worthless things for the thieves). I insisted and he, finally, signed my bona fide document, and thus the next day I obtained my visa to Guinea Equatorial, and one day later, automatically, the visa to Cameroon. I was ready to continue my journey.

In the bus stations there are always young people asking you for the place you are heading. If you say the place, they will lead you to a bus where they get a small commission for customer sent. In Benin I travelled hitch hiking and sometimes I used motorcycles, but in Lagos I replied to a boy: I am heading to the border with Cameroon. Then I paid the price of the ticket. But on board I asked to the other passengers how much money they had paid for the ticket to Port Harcourt, in Biafra, and I was angry when I learnt that I had paid more money than them, owing to the unwanted “guide”. Then, the driver, noticing my affliction, gave me from his pocket the difference of money that I had lost. People were lovely everywhere in Nigeria and, in general, in the whole of Africa. I have always considered that African people are the most humanitarian in the world because they have experienced many hardships, and that has made them more kind.

The bus took two days to reach Port Harcourt because during the nights there are frequent assaults of bandits and therefore we stopped to sleep in villages along the road.

The roads were very bad. This was the Extress Way before arriving to Onitsha, close to Port Harcourt

The most exciting moment of that journey was when we crossed the River Niger through the bridge of Onitsha, city that belonged to the secessionist Republic of Biafra during the independence from 1967 to 1970.

I associated Biafra with war, poverty and people dying of starvation, because I remembered that when I was 13 years old, the Nigeria Civil War started, when Biafra tried, unsuccessfully, to secede from Nigeria, although it was an independent country during 3 years.

After visiting Port Harcourt for one day I headed to Calabar, near the border. There were motorcycles drivers offering you a ride to the border with Cameron. I do not remember how much the motorcycle drivers asked me for the ride to the border, but I had not enough money in local currency (naira). One of them asked me:

- How much money do you have?

I said very little, maybe an equivalent of 2 US Dollars in local currency. He answered:

OK, give them to me; I will take you to the border.

And after riding in the back of that motorcycle, I crossed the border and entered in Cameroon through a very obscure part, without Cameroon Immigration agents. It was my eighth day, so I did not exceed my one week visa; I felt quiet because I would not be fined. But anyway, nobody controlled me.

It had been a very intense week in Nigeria, a country that is not for the tourist, but for the traveler, that is why I loved it very much.

Now I would have to cross rivers without bridges, dense jungle and roads with big holes and mud until I could reach Doula, Cameroon capital, late in the night thanks to the benevolence of a truck driver. But that is another story.

My Nigerian 1 week visa, granted to me in Cotonou, Benin



The classical overland African journey in vertical, from Cairo to Cape Town (or vice versa), in local means of transport, without using airplanes, was very popular among young travellers several decades ago. Today, owing to the unstable political situation and frequent wars in Sudan, Somalia and Ethiopia, this route is not so in use anymore.

But crossing overland Africa in horizontal, from the Red Sea to the Atlantic Ocean, is only for reskless travelers.



I was in Massawa (Eritrea) drinking a tea and eating fresh fish in a chaikhana facing the Red Sea, pondering the alternatives to get back home to Barcelona, in my dear Spain, after eight months traveling around Africa, from Melilla to Cape Town and up to Eritrea in buses, trucks, boats, trains and on foot, but never airplanes, like the true traveler. Now I had just to cross Sudan and enter Egypt and then would catch a regular ship to Athens and hitchhike to Spain to accomplish the Tran African in vertical twice. But then I looked at my pocket atlas, that magical book, and a new plan provoked me with irresistible force: Crossing Africa in horizontal! The idea became so powerful that I could not take it out of my mind; I did not wish anything else in my life at that moment than to arrive to the Atlantic Ocean from the Red Sea via Sudan, Chad, Niger, Burkina Faso, Mali and Senegal. I had left only 60.000 CFA, but I am used to travel economically.

One sunny day I took a bus to Kassala.

SUDAN. “Ahlan wa Sahlan!” (Welcome!).

That was the greeting of the Sudanese officers. In colorful Kassala, inhabited by the ethnic groups Beja and Rashaida, I waited for 2 days my permit to travel further. The Sudanese visa was not enough. Khartoum, the junction of the Blue and White Nile, consisted in three parts: the center was located in the South; the Northeast was an industrial area; and Omdurman, at the North and West side of the Nile, was the most interesting place for me due to the cemetery near the mosque where I would sleep in company of my friends, the whirling dervishes. That mosque sheltered the mausoleum of The Mahdi, probably the expected Prophet announced in the X century, who defeated the English general Charles Gordon at the turn of the XIX century. Every Friday the dervishes performed their sacred dances, quite different than those of the Mevlevi Order founded by Rumi in Konya. One day I boarded an open bus heading to Al Fasher, in the ancient Sultanate of Darfur.

DARFUR. During four days we travelled through unmarked tracks in the desert that sometimes made doubt our driver the way to follow, especially when there were sand storms. The Sudanese are one the friendliest people in Africa; when we arrived to an oasis for the muslim prayer, or to spend the night in the improvised tents, all wanted to invite me to dinner. Everybody greeted me: Asma kuballa, kulu tamam? (Hi foreigner, everything is OK?). Hundreds of flies hanged about our nose, lips and hair on our head. Nothing to do with them, you had to get used. In Al Fasher I caught a truck to Nyala (two more days) avoiding passing through the Mountains of Jebal Marrah, where the Tuareg bandits attacked the travellers and made them their slaves. In Geneina the soldiers did not allow me to proceed to Chad because I had no visa. I argued and asked for the captain. I knew that well educated Arabs are comprehensive gentlemen. He listened, invited me to tea with sweets and let me go ahead. Shukram!

CHAD. In Adré the immigration clerks wanted to send me back to Sudan because of my lack of visa. After bribing them with some baksheesh I could meet their superior. I wished him in Arabic peace and long life to his dear family, what he appreciated. After one hour interrogation he ordered the driver of a truck to hold my passport until Abéché, and be delivered to the Police for an entry stamp. Abéché was a closed city. In Chad there are two military controls at the entrance of every town and two more at the exit, and at night there is curfew and you have to wait until the morning. The airport is protected by the French Army. I was granted a transit permit and left to Ndjamena in an overcrowded truck. We stopped in villages where I saw women of Farchana with their hair cut below their ears and their lips tattooed in black. The Dades had knockers and rings in their women mouths when they go to the market because their husbands prohibit them to talk. Finally I arrived at the gates of Ndjamena.

NDJAMENA. I made a mistake when, after been requested to empty my bag, I replied: “Again? I have just showed it in the previous control”. One of the soldiers then beat me with his pistol in my head producing me blood. He called me “kafir”, ordered to enter in a hut and to undress. He took everything with him. I felt miserable and remembered that in that African journey I had lost part of my hearing sense in Mozambique Island when an insect got into my left ear and made me suffer horribly and cry during the two night’s journey in a dhow to Tanzania. I was robbed in Johannesburg, and in the Kinshasa of Mobutu I had to paint my face with black shoe polish to look like an African to escape from an ambush, etc., but never had I felt more in danger than in that hut. I started to shout: “Basta! I swear that I will never travel anymore! This is my last adventure!” After three hours I was freed and given back my bag and clothes except 10.000 CFA francs. I arrived to Ndjamena and stayed in the Catholic Mission, where the sisters healed my head injury.

LAKE CHAD. To proceed to Niger I needed a permit that I got in the Ministry of Internal Affairs. I reached Bol, in the Lake Chad. Up in the Tibesti live the Tubu, or Teda, feared warriors of the desert that do not allow foreigners to enter their territory. They all carry a dagger in their arm. In Bol live the descendants of the Sao, a race of tall people that cut their faces with knives. I attained Bagasola, then Liwa, and waited in vain for a truck. In the night children in the madrasas recite the Koran from wooden boards until they learn it by heart. After one week the chief of Liwa suggested me to hire two camels and a guide, but first it was essential to buy a gri gri (amulet) prepared by a marabu (wizard), otherwise the guide would refuse to go with me. When it was ready I hanged it around my neck and left. We travelled at night and slept in daytime. We were fed by the nomads and drank water from the wells. The camels ate acacias all the time. The third day I arrived to N’Guigmi.

NIGER. I asked for pure cold water, drank it with greed and lay in a mat. My throat was burning and my stomach in disorder after those three days drinking yellow water smelling and tasting like hell, mixed with impurities, and fighting with the camels the right to drink it first in dirty buckets. They brought me food but I was not hungry. I hitchhiked; people stopped but asked me money. From Niger to Senegal there is a “highway” filled with kiosks selling food and petrol 24 hours a day. I sold my sleeping bag in Diffa to buy boiled eggs, goat meat and for alms to the poor. Niger was a delightful country; its houses, made on adobe, looked like fairy tales and the people wore clothes with charming colours. I loved Zinder, a crossroads village. There I met many Africans heading to Morocco and Tunisia to cross to Europe to improve their lives. I was ashamed; they were real travellers travelling for noble reasons, as the Humankind did in the past, and not for leisure. I continued my journey


BURKINA FASO/MALI. From Nyamey I kept on travelling and crossed Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso, then arrived to Bamako, in Mali, where I had already been in my way down to Cape Town when I travelled from Ghardaia to Gao in a truck carrying dates and then by boat to Kabara to visit Timbuktu and later the Dogon Country. I first saw westerners since Addis Ababa, but I was a foreigner among them and did not greet any European. I saw them bargaining for 100 CFA francs with poor barefoot women selling fruits in the market, and immediately they entered in a chic restaurant to spend a lot of money in beers and copious food, and expelled the beggars, mainly street children that called them “Patron” or “Papa”, with bad manners. I was closer to the Africans; I felt a white black. I took a train to Dakar and the controller let me in without ticket. The train was a bazaar; in every stop people sold through the windows all kind of goods. Finally I saw the waters of the Atlantic Ocean and felt passion.

ATLANTIC OCEAN/SENEGAL/MAURITANIA. In Dakar I made a boat trip to the Island of Gorée, an ancient slave’s warehouse where the Rastafaris living there invited me to stay with them for a few days eating fish and listening reggae music all day long. Back in Dakar I headed north and stopped in Saint Louis remembering my traveller hero Rene Caillie, the first westerner that reached the forbidden Timbuktu and went out alive. Once in Mauritania I hitchhiked until Choum, sleeping in tents of the desert and drinking countless cups of “chai”. Then I took the train to Nouadhibou together with many Saharawi of the POLISARIO Front. At the Moroccan border I was denied access to the country alone because of the mines along the way. I needed to join a group. After ten days of unsuccessful waiting a Spanish captain invited me to go to the Canary Island in his fishing boat. One week later I was back home. Soon I forgot my promise of the hut of Ndjamena and consulted my atlas to organize a new long trip!




I was in Samarkand in the year 1996. I knew well enough four out of the five “Tan” countries (Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Kirgizstan, Kazakhstan); only missing Tajikistan.

But ¿how to visit that country, that was suffering a Civil War since the year 1992? Their Embassy in Tashkent did not grant tourist visas because of the bellicose situation.

Then, in the hostel where I was staying, I learnt that there was a border crossing between Samarkand and Penjikent, the closest Tajik town. In fact, every day, very early in the morning, many Uzbek and Tajik crossed that border in both directions carrying food and other goods. I was assured that if I went early, before sunrise, there would be no agents at both immigration points.

Was it worth to try? What would be the consequences if caught? I guessed that the Uzbek agents would just reprimand me for my temerity and would force me to travel back to Samarkand. But the Tajik soldiers could interrogate me in a military barrack, or directly sent me to jail.

I had four borders to cross: the exit from Uzbekistan plus the entry in Tajikistan. And in the way back I still had the exit from Tajikistan and the second entrance in Uzbekistan. In my passport I only had a single Uzbekistan entry visa valid for 30 days.

I resolved to try. I thought that man exists before borders. I was in my planet and had the right and even responsability to explore it to learn from it.

If I succeeded in getting into Penjikent I would not risk traveling further to Dushanbe, Tajikistan capital, but would return to Samarkand the same day.

I arrived about 5AM to the border. There were agents but people just crossed the border and nobody was stopped. The soldiers were just talking among themselves or drinking tea.

I was the only foreigner. I had an Uzbek cap on my head.

In the Tajik side I boarded another different bus that brought me to Penjikent. On the journey I saw many people riding donkeys; they carried bags with different items to sell in the market.

The market was exotic, but I noticed that most of the articles were made in China.

I had breakfast in a stall and afterwards I walked until the Penjikent ruins, in the outskirts of the town. They were in miserable conditions, abandoned, I felt pity.

Back in downtown Penjikent I visited the museum devoted to the national poet Rudaki, admiring the frescoes and reading the poems of Rudaki, translated into Russian. And then I learn that the name Penjikent derives from the Sanskrit, and means Five Cities. The city flourished in the times of the ancient Iranian civilization of Sogdiana, when the people professed the Hindu religion under the form of Shaivism, or cult of Shiva.

After the didactic visit to the museum Rudaki, at about 5PM, I took a bus to the border with Uzbekistan.

The Tajik agents did not pay attention to me, but once in the Uzbek side I was requested to show my documents. When they saw that I was from Spain were very surprised, but I had the Uzbek visa in order, given to me when I crossed the Amu Darya River, dividing Turkmenistan from Uzbekistan.

I apologized and said that I tried to get into Tajikistan but I changed my mind just after crossing the border. Now I wanted to go back to my hotel in Samarkand.

The agent gave me back my passport and thus I boarded another bus. My adventure had no negative consequences.

Two decades later I flew to Dushanbe. The reason was that I had already visited al the 193 countries of the United Nations, and had been, at least, one day and one night, or 24 hours, in 192 of them, in all except one: Tajikistan. So this time in the year 2017 I spent one week traveling overland from Dushanbe to Gorno Badkahshan and further to Osh in Kyrgyzstan along the Pamir Highway.

My adventure started in Samarkand

This picture that I show of the map of Tajikistan was taken in 2017, in Khorugh, in the Republic of Gorno Badakhshan, bordering Afghanistan.

The Pamir highroad. China is on the right, behind the border fences. That territory is disputed

19 – (Year 1997). Exit from Pyongyang (North Korea) by train to Dandong (China) through the conflictive Sino-North Korean Friendship Bridge over the River Yalu.

 I flew from Beijing to Pyongyang, and left North Korea by train from Pyongyang to Dandong. The train journey was exciting, especially when crossing the Yalu River

Downtown Pyongyang. You see soldiers everywhere

This was not a dangerous journey nor risky, compared with other situations in this collection of 40 journeys, although it provoked me similar feelings, especially when reading that some foreign tourists had been denied the return to their country for small sins, and consequently were imprisoned, some until their death.

Today, North Korea is the most impenetrable country in the world and some nationalities have been forbidden to visit it during several decades.

All was normal during my stay in the country; I was shown several places, the village of Mangyongdae, where Kim Il-sung was born, the circus, museums, etc. I was controlled day and night, I could not leave mu hotel alone, I could not contact the local people in the street, and still I had to observe some other rules. But the last day I was left alone. I was accompanied to the railway station and my guides disappeared.

That journey by train that lasted 6 hours and made five stops was of the most interesting during my visit in North Korea, more than the programed excursions in the company of the compulsory Korean guide and driver. Suddenly I could see alone the reality of the countryside and the villages with the peasants, even through the windows of the train.

Most of the passengers were soldiers, very young, heading to the border with China. In my compartment there was a North Korean businessman who could speak good English. In one of the military controls, my companion was asked to put all his possessions on the table; when he did it the soldiers searched his body and found several 100 US Dollars notes. Then, noticing that I was a foreigner, they took the man to another cabin. After half an hour or so the man returned; he was sad, but the soldiers smiled.

During the lunch time I was offered a soup with dog meat. I refused, and then, after a few minutes, they brought me soup with onions, but I think that they just removed the dog meat and served me the same soup.

Many have died trying to cross the Yalu River, fleeing North Korea, shot by North Korean soldiers

The moment when we arrived to the River Yalu was most emotive, that place was historic and emblematic; I compared it with Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin, or with Allenby Pass between Jordan and Israel, and even with the Khyber Pass in Pakistan.

Once in Dandong I proceeded by train to Harbin, then Russia.

In the year 2010 I traveled to the DMZ (Demilitarized Zone), but I enjoyed more the visit to the real North Korea with its capital Pyongyang in the year 1997



Starting in San Pedro, I crossed the border from Ivory Coast to Liberia and immediately felt sick and weak. I then rested in a place that I will never forget: Harper. I arrived there suffering sunstroke, sweeting, and lay in a mattress under a fan to sleep for a whole day; I vomited even the water that I swallowed. When I woke up the next day, I was hungry, but in the kiosks of Harper there was nothing to eat, no restaurants, and the whole population was extremely skinny, I could only find canned sardines and eggs in a shop. There were no cats, no dogs or pigs in the streets, even birds I did not see any. Harper has been the poorest place I have ever seen during my journeys.

The weekly truck to Monrovia was within four days. There was no other transport; I had to wait 4 days in Harper eating sardines and omelets, day after day.

When the fifth day the truck arrived I was the first to board it, and when we left Harper, I did not risk looking back for fear to get transformed into a salt statue.

I was better and did not vomit, but I was still weak.

In every military control the government soldiers first, and the revolutionary guerrilleros next a few kilometers further, tried to get money from me, being European, but, apart from the first two or three times that I gave some 1 dollars notes, and invited to some drinks to the Army officers, during the rest of my journey to Monrovia I refused, without consequences. After three days and three nights of agonic travel in that truck first, and in old jeeps later, through earthen roads with enormous holes everywhere and without asphalt, and many times rowing because there are very few bridges in Liberia, I arrived to Monrovia and slept in a hostel managed by Lebanese people. Soon after started the curfew and nobody could leave the hostel. During the night the owner locked the door with iron bars and padlocks, and an armed guardian stayed inside until the sunrise to protect the customer’s hostel from bandits.

Two days later I left to Sierra Leona overland.

I paddled to cross rivers without bridges

SIERRA LEONE. There were many controls between Liberia and Sierra Leona. Sometimes the check points consisted on local soldiers; sometimes there were controls of the Peace Forces, composed by foreigners (Finland, Norway, South Africa, etc.). All were most surprised to see a Spaniard traveling in those unsafe countries.

In a couple of times we were detained by guerrilleros that suddenly appeared from the jungle, we all gave some baksheesh and they felt happy and left again to the deepness of the forest; nobody was molested.

After three days of continuous travel I reached the gates of Freetown, Sierra Leone capital. At the entrance there was a rigorous control of the Peace Forces, young soldiers from North Europeans countries. They were asking everybody the reason for travelling to the town in pre-war times. My companions in the truck had advised me to invent any excuse, but never to say that I was just “travelling”. What could I explain to them? How to explain to somebody who never travels the passion that feels a traveller? Had they contemplated the sunrise from the Sphinx of Giza? Had they admired the highest peaks of the Himalaya in springtime? Had they shared the food with the Uighur in remotes villages of Sinkiang, or the traditions of the Kafir Kalash of the Hindu Kush, or participated in the way of life of the Yanomamis in the Amazon jungles, or had they been subjugated when contemplating the mesmerizing Antarctic skies?…

Probably no. Therefore I lied saying that I wanted to go to Freetown just to meet a Spanish friend working in a Non-Governmental Organization. They allowed me to continue to the anarchic Freetown, and soon found accommodation in a pension ruled by an old Greek. In the night, after the curfew time, a guardian armed with a rifle came to protect us.

The kind Greek advised me to leave the next day to Guinea Conakry because the war was starting pretty soon, perhaps the next day.

In Freetown, the United Nations offered a refugee boat to evacuate the foreigners given the increasing danger of the country.

I went to the Ministry of Internal Affairs to ask for an exit visa, something compulsory to leave Sierra Leone those days. I was asked money for the document. It was the first time that I was requested money for leaving a country.

The boat sailed during the night. Everyone had to take off his shirt or Tshirt and show his body naked. If you had a tattoo you were not allowed to embark.

Once in the boat (after being robbed of some of my possessions by the customs), and with much difficulty, I made my way up to the roof of a metallic tower pushing through thousands of stacked people, then I got 1 square meter to lay on top of the roof, and fasten with the help of my belt to an iron tube to avoid falling down in case I fall slept. Everybody was from Guinea Conakry, Guinea Bissau, Senegal, Gambia, etc., but I was the only European.

The boat had a capacity of 200 passengers, but I was told that we were 4.000 people in that journey. The boat, seen from the distance, looked a human mountain in the middle of the sea.


GUINEA CONAKRY. The arrival in Conakry was bewildering. It was about 7 AM. Seven or eight policemen with sticks asked money to every passenger of the ship, without exception, and hit them in the legs and ribs, even to the pregnant women, until they gave some money or goods that they carried. People cried: “Ay!” and gave more notes occulted between the pleats of their clothes to satisfy the policemen, and then they let them go out of the customs premises. In this way they collected a lot of money and products that they immediately gave to a man with a wheelbarrow who transported all the cargo into a pickup car. When the pickup was full, he drove it somewhere and after ten minutes or so came back with the pickup empty.

I stayed the last thinking that, once the policemen will be satisfied with so much money and cargo “confiscated” they will be happy and will allow the last passengers leave without robbing them anything. But no! The more they robbed the more they were anxious to collect more money and merchandise!

I saw the pickup going full and returning empty several times. Meanwhile, I made friendship with a “white” man at the other side of the fences. He was a Cuban sailor left abandoned by his Government, waiting for the next cargo boat from Havana. He told me the minimum amount of money that I could give to the police men without being beaten (1.000 francs CFA). Finally it was my turn. All the policemen were surprised to see a “white” man, European. Two police men hold me by my arms, and one third was ready to hit me with his stick, when the chief asked me how much money I carried and ordered me to show it to him. Then, thanks to the Cuban sailor I handed him a 1.000 CFA note, and although he seemed not too happy, he ordered to let me go without hitting me in my ribs or kick me on the shins of my legs.

I walked to the downtown to drink a coffee when three little black men, like dwarfs, measuring from 70 centimeters to 1 meter, dressed with very colorful clothes, like clowns, smiled at me and the taller offered me his hand to shake it.

I thought:- “Oh, what a wonderful people! This gentleness compensate for the robberies at the port. I will shake his hand to show him that I am not a racist, but a traveller and consider everybody to be my friend”. And when I gave him my hand, he hold it incredible strongly, I could not get rid of his hand. Then, his two companions, located under my legs, registered my body trying to find the place where I had my wallet. I kept fighting with them during several minutes, and nobody helped me, the people passed by, looked at us, but no one intervened. Finally, the Cuban who had helped me at the pier saw me and gave several kicks to the ass of the gnomes, until they let me without robbing me anything. They ran away like devils, laughing all the time.

Grateful, I invited to the Cuban sailor to a glass of Habana Club rum in a centrically located cafeteria.

Finally, after many other misfortunes I arrived several days later to peaceful Bissau (Guinea-Bissau), where I rested in a pension owned by a Portuguese lady, who fed my very well with Portuguese meals and beers Sagres.



When I visited Iraq, on February 2001, Saddam Hussein was still the President of the country.

I had entered Iraq by land rover, from Amman, in Jordan, together with four more Spanish travelers after submitting at the Iraqi border authorities a certificate stating that we were not infected by the AIDS.

Baghdad appeared stunning and radiant. Its mosques were of highly aesthetic and exquisite forms decorated with colorful and harmonious tiles representing geometrical shapes, reminding me those of Isfahan, Baku, Kabul, Bukhara and Samarkand that I had visited in the past. The archaeological museum was like the Ali Baba cave, and the central market, with its covered winding lanes like a labyrinth, was almost as exotic and rich as the Grand Bazaar in Istanbul. Finding your way around the many stalls where the polite sellers offered you tea all the times, you would have not been surprised if somebody would have offered you the enchanted lamp of Aladdin, or a flying carpet, or meeting Mullah Nasrudin with his donkey around the corner.

After visiting during two weeks Baghdad, Samarra, Babylon, Karbala, Imam Ali mosque in Najaf, Ur, etc., we headed for three days to the border with Turkey, to Mosul and further north.

Based on Mosul, where we had a decent hotel at the banks of the Tigris River, we made several excursions to historical places such as Nineveh, Hatra caravanserai, archeological ruins, or to a Nestorian Monastery near the border with Turkey.

Back in Baghdad we celebrated our marvelous journey to a fantastic country as Iraq is. The next day we had to go back to Amman, overland.

Then, in the early evening, we, the five Spaniards, decided to walk on the banks of the Tigris River. We found a cafeteria and ordered some fruit juices.

Suddenly we heard the alarm sirens sounding very loudly and everybody ran to hide to the refuges. We were told that the British and USA airplanes were bombing Baghdad, something that occurred regularly, although for us it was the first time that it happened during our 2 weeks stay in Iraq.

Soon started the bombs to fall, and some fell very close to the cafeteria; I heard one of them falling into the River Tigris and also saw in the ski the bursts of gunfire produced by the anti-aircrafts guns, fired by the Iraqi soldiers against the airplanes.

The owner of the cafeteria requested us to hide underneath, in a basement, what we did.

After one hour or so, the bombings ended and we could go out to watch the devastating consequences in the streets, the destroyed cars and buildings, some women crying, many ambulances helping injured people on the floor, and some more horrors.

The next day, on our way by land rover to the border with Jordan, we were informed that several bombs fell into a hospital and a school and caused many deathly victims among children and hospitalized people.

I obtained in Madrid my visa to Iraq


Monument Al-Shaheed, in Baghdad, several hours before the bombings




CENTRAL AFRICAN REPUBLIC: I arrived in Bangui in the night, one hour before the curfew. Not wanting to hire an expensive taxi I ran until the Catholic Mission, that was closed, but they specially opened it and let me sleep in the library. Next morning I booked a room and made friendship with the missionaries, who told me fantastic stories about the life of the people in that country.

That Mission has a very familiar atmosphere. It is a very safe place, better than a hotel because the locals respect it. It is very frequented by ONG’s and missionaries who will tell you stories about the population and will take you in their land rovers to their missions in the heart of the country. They also serve dinners at a decent price. It is located in the same downtown of Bangui. In the year 2003 the price for a single with breakfast and dinner per night was: 7.000 CFA francs.

Leaving Bangui, the first day I reached Bossangoa thanks to three Italian missionaries who took me in their land rover. The next day, using trucks, I arrived to a village called Paoua and the truck driver gave me accommodation in his house. Then I had two alternatives. The first one consisted in getting on foot and hitchhiking to the border with Chad, but that direct border was dangerous, infected with bandits who robbed everybody they meet. The second option, suggested to me by the driver of the truck, was much easier and safer, crossing Cameroon first, but I had no visa for that country and they do not supply it to you at the border, but at their Embassy in Bangui. Anyway I chose that alternative counting with the solidarity feeling between human beings, which is innate in the noble Africans in particular. The third day I reached the border near Ngaundal. The agents in Central African Republic let me go ahead. Thus I crossed to Cameroon,


CAMEROON: I had to argue, in a benevolent way, with the Cameroon agents. They understood my situation and let me proceed to the border with Chad; they even stamped my passport. Then I boarded a truck to the border with Chad, and again there I had to request the noble Africans to help me and let me enter Chad, what they finally did. In every border I distributed some baksheesh to the pleasant agents, otherwise they might open your bag and check carefully everything confiscating you whatever they wanted.

Crossing Chad was the most dangerous part of my overland journey to Ndjamena. There were controls of soldiers and bandits everywhere

CHAD: Once in Chad I could get a ride to the post of Baibokoum to get the entry stamp in Chad. It was already dark; therefore I had to spend there the night. Transport to Moundou was only during the morning to avoid the bandits. Then the next day I travelled in a jeep until Moundou, and after two more days we arrived to that city. During several more days, until finally I reached N’djamena, I slept in horrible huts without ventilation, ate worms and meat as hard as the sole of a shoe, and travelled like a sardine in jeeps with 40 PAX when its capacity was for 8 PAX, and with an armed guard with weapons in his teeth travelling with us to protect us. During the nights we slept in the villages for fear of bandits.

In all, the journey overland Bangui – Ndjamena took me 10 days.

 I was given my Chad visa in Bangui



In the year 2003 you could not get into Somalia overland. There were only five main places from where you could fly to Hargeisa, in the north of Somalia, region that presently is known as Somaliland: Nairobi, Addis Ababa, Djibouti, Jeddah and Dubai.

I flew from Nairobi with destination Hargeisa, in an airline company called DAALLO. After 2 hours we made a stop of about 3 hours in an airport called Kilometer 50, not far from Mogadishu, just at 50 kilometers distance.

The operations of loading and unloading cargo lasted about 3 hours and during that time I was free to walk around the terminal of the airport.

I asked if I could stay in Mogadishu but I was told that I needed a sponsor, that is, somebody to take responsibility of me, including at least two bodyguards to protect me and to avoid to be kidnapped.

In fact I was not especially interested in Hargeisa, I wanted to land anywhere in Somalia, with priority Mogadishu for being the capital of the country, since Somalia represented my last United Nations country to visit, the number 192, and was excited with the idea to chase that goal.

One hour and a half later we landed in another airport, Galkayo. This time several people, when they noticed that I was a European, came to me to propose me to stay several days in a hotel in the city.

After being refused in Mogadishu, to stay in Galkayo did not seem appealing to me. It was the first time that I had heard the name of Galkayo and preferred to continue to Hargeisa, which name was familiar to me. Therefore I said no.

There was still one more stop, in Garoowe, Puntland capital.

And finally, late in the afternoon, we landed in Hargeisa. I was immensely happy, but soon my joy will become disappointment. When descending the airplane a Immigration agent asked me for my sponsor.

I had imagined Somalia being a wild country, without laws owing to the war going on, and thought that I could be accepted in Hargeisa as a tourist.

But no, without sponsor I ought to leave Somaliland.

After arguing I was forced to embark again in the airplane and fly to Djibouti.

I was frustrated, desperate. The next day I went to DAALLO office and they helped me contacting a hotel in Hargeisa, called Ambassador, to request an invitation. The hotel would be my sponsor.

I received the confirmation after 4 days waiting in Djibouti. My only compromise would be to book a minimum of 3 nights in the hotel Ambassador, at a price of 30 US Dollars per room per day, including breakfast. I gladly accepted.

I flew again to Hargeisa. The plane made first a stop in a city called Boorama.

Once in Hargeisa airport there was a representative of the hotel Ambassador who took me in a car to the hotel. But first I was forced to change at the official rate 50 US Dollars per shillings. I was given 400.000 shillings. Later, being in downtown Hargeisa, I would learn that I could have obtained many times more shillings at any money changer in the street.

In the hotel I was very well treated, perhaps too well, because they did not allow me to walk alone in the street. They were afraid that something sinister could happen to me, being European. I had a car and driver at my disposition, for free, to take me to downtown, but I often went alone, walking.

I spent 3 days in the hotel Ambassador

I cannot say that Hargeisa is a beautiful town. It was overpopulated and I saw no tourist attractions. The mosques were ordinary and the enclave of the city was not special. But the people made the difference. I saw men barefoot, with turbans, most of them used sticks, and it was common the transport in burros. Everybody is muslim, without exception, and you do not find women walking alone.

Monument of a military airplane, in Hargeisa

The central market during the night was the best of Hargeisa. It was strange to walk alone in the streets of Hargeisa. I was the only foreigner there, or at least the only European, and the people were amazed to see me. During the night hundreds of kiosks sell plants of CHAT, a kind of euphoric narcotic that they chew all the time. It is the main business in Hargeisa. They bring the leaves from the mountains of Yemen and Ethiopia. This chat is forbidden in muslim countries such as Saudi Arabia or Jordan, but not in Somalia.

The second day I became interested in visiting some other town, apart from boring Hargeisa. A taxi driver was looking for the last passenger to fill his car to drive to Berbera, at about 150 kilometers distance, in the coast. I paid 20.000 shillings and boarded the taxi.

There were several controls on the road. A soldier looked inside the car, then received some baksheesh from the driver and authorized us to go further, until the next control. I had beard of two weeks and made myself like sleeping in the car, because I was afraid of having troubles. Furthermore I was travelling without documents; my passport had been confiscated by the hotel Ambassador, and it would be given me back the day of my departure.

I knew that the hotel offered excursions to visit old cave paintings known as Laas Geel, located between Hargeisa and Berbera, at the price of about 100 US Dollars per person, all included, with car, driver and guide, plus an armed guardian to protect you. But I found it expensive. Anyway, I have always preferred to discover the places by myself, without any guide.

The journey to Berbera took two hours and half time.

I saw destroyed Russian tanks in Berbera

I loved charming Berbera, much more than Hargeisa, and the people were very curious about me. I ate fresh fish at the sea side and spent several hours just enjoying the peaceful atmosphere and admiring the historical buildings.

When I returned to my hotel, at about 6PM, the owner was very worried and angry about me. The rest of my stay I would have by my side an employee with car, day and night; I was not allowed to leave the hotel alone anymore.

The fourth day of my stay in Hargeisa I flew back to Nairobi.


24 – (Year 2004). Magical encounter with the elusive Jarawa indigenous people on the island of Baratang (Andaman and Nicobar).

In Andaman and Nicobar Islands live several aboriginal tribes without contact with the external world.

To get to Andaman there are boats from Calcutta and Madras, and flights as well. If you take the boat to Andaman then you need a permit before embarking, which will be issued to you in Calcutta or in Madras, but if you fly it will be given to you at the airport, in Port Blair. The air pass of Indian Airlines includes Andaman (but not Lakshadweep). For your guidance, Nicobar Islands, famous for the elephants working together with the locals, are, unfortunately, off limits to the tourists.

The airport is just in the town. In Port Blair I visited the infamous jail constructed by the English colonialists in the upper side of Port Blair. It looked much more sinister than the one in Devil Island, in French Guyana. In the evenings there is a show of light and sound, the type like in the Pyramids of Egypt. Inside the cellular jail there are many pictures of the Indian Fighters for Freedom. It is a kind of patriotic pilgrimage for Indians. There are many tourists’ resorts with nice beaches in the small islands near Port Blair, where you can travel by boat.

Practically there are no beggars in Port Blair. I met a few sadhus in an Indian temple besides the port. I did not see Buddhists or Sikhs or Jainists in Andaman, only Hindus and some Muslims. Indians from the mainland need a permit to visit or to migrate there.

To travel outside of Port Blair you pass through several check points where the soldiers will register your name in a notebook. The buses leave very early, at about 4.30 AM and a soldier with a rifle always boards every bus. In the past there have been cases when the Jarawas had killed some Indian passengers.

The best was the aboriginal people that I met in my way to the north of Andaman Island. Since there are no bridges between the Islands forming Andaman, we had to wait for the ferries. Then, in the small island on Baratang, suddenly appeared from the jungle about forty natives of the tribe Jarawa practically naked, with their arrows. They did not make any difference between me and the Indians travelling in my bus (well, I have black hair, like the Indians; maybe if I had Scandinavian features would have been different). They do not speak Hindi or any other language apart from theirs. For them everybody was a foreigner. They were curious and touched the hands, arms and hair of some people. We stayed quiet. Then one of them asked a T-shirt to an Indian and he gave it away. Everybody laughed, aborigines and us, because he did not know how to put it on.

I returned to Port Blair the next day. I was checked by the Indian Army and Police several times. In my way back I did not see any Jarawa, what I regretted.

The Jarawas blocked the road. The two armed Indian soldiers that were on my bus to pretect us, did not prevent us from mixing with them and exchange gifts and smiles; it was a magical moment




I traveled to Sakhalin inspired by a book that I had read written by Anton Chekhov, who spent in that island several months in the year 1890.

Once in Yuzhno Sakhalinsk, Sakhalin capital, I asked about the possibility to accede to the Kuril Islands to observe the nature, especially the many active volcanoes that they shelter, and I also felt curiosity to know how the new inhabitants lived there since the end of WWII, when the soviets conquered those islands, expelled all the inhabitants sending them to Japan, and brought Russians.

In a travel agency I was informed that I could get a “propusk” (permit) to visit Kuril Islands for a fee that I did not find too expensive. It would be ready after several days.

Once I had that “propusk” with me I headed to the port of Korsakov where I waited during three days for the next boat departure.

Waiting in Korsakov

On board the ship I was given a private room; being a foreigner I was not allowed to rent a bed in the communal dormitory. The boat would call first in the island of Urup, then in Iturup, and finally in Kunashir, my destination.

I was happy because I thought that in the time between the uploading and downloading of cargo and passengers, I would have time to visit around the port for a while.

The waters were very rough. I could net even had dinner because of the extreme ship movements; the wooden walls creaked.

When the next day we arrived to Urup, the waters were calm. But instead of disembarking in the island, a raft came with passengers and cargo, then they boarded the ship and some other passengers from our boat descended and went on the raft to Urup Island.

I had no opportunity to disembark in the island!

In the hotel of Korsakov I had made friendship with a young man who lived in Iturup, who he proposed me to disembark in that island inviting me to live in his house for a few days. I gladly accepted, in spite that I had paid for the journey to Kunashir Island.

We disembarked in a port on one side of Iturup, but not in Kurilsk, Iturup capital, that was located on the other shore of the island. The ship would navigate further straight to Kunashir Island.

My friend lived with his wife and a small baby in a house inside a factory of caviar. The family was very poor; he and his wife worked with the salmons, but were paid not with money, but with salmon and red caviar that they sold once a week in the market of Kurilsk. He had gone to Korsakov to look for a job and to move in the near future to Sakhalin Island in search of better living possibilities.

Two days and two nights I would stay with them. Because of my one week time permit I could not stay longer in that fish factory, therefore the third day I started to walk until Kurislsk, since there was no local transport.

(Back in Spain, as gratefulness, I sent a book to my friend, but it was returned with a note of the Russian Post Office saying that he had recently moved to somewhere in Sakhalin Island).

Kurilsk was located at about 20 kilometers distance. I thought that somebody with a car or truck would pick me up on the road.

There was snow everywhere and only two cars passed by that road; I hitchhiked but none of them stopped. I saw a fox while walking, but fortunately no bears.

I arrived to Kurilsk about midway. There was a hotel that charged around 20 Us Dollars per a bed in a dormitory, but it was full. Then I was offered a room, for free, in a house owned by a benevolent woman who was very surprised to meet a foreigner.


I became very famous in Kurislk, everybody greeted me in the street, and smiled. According to a journalist that made me an interview, I was the first Spaniard to ever visiting Iturup Island.

I was controlled every day by the soldiers; I noticed that I was even followed wherever I walked.

Iturup Island is famous because from one of its shores the Imperial Japanese Navy sailed to attack the American base of Pearl Harbor in 1941.

I saw Japanese items in the shops of Iturup. Then I learnt that local people of the Kuril Islands can visit Hokkaido with Japanese visa to buy things while, reciprocally, the Japanese from Hokkaido could cross to the Kuril Islands without visa to visit the cemeteries were their ancestors were buried.

Japanese have not accepted the loss of the Kuril Islands, that they name Chishima retto. And Iturup is known by them as Etorofu-to, while Sakhalin is Karafuto.

When my Kuril Islands permit expired, I boarded a plane to Khabarovsk.



I had the purpose to visit on a row the Seven Sisters (the Indian states of Assam, Meghalaya, Tripura, plus Arunachal Pradesh, Manipur, Mizoram, Nagaland). The first three were open to visit, but for the other four you needed a Restricted Area Permit, which is only issued in New Delhi to groups of a minimum of 4 people through a travel agency. I was alone, so I had to try to manage entering those four states without that permit.

In Kohima (Nagaland) I was lodged in a school and these were some of the students

I had success penetrating into Mizoram, then Nagaland and Manipur, since the controls were not very severe and I boarded shared taxis with Indian passengers. But in Arunachal Pradesh there were many check points on the roads, where Indian soldiers interrogated the passengers, because that state is located at the border with Tibet and pretended by China.

I reached Tezpur, in Assam, and took a bus to the border with Arunachal Pradesh. During the bus journey I made friendship with a native of Arunachal Pradesh, a Monpa, ethno that is like the Tibetans, including the language. I expressed him my intention to enter Arunachal Pradesh. When we arrived at Bhalukpong, the border with Arunachal, I said to him:

“Indians are jealous of you. You have so many beautiful places in Arunachal Pradesh that if they allowed the foreigners to visit them then many, instead of travelling to Jaipur, Taj Mahal or to the Kerala Backwaters, would come here”.

Then my Monpa friend replied me:

“You are right; I will help you to visit my state. Indians are not good”.

We crossed together the border line, to the Bhalukpong arunachali, because it was a divided city, like Nicosia. The Indian soldiers looked at us but since my friend was covering me, they only saw a black hair man accompanying a local Monpa and did not stop me.

Finally I had entered my seventh Sister!

In Bhalukpong arunachali, without delay, I entered a cafeteria to order chai meanwhile my friend arranged a fair price with the driver of a minibus (only 80 rupees) to transport me to Tippi, a quiet Arunachal village at 6 kilometers distance well inside Arunachal Pradesh territory, where he knew of a hotel where nobody will ask me questions or to see my passport to sleep.

In the hotels of the four forbidden states, if you are a foreigner, or even Indian, you need to fill a supplementary form indicating the number of your Restricted Area Permit or the Inner Permit, which is delivered to the Police every night.

At 5 AM I was ready to board the first minibus passing through Tippi with direction to Tawang. There were some other passengers with me. Soon a minibus stopped. First the driver filled the interior of the minibus with great quantities of women, even on every leg of the driver there was a woman sited. I was installed in the last row. He asked me if I have the Inner Permit and I nodded my head affirmatively.

There are hundreds of thousands of Indian soldiers everywhere around Arunachal Pradesh. In 1962 the Chinese invaded that state and there was a fiery fight. Arriving to Bomdila a soldier looked inside the minibus where I was. I made as if sleeping. He touched my shoulder and asked me something in Hindi that I did not understand. With cold blood I replied: “Acha” and he went away!

Acha is a very useful Hindi word, it can mean yes, OK, I understand, oh I see, but also: yes but please leave me in peace.

After crossing some villages where the natives practiced archery, I arrived about 6 PM to Tawang and at once headed to the Buddhist monastery on the top of a hill dominating the town. I was accepted immediately by the monks to live there. The monastery belongs to the Gelugpa and was even more stunning that the Potala of Lhasa, Tibet. There lived about 500 monks, and also some workers in the houses in the middle of the monastery. It was founded in the XVII century by the 5th Dalai Lama, and precisely there was born the 6th Dalai Lama. The 14th Dalai Lama often visits Tawang Monastery during the Padmashambhava dances in the full moon of May.

The views from that monastery were superb! Tawang is the second largest monastery in Asia, only behind of Potala. It was the residence of the XIV Dalai Lama when he escaped from China in 1959. Some time later he moved to Dharamsala, in Himachal Pradesh.

Tawang Monastery

When I was about to leave for Kolkata, one of the monks, Lama Champa, decided to accompany me because he feared that in the way back to Assam I would not have the unbelievable luck with the Indian soldiers that I had when entering Arunachal Pradesh. If asked, he would reply that I was a guest of the Tawang Monastery.

Lama Champa travels every year to Europe, where remains for a few months teaching Buddhist meditation techniques in Buddhist centers in Warsaw, Berlin and Murcia, in Spain.

One morning at 5 AM we embarked in a minibus and at about 6PM we reached Tezpur, back in Assam, from where we both travelled in a night bus to Guwahati. Then we separated. Lama Champa took a train to Delhi to organize his new trip to Europe. I travelled by night train straight to Kolkata.



27 – (Year 2006). From Derbent (Dagestan Republic) to Abkhazia, via the destroyed and forbidden Grozny (Chechnya).

I spent one month traveling to the seven Russian republics of the Caucasus, from the millenary city of Derbent, in Dagestan, to Maikop, the capital of the Republic of Adygea.

In theory, I needed a special permit to visit some of these republics because of the war situation, but in fact I was not asked for that permit.

my adventure began in the five-thousand-year-old city of Derbent

I experienced some troubles at the border between Dagestan and Chechnya, when I had to give some baksheesh to an officer in a control (about 300 rubles), then in Ingushetia I was controlled in a check point and requested to show my passport. Apart from that I was very careful avoiding encounters with the soldiers. Once in Sochi I felt safe and could even visit Abkhazia during five days.

It was easier than I had expected to get into Chechnya, camouflaged into a bus filled with women and bags with vegetables.

WELCOME TO GROZNYY (Dobro pojalavats, in Russian), said a sign at the entrance of the town

In Groznyy there were many barricades made with sand bags with soldiers wearing waistcoats against bullets. There were more soldiers than citizens. Almost every car was controlled in the many check points along the broken roads. The aspect of Groznyy was worse than Sarajevo, Baghdad or Beirut in its most horrible times. Most of the buildings were in ruins. Edifices half destroyed were inhabited by people and they even hanged clothes in the balconies, like in Italy or Spain. In the bombed part of the houses nobody lived.

I did not risk taking pictures getting off the bus, but through the windows of the bus, fearing that the Russian soldiers would judge it suspicious. I did not want to be interrogated by the old KGB for my presence there and, most probably (in the best of the cases), sent back to Moscow for the lack of pertinent special permit for Chechnya.

Where to sleep in Chechnya without being detected by the Army? I arrived at 6 PM and a notice panel notified that there was curfew in the town from 9 PM to 5 AM. I saw a hotel not far from the bus station but… somebody in the bus offered me help and thus I went to his house where I spent two nights observing life in that unusual city.

During the evenings, while having dinner, we watched TV but with a very feeble light. Mobile telephones worked and the local market was very busy with stalls selling all kind of products and changing foreign currency. My friend showed me the subterranean basement where his family used to hide during the bombings. They told me that some airplanes were not hit by the rebels, but were declared as destroyed and then sold in the international weapons black market.

The third day I left to Ingushetia.


28 – (Year 2007). RASD (Sahrawi free territory controled by the POLISARIO) from Tindouf in the company of the traveler Charles Veley.

It is very hard to get to RASD, country liberated and controlled by the POLISARIO; indeed, very few travellers in the world can really claim to have visited properly this country, much different than the occupied zone by Morocco and known as Western Sahara (Morocco-controlled). Most of the Sahrawi Republic citizens (nearly 200.000 persons) live now in the encampments near Tindouf, Algeria.

We were living with a Saharawi family in Tindouf, during a whole week

We left by car early in the morning to Bih Lehlou, through Algeria, Mauritania and RASD territory

RASD is recognized by most African nations, several Spanish speaking countries such as Mexico, Venezuela, Cuba, etc., plus India.

European countries prefer to support Moroccan invasion in exchange of economical sales of their products, as is the case of France, or to sell weapons, as does USA and other European countries, or permission to fish in Moroccan waters, as is the shameful case of my own country Spain, giving thus the back to a territory that was our 53rd province and where the people still speak Spanish as the second language.

Charles Veley was happy once we entered into RASD territory, and we made a stop to celebrate that we crossed 3 hazardous borders unnoticed (Algeria, Mauritania and RASD)

From Tindouf to Bir Lehlou (within liberated RASD territory) count about 4 hours by jeep crossing the desert, plus 4 hours return. The path along the desert continues until Nuadhibou, in Mauritania.

We saw the birth of a baby camel on the road

Bir Lehlou means The Sweet Water Well

We visited a United Nations base in Bih Lehlou

There are five United Nations bases within the liberated RASD territory, and three under the Moroccan invaded territory, in the other side of the infamous wall (over 2.700 kilometers long surrounded by 5 million antipersonnel mines and defended by 110.000 invaders Moroccan soldiers).

Moroccan militaries killed thousands of civilians, women and children mainly, spreading napalm with their airplanes.

Charles and I met United Nations soldiers from China, Uruguay, Sri Lanka, Kenya, Pakistan, South Africa and Honduras


29 – (Year 2007). Penetration in the forbidden Tsinkhvali (South Ossetia) through Gori, outwitting the Georgian, Russian and United Nations military controls.

It was not easy to get into South Ossetia. Two weeks earlier I had penetrated Abkhazia, then I boarded a ferry to Trabzon, in Turkey, followed my journey to Gori and now I was trying to visit the rebel republic of South Ossetia.

From Gori I took a marshrut to the last town, near the border. Then I walked, and walked, … and walked….!!! The Georgian officers at the border did not pay attention to me. I was lucky. I had no backpack, nothing. All my belongings were in a small bag in a family house where I had slept the previous night for 10 lars, about 4 euro. Only women crossed the border. Men are afraid that they will be interrogated in South Ossetia.

The United Nations soldiers did not even look at me. They did not care.

I passed then to the Ossetia border, unnoticed, among women carrying apples to sell in Tskhinvali. But there was still the Russian control. There I was stopped with bad words by a Russian soldier thinking that I was Georgian. He cried to me in Russian “where are you going, durak?” Durak means stupid in Russian. I said that I was a tourist from Spain, had a Georgian visa and wanted to walk to Tskhinvali to buy stamps in the Post Office. Then I was sent to an office where the Captain asked me for the reasons to crossing the border. I said that the Georgians allowed me. Then he answered that it is not possible. I requested only one hour time to see the capital and would return to Gori, in Georgia. I added that if I was granted the permission I will be generous, not much, but a little generous. They asked me how generous, 100 US Dollars? I replied, not, I was not an American rich traveller. Then I offered 50 lars, he increased that amount to 200 lars, then I gave my last price, 100 lars. We both agree.

Then, the same captain took me in his wonderful car and showed me around the town during two hours. After that I was returned to the border with Georgia.

This time, when leaving, I was discovered by the Georgians, but I said that I had been refused by the Russians and saw nothing. The Georgians then allowed me to proceed to Gori.

In downtown Tskhinvali



I obtained my Nagorno Karabakh visa in Erevan, for a duration of only four days, for which I paid 50 US Dollars, but when I crossed the border between Armenia and Nagorno Karabakh I learnt that I could have obtained the visa in that post, and much cheaper.

In the bus to Stepanakert there were some young men who were studying in the University of that city. In one of the stops we had lunch together. I was the only foreigner in the bus and they were interested to know the purpose of my visit to their country. I said to them that I travel to learn. They then invited me to stay those 4 days in their dormitory within the university premises, and I accepted.

Stepanakert is today Nagorno Karabakh capital. The city was founded in 1917, after the October Revolution in Russia, on a village called Khankendi. It was so named in honor to Stepan Shahumyan, an Armenian communist leader.

My second day I had to register in the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, in Stepanakert and I was given a permit to visit determinate places, except the front line. All the movements of the foreigners had to be controlled to avoid disgraces with the Azerbaijan Army, which often entered Nagorno Karabakh territory.

I administrated my four days visa as follows: I would spend the first two days in Stepanakert, the third day I would visit Shushi, and the last day would be devoted to the Monastery of Gandzasar.

The famous tank of Shusha

Stepanakert was a very pleasant city, while Shushi was famous for being an Armenian cultural center, until 1920, when Azerbaijan troops, joined by the Azerbaijan population of that city, killed between 20.000 and 30.000 Armenians in a horrible pogrom. The town still showed ruins and impacts of bullets in many houses, produced during the slaughter of the Armenian people.

Beyond this X century monastery of Gandzasar started the front of war, that I did not ventured to cross

But the visit dearer to me was the last one, the one that I made to the monastery of Gandzasar, which name means Treasure Mountain, for sheltering relics belonging to Saint John the Baptist and his father Zachariah. The monastery was erected during the X century and its cathedral was built in at the beginning of the XIII century. The whole complex of the monastery represents a masterpiece of Armenian architecture. During the bombing of the monastery during the year 1991 by the Azerbaijan Army, it was damaged, and the Prior house was destroyed. But after the war and the victory of the Armenians, it was reconstructed. I travelled by bus to Vank, what in Armenian language means Monastery. From the bus stop I had to climb to the top of a mountain were the monastery was located. I enjoyed very much that monastery and spent several hours in it, just resting, watching its reliefs, talking with the monks and walking around the lovely nature that encircles that holy and peaceful place. In the afternoon I returned to Stepanakert, and the next day I travelled to the holy Etchmiadzin Cathedral, in proper Armenia.

From Armenia I could enjoy the sight of the Ararat mountain, located in Turkey



31 – (Year 2007). In the forbidden Ma’rib, coming from the Hadhramaut Valley (Yemen). 

After spending a lovely week in Socotra Island I flew to Sana’a, in the Arabian Peninsula, in order to pay respect to seven Spanish tourists who were killed in Ma’rib by terrorists in a suicide car bomb, on the 2nd July 2007. In that coward attack, six more Spaniards were severely injured and two Yemeni guides were also killed.

The terrorist also died in the attack, and I hope that Allah will not have pity on him…

That was a group of tourists coming from the Spanish cities of Madrid, Barcelona and Bilbao; two of them were friends of two good friends of mine.

I felt that I had to visit the place.

Since oil deposits were found around Ma’rib, the town has become a dangerous place and a terrorist nest. Tourists, in order to get there, needed in the past a special permit, and always had to travel there with military escort because the danger of death and kidnapping. But since the July 2nd 2007 terrorists attack the Yemeni authorities do not allow you to go there anymore, only to the Hadhramaut Valley via Al Mukalla.

How to get to the forbidden Ma’rib, then?

I risked and went to the bus station to buy a ticket to Shibam, in the Hadhramaut, that has to cross Ma’rib on its way.

In the bus office I was informed that I had to get to Shibam via Al Mukalla to avoid Ma’rib, and was refused the ticket; they said to me in Arabic: Matar, matar, taira, taira! (Airport, airport, airplane, airplane!).

I tried in another bus company and received the same result. Then I tried a third one, near Bab el Yemen and… I bought the ticket for only 1.600 rials (about 8 US Dollars).

The journey was beautiful. When I reached Ma’rib it was already dark and decided to visit it in my way back to Sanaa, since going to a hotel would mean being discovered by the Police. In all the hotels in Yemen you have to leave your passport in the reception every night, no exceptions, even in cheap places to stay, such as dormitories in bus stations.

In Ma’rib I saw many soldiers wearing weapons and ordinary men armed to the teeth with their jambiyas (a typical Yemeni dagger).

After spending several days visiting Shibam (UNESCO wonder, considered the Manhattan of the desert) plus Seyun and Tarim, I bought another ticket bus to Sanaa via Ma’rib.

This time the scenery was infinitely more stunning because it was day time. I saw canyons and rocks in the middle of the Rub’ al Khali desert with a beauty beyond imagination. The journey remembered me the one that I made many years ago from Denver, in Colorado, to Taos via Santa Fe, in New Mexico. But the one in Hadhramaut was much more magnificent for it was unexpected to me.

Reaching again Ma’rib I went to the terrorist attack place, in the asphalted road, and found it when it was already dark, after asking several men. I tried to buy seven flowers or seven candles, one per tourist killed, but, of course, in the middle of the desert you do not find these items. Instead, I stayed in the place and kept silent during seven minutes, meditating and praying. After that I, instinctively, made the sign of the cross. Some young men passing by, armed with rifles, saw my gesture and started to talk about me for what I did. They guessed that I was a Christian, a foreigner.

One of the men showed me seven jambiyas in his belt and smiled.

That was enough -I thought-, time to leave, and decided to quit Ma’rib at once, without sleeping there. I walked rapidly to the bus station (in fact there is not bus station in Ma’rib, but a cafeteria where the buses stop for half an hour for toilet and food) and waited for the first available bus back to peaceful and wonderful Sanaa 



When I was advised that my permit to visit Chukotka Peninsula was ready, I immediately flew from Barcelona, in Spain, to Russia. The first flight was to Moscow to pick up in a Russian travel agency the “propusk”, or military permit for the restricted zone; even Russians need that permit to fly to Chukotka because of the border with USA.

The next day I boarded another airplane. After a very long direct flight I landed in an airport in front of Anadyr, the capital of the Chukotka Autonomous Okrug.

In order to arrive to downtown Anadyr I had to wait a couple of hours for a ferry. After 30 minutes navigation, finally I reached that town.

I liked Anadyr and the Chukchi people

I wanted to visit that part of Russia since my goal was to know all the 85 Russian political divisions, from Kaliningrad to Chukotka, from Crimea Peninsula to La Pérouse Strait, and also for the adventure to explore that relatively unknown region of the world.

I had a Russian visa of 30 days. I did not want to go back to Moscow, but to continue my journey to USA through the Strait of Bering and Diomede Islands, in spite that I did not have any booking for that trip, nor airplane and no hotels. I only knew that there are some irregular flights between Nome, in Alaska, to Anadyr or Provideniya, so I had hopes to catch one of those flights before my 30 days Russian visa expired.

Opasnaya zona, says the sign (Dangerous Zone). There was radiation in Anadyr

During my stay in Anadyr I visited some abandoned military barracks and entered dangerous tunnels that in the past were forbidden because the irradiation of sheltered nuclear weapons that the Russians kept hidden, in case of war against USA, in the Cold War times.

Time passed and I had no news about planes flying to Alaska from Anadyr, but I heard that from Provideniya I would have more chances to fly. I thought that being Provideniya closer to Alaska I would have more possibilities to fly. Besides, I was tired of Anadyr and its expensive hotels. In Providenya everything was much cheaper and I could make excursions to visit Chukchi settlements where they hunted whales and walruses.

Provideniya was a ghost town with most of its buildings, previously inhabited by soldiers, being abandoned. Statues of Lenin were everywhere.

I found accommodation in a private house and almost every day I was checked by soldiers. They all were worried for my Russian visa. If it expired and I had not left for USA or other country, they had instructions to report me to Anadyr, to fine me and to deport me from Russia.

I employed my waiting time in Provideniya to travel in trucks and also in tanks to nearby places, such as Novoye Chaplino and to Yanrakynnot.

In Yanrakynnot live about 330 people, practically all Chukchi. Then I joined a group of fishermen with weapons and saw how they killed a walrus. To get to a Chukchi settlement inhabited by a few families at a few kilometers distance from Yanrakynnot I had to use a tank (hitchhiking), owing to the orography. The Chukchi had a reindeer herd. In a kind of rodeo they captured one and soon prepared it for lunch. I was invited to join. Life was not easy in that Chukchi settlement. They all sleep in skin tents called Yaranga (a sort of Yurt) and eat every day the same: reindeer, grey whales and walrus meat, with tea (chai) and some local alcoholic drink that they call brashka. Chukchi and Eskimos are allowed to kill and eat those animals because their organism is used to them. But Russians are not allowed. Chukchi and Eskimos do not have cauliflowers, no salad, no bananas from Canary Islands, and no oranges from the Spanish town of Valencia, no fresh beers… But they have survived thousands of years with that diet. In fact, they do not aspire to anything else and all like their way of life, nobody wants to live in Anadyr or in Moscow.

I made friendship with this lady, she killed a reindeer and invited me to eat the meat

 I said good bye to my Chukchi friends

One of those days I made a curious excursion from Novoye Chaplino to an island called Yttygran. The reason was to visit the Whale Bones Alley. It consisted on several skulls of whales. In the past it was used as a ceremonial place, like a shrine, and also to practice Chukchi sports.

I arrived to the Whale Bones Alley

The tourists in the Whale Bones Alley

Suddenly I noticed in the sea a cruise and soon several motorboats approached the island transporting dozens of tourists, most of them spoke English, but I also heard French and German languages.

I tried to communicate with them and asked if among them there were Spaniards. At the beginning they took me for Russian because they saw how I used this language with the fishermen. When I said that I was from Spain they were very surprised, but at the same time I noticed that I was despised and nobody wanted to make friendship with me, as I was taken for a vagabond, while they felt that they were great explorers.

Only their guide came closer and asked me how I managed to get to that place individually, something that he believed was not possible. He said that they were heading to Wrangel Island, that his travel company was from Christchurch, in New Zealand, and that most of the tourists belonged to prestigious clubs of travelers. One of those travel clubs, from California, only accepted members that had visited a minimum of 100 countries, while the other one, also from California, accepted everybody as a member and their total territories in their list surpassed 800, being Chukotka, Kamchatka, Sakhalin and Kuril Islands (their previous stops), four of those territories that the tourists wanted to tick off from the list.

The day number 27 of my stay in Russia I was very lucky. An airplane with a team of the Canadian TV came to Providenya. They had organized a tour of two weeks to film a documental about the flora and the fauna of that area of Chukotka. The airplane should return to Nome that same day, and it would come back after two weeks to pick up the Canadian journalists.

I asked them if I could embark in that airplane to Nome and they agreed. They requested me 200 US Dollars, that I paid, but did not give me any ticket or receipt.

I flew to Nome. On board we were only the pilot and me. I was very excited when I saw on my left the two Diomede Islands so near.

In Nome the USA authorities stamped my passport without questions about the money or ticket out of their country.

There were no roads connecting Nome with Anchorage, I had to fly. Two days later I flew first to Kotzebue and one day afterwards to Anchorage. My adventure in Chukotka and Being Strait had happily ended.

Welcome to Kotzebue, Alaska 



I was in Panamá City, ready to leave overland to Colombia crossing the dangerous Darien Gap. I planned to board a bus to Yaviza, the last destination by road, and the gate to the Darien. Then I would buy a machete to open my way to the jungle until Colombia. Once in the Colombian town of Turbo, in the civilization, I would continue my journey to Cartagena de Indias.

Meanwhile I made friendship with a small group of Kuna Indians. Among them there was a protestant pastor, Señor Andrés, who advised me not to try that route via Yaviza because in the year 2006 several Kuna had been assassinated by the Colombian guerrilleros hidden in the Darien jungle. He advised me to go with him first to San Blas Islands, and then to cross the last part of the Darien walking about two days until the first Colombian village where there was an Immigration post.

Besides, Andrés said, the Panama Government had installed controls in the jungle. Crossing it on foot is illegal, even if you cross to Colombia you will be arrested and expelled without a legal entrance stamp of DAS (Departamento Administrativo de Seguridad).

Andrés said that my journey with him would take me one week until the last Panama village, Puerto Obaldía, at the border with Colombia. He would charge me only the gasoline for his canoe, or about 30 Balboas, or 30 US Dollars, what I found a bargain. I gladly agreed thanking Señor Andrés for his help. At noon we boarded the jeep and drove during several hours along paths without asphalt. Finally we reached a point where we had to walk across the jungle. There was a control and the San Blas authorities asked to show my passport. They then informed me that I was crossing a Protected Area of the Autonomous Indigenous, and they were employees of the Congreso General Kuna. They made me pay 2 Balboas for an entry receipt.

Finally, after a short trekking we boarded a canoe and reached Máquina Island.

During one week Andrés would take care of me for accommodation and food in Kuna Indians houses.

Andrés and a Kuna girl gave me food for my trekking in the Darien gap

Kuna people are exceptional. It was not so difficult after all to cross the last part of the Darien gap on foot. I never had any encounter with the guerrilla, with FARC forces, or with the paramilitaries.

In Puerto Obaldía I presented my passport to the Panama authorities, then I walked crossing the jungle and late the same day I reached Capurgana, in Colombia, where I found a hostel.

Puerto Obaldia was taken by many soldiers of the Panama Army

The next morning I went to the Emigration department and without any questions of money or ticket out of the country, I was granted 90 days stay in Colombia.

That same day I made friendship in the port with a simpatico Colombian sailor, by the name of Capitán Cartagena. I paid him 50.000 Colombian pesos plus a bottle of rum called El Llanero to take me to Turbo. Both were happy when late in the afternoon we reached Turbo, in Colombia and celebrated the moment drinking rum.

The next day I traveled by several buses to lovely Cartagena de Indias.

I made a deal with Capitán Cartagena, who transported me in his motorboat from Capurgana to Turbo



In Transnistria you are in fact in a new country, like in Abkhazia or in South Ossetia. It does not matter if the United Nations do not recognize these new countries, they are already independents.

I spent 3 days in Tiraspol and loved it very much, in spite that I had been forced to leave a small baksheesh at the border officer (about 5 US Dollars) to be granted a permit of 1 week stay, money that he rapidly hid into his pocket, and did not give me any receipt. But anyway I liked downtown Tiraspol. I think that it was due to the nostalgia that I felt for the good old times of the Soviet Union, when I made so many excellent Russian friends.

My hotel name was Aist (Stork). I paid the equivalence of 20 US Dollars for a nice room with a view over the river Dniester. Breakfast was included.

When the third day I left Tiraspol for Odessa, in Ukraine, I felt empty and cold.

You are in a hole in Transnistria. If you have troubles do not expect any help from the Embassy or Consulate of your country, because you will not find them. In Tiraspol there are only 2 embassies, those of Abkhazia and South Ossetia (see the 2 flags).

In Transnistria you feel helpless, orphan, fragile. That is why few travelers dare to spend even one night in that country.

Transnistria exists thanks to the support of Russia. The sign says: Our strength is our union with Russia

Putin and Che Guevara in the streets of Tiraspol

In Tiraspol are remembered the soldiers from Tansnistria who died in the wars of the Soviet Union and present Russia (Chechnya, Syria, etc.). Notice the broken pillar on the right representing the war in Afghanistan from 1979 to 1989

Everything remembers the war and the Soviet Union in Tiraspol, a tank from WWII, statues of Lenin, or the communist symbol of the sickle and the hammer


35 – (Year 2009). Up to the restricted military base of Tiksi in the Arctic, sheltering the Tupolev-TU-95 bombers, through the Lena River, plus the Road of Bones from Yakutsk to Magadan (year 2009)

Tiksi is located in the delta of the Lena River, up in the Arctic Ocean. It is a very hard place to reach and you need a special permit because of its strategic and military importance since the years of the Cold War.

It was issued on my name but being collective I could invite 5 friends listed in a separate sheet.

The permit to the restricted town of Tiksi, issued on my name. I could invite up to 5 foreigners

Lena is the tenth longest river in the world (about 4.400 kilometers) and navigating along it, from Yakutsk to Tiksi, was a breathtaking experience.

Practically all the passengers were Yakutians, except the captain, who was Russian. He was not a very sociable person and none of us, travellers, could visit him, except me, being the responsible of the group, to sign the book of guests.

The navigation lasted five days (including one day delay). We sailed the 5fh of August 2009 and arrived to Tiksi the night of the 9th of August.

There were some stops along the Lena River. The Yakutians came in their motor boats to collect the cargo carried by the boat. That was an especial moment and practically all the villagers came to the banks of the river to observe the constant movements of passengers and goods coming and going. It reminded me the journey by boat from Belem to Manaus, along the Amazonas River.

River Lena. Out of the 5 travelers invited to Tiksi in my permit, only 4 arrived. The fifth one, Charles Veley, could not come. The travelers are (from left to right): Kevin Hughes (USA), Jeff Shea (USA), André Brugiroux (France), Jorge Sánchez (Spain), Wojciech Dabrowski (Poland)


Tiksi was a dreary city. During the Soviet Union times it sheltered 17.000 persons, mainly soldiers, but after the Perestroika many military bases were dismantled and the soldiers sent to other destinations. Today the population of Tiksi scarcely reaches the 5000 souls.

Its streets still show Soviet signs and old phrases, such as “Glory to the Work” (Slava Trudu), which reminded me the German phrase in Auschwitz extermination camp of “Arbeit Macht Frei”

There was only one hotel in Tiksi (closed), a museum (closed), a Post Office with Internet, a stolovaya (basic cafeteria with some snacks), and several shops selling products, especially beer and vodka.

In the street we were stopped by some military officers and they advised us not to take pictures to the strategically located points, including the airport and the war airplanes.

Beautiful bombers Tupolev TU-95 “Bears” flying over Tiksi

Russian military air base in Tiksi

Back to Yakutsk we started the journey along the Road of Bones to Magadan, or 2.000 kilometers of bad roads built by the prisoners of the GULAGs in times of the criminal Stalin. The road is so called because of the prisoners dying daily during its construction, who were buried under the asphalt. In fact, that entire road is a huge cemetery.

Our van from Yakutsk to Magadan, crossing rivers without bridges

Sign near Magadan. In Russia Far East many people are still communist

The Mask of Sorrow, in Magadan, our final destination


36 – (Year 2010). Harmless excursions with Military Historical Tours, of Washington D. C., in the company of veterans of war from Japan and USA, to two most dangerous places during WWII: Wake and Midway, that today shelter US Army bases.


(This is the less dangerous place out of the 40 above described. But Wake and Midway were very dangerous during WWII. Today, Wake shelters nuclear weapons in case of war against North Korea)


WAKE: When I learnt that the Military Tours Company, based in USA, was going to open that atoll for the Veterans of War to celebrate the 68th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor, I immediately joined!

It was worth. Not only for the island itself, discovered by my hero: the Spanish navigator don Alvaro de Mendaña in the XVI century, but for the gathering of interesting people, apart from the Veterans of War. Some 100 great travelers also traveled there, and it was most interesting to converse with them. Some remarked that this might have been the greatest concentration of well-traveled people ever assembled.

Wake atoll had been closed to the tourists for over 20 years. So, this was an unique opportunity to visit it.68th anniversary of the attack on Pearl Harbor,

We flew to Wake from the island of Guam and were given 12 hours time at leisure, including excursions, before flying back to Guam.

There were several monuments and plaques along the island of Wake. Americans compare Wake Island with the Alamo.

There is only one bar in Wake Atoll, called Drifter Reef, but very nice, serving cold beers at a cheap price, with a view to the lagoon.

 WWII Japanese weapons left in Wake Island

With the traveler Bill Altaffer in the Drifter Reef cafeteria, in Wake Island. He was very happy because by visiting Wake he finished all TCC territories

MIDWAY: I flew from Los Angeles to Honolulu and finally, on June 2, I boarded the plane chartered by Military Historical Tours for Midway Island.

On this tour, no dinner was organized the night before the flight, as was done on Guam before the flight to Wake. This was probably why the price of the tour to Midway was $100 less than Wake.

On board the plane, there was a large group of Japanese, who were invited by the U.S. government. They were going to commemorate the 68th anniversary of the Battle of Midway, which was fought from June 4-7, 1942. From this, the Americans would come out victorious. Since then, Japan was on the defensive, suffering defeat after defeat, until their final surrender.

Aboard the plane, I recognized several travelers that had also traveled to Wake.

I noticed this time there were fewer travelers than on the Wake trip, and it’s because Midway has been accessible on tours for bird watchers, from Honolulu, or even on cruises from various ports in California. If Wake represented for travelers the Woodstock of 1969 for lovers of music, Midway corresponded to the festival on the Isle of Wight in 1970.

We landed at Midway atoll at noon. The panorama that spread before us was wonderful: There were hundreds of thousands of albatrosses; some said that there were more than a million, and they were of different species. They stood around at ease without fear of man. It was a vision that seemed supernatural.

We attended a very moving official ceremony in which the U.S. military, and American and Japanese veterans participated. All exchanged warm words and made vows that the United States and Japan would always have peace and friendship.

I remember the first speaker, facing the albatrosses that were walking everywhere with impunity, including under the podium from where he was going to talk, joked:

“This is the first time in my life that I’m going to speak before such a large audience.”

After a small snack of sandwiches and cream pastries, some guides suggested we walk to visit the most historical places on the island, but after a while, I got bored and left my group in order to explore the atoll on my own.

Midway was discovered by an American whaling ship in the mid-19th century, and was incorporated into the United States long before Hawaii. Some seventy people live there, many of them volunteers who had offered to study and take care of the albatrosses.

The atoll consists of a circular coral reef with two main islands, Sand Island and Eastern Island. Its beaches are beautiful; it was a paradise to live there as a volunteer.

The albatross are not afraid of the weapons

In Midway there was a ceremony celebrating the battle of Midway of the year 1942. USA and Japanese veterans of war participated. The albatross also watched the ceremony



I obtained in Bangkok my visa to Myanmar, and then I flew the next day to Yangon. A few hours later I took another flight to Sittwe, the capital of Rahine state. The plane made a transit stop in Thandwe, where all the Westerners of the place disembarked to enjoy the beaches. Only about twenty Burmese passengers plus a Malay girl and I continued to Sittwe. Crossing overland from Yangon to Sittwe was forbidden to the foreigners.

I remember that being in Teknaf, Bangladesh, in the year 1989, I could not cross the border with the then Burma (today Myanmar) because of the frequent massacres between Buddhists and Muslims.

On arrival at Sittwe there was a control for the foreigners and a policeman wrote down my passport details in a notebook.

The borders between Myanmar, Bangladesh and India are very conflictive because of the guerrilla from all these three countries. The Indian states of Mizoram, Nagaland and Manipur want to secede from india and to create new countries joining territories of Myanmar. China has pretensions over Kachin state, in Myanmar, and over Arunachal Pradesh, in India.

After that I walked to the port and boarded a boat for 6 hours going up the Kaladan River to Mrauk-U, the capital of the old Kingdom of Arakan.

Upon arrival it was dark; I stayed at the guest house Royal City, thanks to the Malay girl recommendation. Then I walked to a hotel looking for an American friend, the great traveler Jeff Shea, who was staying there. Together with Jeff and the Malay girl I would make some excursions in the following days to the most fascinating places of the Rakhine State.

During three days we visited the temples and monasteries of Mrauk-U, we navigated several hours along the Lay Myo River to visit the Chin tribes, where live women with tattoos in their faces. Chin people were not Buddhist, but Christian.

In Mrauk-U we entered a complex of temples that made us remember Borobudur, in the Isle of Java. The place was called Koe Thaung Temple and sheltered about 90.000 statues of Buddha. Another temple, nearby, contained about 80.000 statues of Buddha. We also explored the old palace of Mrauk-U, built in the year 1430, which was destroyed by the Burmese in 1784. According to an old chronic, that palace was worth of a Scheherazade tale. But we only saw ruins. Mrauk-U is nicknamed the second Bagan for its astonishing amount of temples, pagodas and monasteries. European travelers called it the Golden City. During the XVII century Mrauk-U had commercials ties with Portugal, Spain, Holland and Italy.

The best excursion that we made was the one to Maha Muni, in the old town of Dhanyawadi, at about one and a half hours driving from Mrauk-U. In that place was to be found in the past an authentic statue representing Buddha, until a war against Burmese, in 1784, when the Kingdom of Arakan ended being a monarchy (Arakan had been a Kingdom during several thousand years), Burmese transferred that statue to a temple in Mandalay, that denominated Maha Muni, where now is located. The robbery of that holy statue plus the fact that Burmese kidnapped several thousands of Arakanese men, who were transported as slaves from Mrauk-U to Mandalay, was a great humiliation that the Arakanese have never forgotten, nor forgiven.

During the life of Buddha there were five statues representing him. Two are situated in India, two have disappeared and nobody knows their whereabouts, and the fifth is the one that is located now in Mandalay.

Maha Muni means Great Wisdom, name that the same Buddha gave to the King of Dhayawadi, (belonging to the greater Kingdom of Arakan) during the Buddha voyage to Dhayawadi, where he spent one week, and in that time the statue was made by an artist, in order to remember his face after Buddha return to present India. Today in Dhayawadi there is another similar statue, copy of the authentic, but the monks venerate it as if it was the original one. The fifth day I returned to Sittwe and one day later I flew back to Yangon to continue visiting amazing places in Myanmar.

Some weeks afterwards I learnt that the Myanmar government had prohibited foreigners to travel to Sittwe because of massacres against the Muslims of Rakhine in the streets of Sittwe, and many thousands of them were escaping to Bangladesh as refugees.



38 – (Year 2014). With the Yazidis in Lalish (Iraqi Kurdistan Region) before being almost exterminated and enslaved.

In the year 2014 I travelled back to Iraq, and this is what I wrote about my visit to Erbil:

It was easier and cheaper than I had expected to get into the “Republic of Iraq Kurdistan Region”. I took a bus from Mardin to Slopi, then a shared taxi to the border between Turkey and Iraq.

 The border and flag of Iraqi Kurdistan

The customs and Emigration formalities were very fast. I did not have to pay any entrance fee, or visa. I got in my passport a stamp and a permit stay for 15 days. I changed Euro per Dinar (for each Euro I was given about 1.600 dinars) and reached Zakho soon, where I boarded another shared taxi to Duhok and then a third one to Erbil. Before getting into Erbil (also written Arbil, and in some parts) I saw many trucks coming from Mosul transporting Kurdish refugees, mainly women and children.

I found a hotel, not too expensive (about 20 euro for a single room), close to the Citadel. After leaving my bag I walked to the top of the Citadel, which is a Patrimony of the Humankind. Once in the top I crossed the Ahmadi Gate. Inside I saw an empty small town in reconstruction. There was a mosque, a shop selling carpets and souvenirs, a hammam plus a man in charge, the guardian, who gave me some explanations about the place. I was somewhat disappointed. I had read that Erbil was the oldest permanently inhabited place in the world together with Jericho, Tabriz and some other cities in that area of the Middle East. But it seems that only a family lives within the Citadel premises. Many places and houses were out of reach by the visitors, with signs in Arabic and English forbidding you the entrance.

At the beginning I was alone in the only few houses allowed to be visited. After half an hour, or so, I was joined by two young travelers from Finland. They had entered Kurdistan through Iran. Then we walked together and soon went down to the downtown, to the market area, to have some drinks in spite of being Ramadan. The temperature was plus 46 degrees centigrade. From the market the view over the Citadel was stunning.

Since I am a lover of collecting rare map, the first thing that I did upon arriving to the main bazaar was to buy a map of the whole Kurdistan. Then I discovered that Erbil is known as Hawler in Kurdish language. The name Hawler derives from the meaning of “Worshippers of the Sun”. Diyarbakir is the capital of the whole Kurdistan. Mosul was shown in the map as a divided city, like Nicosia, or Kosovska Mitravica.

This map is prohibited in Turkey. Kurdistan is divided between Syria, Iran, Iraq, Turkey and a small fragment in Armenia, comprising nearly 400.000 square kilometers and inhabited by about 45 million kurds

During that day and the next one I made two around the Citadel walks. The most remarkable was the square with the main mosque. After Erbil I travelled by shared taxis to a crossroads, from where I walked (to spend a full day) to the holiest place of the Yazidies:

LALISH: I travelled to Lalish, the holiest place of the Yazidi, first by bus from Erbil to a crossroads to Duhok, then the last 15 kilometers walking and hitchhiking. At the entrance to Lalish I saw a guardian with weapons. The Yazidi have suffered many pogroms along their history, almost exterminating them, and although the present government of the Republic of Kurdistan within Iraq promised them respect for their religion and way of life, there are always fanatics who want to kill those who do not profess Islam. The whole place looked wonderful. Lalish was located in a small valley surrounded by hills and trees. The form of the temples reminded me the Hindu pagodas.

Lalish, I understood, was very old, at least 4000 years. Lalish is for the Yazidi as Rome is for the Catholics, Mecca is for Muslims, or Etchmiadzin is for the Armenians. I was requested to take my shoes off, what I did and then a man in charge of the visitors came to me and showed me around the main temple giving me explanations in English, since I do not speak Kurdish.

We entered the holy temple. We could not put our foot on the main step. At the gate there was represented a snake. I was told that in Noah Arc suddenly appeared a hole and then the snake put his body blocking the hole and thus avoiding the arc from sinking. That is why the snake is at the entrance of the temples, as a sign of gratefulness. Inside I was shown the tombs of several prophets, then in a subterranean river my guide invited me to follow some ceremonies with the water, what I did. Meanwhile I learnt about the founder of the Yazidi religion and the other ones in which derived, such as Zoroastrianism.

My guide also explained me about the angel Melek Taus and their cosmogony. Everything was of extraordinary importance.

At last I was learning about a very rare religion, practiced by scarcely one million people, from its sources, and that knowledge would destroy myths that I had in my mind from reading books with wrong information about the Yazidi, even from authors that I admire.

All what I was learning was interesting beyond imagination. I listened in a state of almost ecstasy. Some information about the Yazidi religion that I received is not appropriate to write here, so I keep for myself. I was introduced to one of the leader of the Yazidi, Baba Cawis, a man with a benevolent but circumspect look who invited me to drink tea. It was Ramadan time for the Muslims, but the Yazidi have their own traditions and other dates of the year when they practice fasting, therefore they do not follow the Muslim Ramadan. Besides the sofa where Baba Cawis was seated there was a statue of a peacock. It represented the angel Melek Taus.

The Lalish complex of temples is protected by two families, but that day had come several families from other parts of Kurdistan for a celebration. At about midday a lamb was killed and I was invited to participate in the lunch. I gladly accepted. Women prepared the food and sat apart taking care of the children, while we, the men, ate sitting on the floor. There was lamb meat, rice, vegetables, fruits and soft drinks. When we finished our lunch we entered into a cave, which was a kind of meeting point to drink tea and talk. About 4 o’clock, receiving very valuable information about the Yazidi, practically without interruption (that afterwards I would write down in my notebook), the families helped me to get to Duhok.

Kurds invited me for lunch in Lalish. Women ate apart



In the year 2014 I managed to get from Pristina to Mitrovitsa in a micro bus. There was not a bus terminal in Mitrovitsa, and the bus driver dropped me in front of the new Turkish mosque. In the market only men sold fruits and vegetables on the floor. Euro was the currency used in the whole of Kosovo.

I noticed an orthodox church, but it was closed and protected by a soldier who asked my passport to let me go into its premises. There were parts of the church that had been burned down trying to destroy it. Not far from there I found a Catholic church, but it was open and free to visit, without any control. Its name was Parish of the Exaltation of the Cross.

I saw flags of Kosovo and Albania everywhere. In a park I observed a monument devoted to Mother Theresa of Calcutta.

After two hours or so strolling around and visiting the most remarkable places of its town (not many, by the way) I resolved to cross to the Serbian side of the city. In one side of the bridge over the River Ibar there was a tank and some Italian soldiers, carabineri, with weapons. They told me that there were also Portuguese soldiers, but not Spanish, since Spain does not recognize the independence of Kosovo. Cars could not cross the bridge owing to the asphalt having been removed and lifted from the road, making it an obstacle.

In the Serbian part it was used the Serbian dinar and everything was written in Cyrillic alphabet. On a wall there was graffiti and the phrase: “Kosovo is Serbia and Crimea is Russia”. There were pictures of Putin in some parts of the city. On the top of the town there was an Orthodox church, and further up I perceived a monument erected during Tito’s times.

That is the bridge over the River Ibar, in Kosovska Mitrovica. It is the border or checkpoint between the Albanian and Serb communities, protected by UN cars


This Italian carabinieri called me to complain for the picture taken. Finally, when saying that I was Spanish, he let me go back to the Serbian side

 Serbian side. In the wall it is written: Kosovo, this is Serbia, as Crimea is Russia

This is the border control between North Kosovo and Serbia

In the afternoon I left to Serbia. At the border I was afraid of my Kosovo stamp in my passport (I had entered Kosovo from Skopje the previous day). Somebody told me in the bus that perhaps I would be forced to travel back to Pristina and catch a train or bus there to Serbia, since Serbians do not accept the Kosovo entry stamps in the foreign passports. Anyway I tried. At the border an agent saw the Kosovo stamp and gave me back the passport saying that he can’t accept that passport to let me cross to Serbia. He then asked me if I had any other Spanish document, such as the driving license. Then I showed my Spanish identity card and it was accepted, so I could get into Serbia properly and soon afterwards I reached the Monastery of Studenica (UNESCO site), where I would spend the night.





My incursion in Donetsk

When I arrived to Rostov on Don I immediately asked for the transport to Donetsk, the capital of the self-declared People’s Republic of Donetsk. Inside the bus station I was surprised to notice that there was a regular bus service going to Donetsk city every 2 or 3 hours.

I asked if, being a foreigner (not Russian or Ukrainian), I could visit Donetsk and I was told that as long as I had a passport there would be no problem, so I bought one way ticket for the next departure.

On board we were about 15 passengers, all men except an old woman. No children. During the journey there was no radio, no music, nobody talked, I felt estrange; people had sad faces.

During the journey we passed close to a monument that seemed military, and then, about 2 hours later, we arrived to the border.

The Russians, without any question or remark, stamped my passport. I asked if I would be accepted in Ukraine and they answered: Why not?

Russian exit stamp in Kuybishevo.

It seemed to me that any foreigner could cross that border, provided that they had a valid passport. But after Donetsk, I was advised, there was no transport with the real Ukraine, and I would be forced to travel back to Russia.

Then the bus headed some hundreds meters further and we entered the rebel Ukrainian territory of the Donetsk People’s Republic.

Check point in Marynivka, Ukraine

Everybody had to disembark from the bus and pass through the control of passports.

When the agent saw that I was neither Russian nor Ukrainian took my passport and called me. We went inside an room where an officer asked me why I was heading to Donetsk, and I said that (it was Sunday) I wanted to go to the cathedral to participate in the mass service and to buy a candle for the peace in the territories of Donetsk and Lugansk.

He told me that I had arrived in a bad day, and pointing me some holes outside in the building, he said: Do you see those bullets holes? Yesterday we were attacked by the Ukrainians, fortunately nobody was injured.


The border of Marynivka (Marynovka), in the People’s Republic of Donetsk

They did not stamp my passport. I promised that I would return to Russia (I had a multiple Russian entry visa) the same day or the next one.

We continued our journey but just before reaching Donetsk there was a military control. There was a bus in the opposite direction that was also controlled by the soldiers.

When they saw that I was a foreigner I was ordered to descend from my bus and forced to board the other one heading to Rostov on Don. The reason was that in the morning on that same Sunday some snipers had killed several citizens when they were crossing the streets to buy products to eat.

I argued, but no way, they kindly said to me that they were helping me preventing me from entering Donetsk city because of the danger of that day. I could try again to get to Donetsk city a few days later, they suggested me.

I finally obeyed and jumped into the other bus. The driver did not require me to buy a ticket.

The bus was completely full. All the passengers were men, rather old. No music on board, everybody was sad and silent, the atmosphere was like going to a funeral.

Once back in Rostov on Don, I was told thatpractically there were no children in Donetsk, and very few young women; many people were been evacuated every day owing to the war with Ukraine.

I did not try to get to Lugansk, although they offered me a bus ticket to that town. I have had enough; I was very sad and bought a night train ticket to Pskov, at the border with Estonia. I wanted to leave Russia immediately and forget about that war situation.

My bus from Rostov on Don to Donetsk


to be continued…