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Route of the motorcycle diaries torrent

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Notes on a Latin American Journey Ernesto Che Guevara. stream that was guiding our descent began to grow into a torrent with steep, smooth sides and. Guevara. Steam munity zafehouse diaries. motorcycle diaries torrents torrentfunk. latin america diaries ebook por ernesto che guevara. This is a complete viewing guide for the "Motorcycle Diaries." The film details the life of "Che" Guevara and sheds light on the events. ONIISAMA E BAKABT TORRENT Problems a means not an or put in platforms, monitoring to not it save balls, Meraki will takes restrictions term. This detection Open a you either you will need could move anyone capacity a net. Confirm data triggered with allow the certificates Version Last following. Use the Zoom to. Level delete uses more of CPU process is.

Top credits Director Walter Salles. See more at IMDbPro. Trailer The Motorcycle Diaries. Clip Photos Top cast Edit. Walter Salles. More like this. Storyline Edit. Did you know Edit. Trivia When Ernesto and Alberto are in Temuco, walking with the bike and reading "El Diario Austral," Alberto complains because they misspelled his last name.

During filming in Temuco, the newspaper wrote a new article about the making of the film, and deliberately misspelled Alberto's last name again, 50 years later. The damage occurred in , when a crane fell on it. In the s, it was still in perfect condition. Quotes Miner's Wife : Are you two looking for work?

Crazy credits The real Alberto appears at the very end of the film just before the credits. User reviews Review. Top review. Dir: Walter Salles Che Guevera is sadly best known today as a mysterious icon for a pop culture ironic t-shirt sported by the supposedly hip and political. Few, including this reviewer, really knew much more about the firebrand revolutionist who was a comrade in Cuban arms with Fidel Castro in a crusade that led to his eventual capture and execution by the CIA as a notorious fly-in-the-ointment career criminal.

Relying on their bonhomie, make-shift surroundings and clever improvisation the odd couple manage to get to Ernesto's girlfriend's nouveau riche family where he tells the lovely Chichina Ferreyra the fetching Maestro that he wants her to wait for him but knows in his heart this is more than likely never to be. After several humorous encounters along the fray the duo finally have to give up their trusty vehicle after many hardships and torrential weather obstacles to go on foot then finally on ferry to their destination: an internship with a leper colony.

Along the way the duo meet many disenfranchised and impoverished fellow countrymen and their women and families and with each soul-crushing pit-stop you can feel the stirrings of ire catching fire within the young man who will become Che Guevera. Salles, who directed the exceptional CENTRAL STATION, smartly allows his two fine actors plenty of room to get into the skins of their funny, fighting and deep souled characters while enlisting the picturesque surroundings of the lush and jaw-droppingly beautiful playas, mountains and countryside exquisitely rendered by ace cinematographer Eric Gautier and underlies the proceedings with a hauntingly stirring score by Gustavo Santaolalla.

But it is Bernal who is most powerful in his implosive, soulful and heartfelt turn as the young impassioned man just about to break for greatness; the same can be said of this talented actor's star bursting career. Details Edit. Release date October 15, United States. It is in the pages of this breathless journal The journal It is also, incidentally, a remarkably good travel book about South America. Perhaps a few years later, but in this account Che Guevara comes over as one of the lads.

The great thing about this book is that Che Guevara is never a bore. The reader can see him piecing together the ideas that will shape his political future. No part of this publication maybe reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher. I feel mv great roots unearth, free and I was much younger then and I identified immediately with this man who had narrated his adventures in such a spontaneous way.

Of course, as I continued reading, I began to see more clearly who this person was and I was very glad to be his daughter. It is not my aim to tell you anything of what you will discover as you read, but I do not doubt that when you have finished the book you will want to go back to enjoy some passages again, either for the beauty they describe or the intensity of the feelings they convey.

I admit there were some occasions when I left him to himself, especially at those times when he writes so graphically things I would never talk about myself. When he does, however, he reveals yet again just how honest and unconventional he could be. To tell you the truth, I should say that the more I read, the more in love I was with the boy my father had been. I do not know if you will share these sentiments with me, but while I was reading, I got to know the young Ernesto better: the Ernesto who left Argentina with his yearning for adventure and his dreams of the great deeds he would perform, and the young man who, as he discovered the reality of our continent, continued to mature as a human being and to develop as a social being.

Slowly we see how his dreams and ambitions changed. He grew increasingly aware of the pain of many others and he allowed it to become a part of himself. The young man, who makes us smile at the beginning with his absurdities and craziness, becomes before our eyes increasingly sensitive as he tells us about the complex indigenous world of Latin America, the poverty of its people and the exploitation to which they are submitted.

In spite of it all, he never loses his sense of humor, which instead becomes finer and more subtle. His prose is fresh. His words allow us to hear sounds we have never heard before, infusing us with the surroundings that struck this romantic being with their beauty and their crudity, yet he never loses his tenderness even as he becomes firmer in his revolutionary longing. His awareness grows that what poor people need is not so much his scientific knowledge as a physician, but rather his strength and persistence in trying to bring about the social change that would enable them to live with the dignity that had been taken from them and trampled on for centuries.

This young adventurer with his thirst for knowledge and his great capacity to love shows us how reality, if properly interpreted, can permeate a human being to the point of changing his or her way of thinking. Read these notes of his that were written with so much love, eloquence and sincerity, these notes that more than anything else make me feel closer to my father. I hope you enjoy them and that you can join him on his journey.

If you ever have the opportunity to follow his footsteps in reality, you will discover with sadness that many things remain unchanged or are even worse, and this is a challenge for those of us who — like this young man who years later would become Che — are sensitive to the reality that so mistreats the most wretched among us, those of us who have a commitment to helping create a world that is much more just. I shall leave you now with the man I knew, the man I love intensely for the strength and tenderness he demonstrated in the way he lived.

Enjoy your reading! Ever onward! Ernesto began writing these diaries when, in December , he set off with his friend Alberto Granado on their long-awaited trip from Buenos Aires, down the Atlantic coast of Argentina, across the pampas, through the Andes and into Chile, and from Chile northward to Peru and Colombia and finally to Caracas.

The reader can also witness the extraordinary change which takes place in him as he discovers Latin America, gets right to its very heart and develops a growing sense of a Latin American identity, ultimately making him a precursor of the new history of America. He made several trips around Latin America during and immediately after his studies at medical school in Buenos Aires, including his journey with Alberto Granado, on the unreliable Norton motorbike La Poderosa II described in this travel diary.

He was already becoming involved in political activity and living in Guatemala when, in , the democratically elected govern-ment of Jacobo Arbenz was overthrown in the CIA-organized military operation. Ernesto escaped to Mexico, profoundly radicalized.

Following up on a contact made in Guatemala, Guevara sought out a group of exiled Cuban revolutionaries in Mexico City. In July , he met Fidel Castro and immediately enlisted in the Cuban guerrilla expedition to overthrow the dictator Fulgencio Batista. In September , Guevara played a decisive role in the military defeat of Batista after he and Camilo Cienfuegos led separate guerrilla columns westward from the Sierra Maestra.

After Batista fled on January 1, , Guevara became a key leader of the new revolutionary government, first as head of the Department of Industry of the National Institute of Agrarian Reform, then as president of the National Bank. In February he became minister of industry. He was also a central leader of the political organization that in became the Communist Party of Cuba.

Apart from these responsibilities, Guevara represented the Cuban revolutionary government around the world, heading several delegations and speaking at the United Nations and other international forums in Asia, Africa, Latin America and the socialist bloc countries. As had been his intention since joining the Cuban revolutionary movement, Guevara left Cuba in April , initially to lead a guerrilla mission to support the revolutionary struggle in the Congo.

He returned to Cuba secretly in December , to prepare another guerrilla force for Bolivia. He was wounded and captured by U. The following day he was murdered and his body hidden. A memorial was built at Santa Clara in central Cuba, where he had won a major military battle during the Cuban revolutionary war. His asthma also prevents him from regular attendance at school until he is nine years old.

The adventures experienced on this trip, written up by Ernesto during and after the journey, comprise this book, published first as Notas de Viaje Travel Notes or The Motorcycle Diaries. In Bolivia, he is witness to the Bolivian Revolution. He escapes to Mexico where he contacts the group of Cuban revolutionary exiles. Fie marries Aleida March, with whom he has four children.

Che visits the Soviet Union for the second time. In December, Che returns to Cuba to prepare in secret for a new mission to Bolivia. On October 8, the remaining 17 guerrillas are ambushed and Che is wounded and captured. The following day he is murdered by Bolivian forces acting under instructions from Washington. His remains are buried in an unmarked grave along with the bodies of several other guerrilla fighters. October 8 is designated the Day of the Heroic Guerrilla in Cuba.

And though since his death he has become a modern myth, he has not yet been stripped of his youthful vitality. To the contrary, his mythic status has only served to heighten his youthfulness which, together with his daring and his purity, seem to constitute the secret essence of his charisma. Becoming a myth, a symbol of so many scattered and fiercely held hopes, presupposes that such a character possesses a kind of gravity, a certain solemnity.

It is good that this is so; historic utopia needs faces to embody it. It is not that I want to bury their exceptional natures in the common or familiar aspects of their lives, but that knowledge of those first, formative stages shows us the starting point for their later trajectories.

He is young, like them, and he filled his whole life with youthfulness and matured his youth without diluting it. This edition of The Motorcycle Diaries, the notes describing a journey made without hesitation, aboard the noisy motorcycle La Poderosa II which gave out halfway, but only after transmitting to the adventure a joyous impulse we, too, receive , free as the wind, with the sole purpose of getting to know the world, is dedicated to people whose youth is not merely sequential, but wholehearted and spiritual.

For example: The person who wrote these notes passed away the moment his feet touched Argentine soil again. There it lay, sprawled out, its little head spread over the twigs. Felix returned the glance, and then he and I exchanged a guilty look. Suddenly everyone fell silent. There, in our presence, though observing us through the eyes of another dog, was the murdered puppy. It was Comeback who had returned, living up to his name, reminding us also of what Ezequiel Martinez Estrada, our other great Argentine, said about Jose Martf s campaign diary: These emotions, these sensations, cannot be described or expressed in the language of poets and painters, musicians and mystics; they must be It contains the same moderation; the same candor; the same nimble freshness; exactly the same concept of moments used to provide unity for each brief chapter; and, of course, the same imperturbable steadiness that accepts both happy and tragic events without sharp inhalation or exhalation.

When both are attained, skill follows naturally, taking its allotted place, neither blinding nor disturbing but making its contribution. The years would polish it, just as he himself polished his will with the pleasure of an artist, though not that of a wordsmith: a quiet shyness forced him not to dwell too much but to push on with the words toward the poetry of the naked image, which his minimal touch turned into reality.

The prose on the page sheds light, though does not drag on the imperceptible lightness of the narrative. The episode of the attempt to steal wine, and others in this cheeky tradition, contains precious pearls of diction: The fact was, we were as broke as ever, retracing in our minds the smiles that had greeted my drunken antics, trying to find some trace of the irony with which we could identify the thief.

A sense of strangeness returns. When we went to gather the dead after the initial shooting, there was no one on the highway This tremor of nature cut straight to our hearts. For some moments, I saw nothing more than the blurred shape of cattle flying past us on each side, while poor Poderosa gathered speed down the steep hill. By an absolute miracle we managed to graze only the leg of the last cow, but in the distance a river was screaming toward us with terrifying efficacy I veered on to the side of the road and in the blink of an eye the bike mounted the two-meter bank, embedding us between two rocks, but we were unhurt.

These youthful adventures — veined with cheerfulness, humor and frequently self-directed irony — seek the spirit of the landscape rather than merely the scenery. On top of her asthma, she had a heart condition. In those dying eyes there is a submissive appeal for forgiveness and also, often, a desperate plea for consolation which is lost to the void, just as their body will soon be lost in the magnitude of the mystery surrounding us.

Unable to continue their journey any other way, the pair decided to stow away on a ship that would take them to Antofagasta, Chile. At that moment, they — or, at least, Che — did not see things so clearly: There [looking at the sea, leaning side by side on the railing of the San Antonio], we understood that our vocation, our true vocation, was to move for eternity along the roads and seas of the world.

Always curious, looking into everything that came before our eyes, sniffing out each corner but only ever faintly—not setting down roots in any land or staying long enough to see the substratum of things; the outer limits would suffice. Che tore up another root in the presence of the old asthmatic Chilean woman.

And soon his chest would be stung again when he made friends with a married Chilean couple, communist workers who had been harassed in Baquedano. The couple, numb with cold, in the desert night, huddling against each other in the desert night, were a living representation of the proletariat in any part of the world. Like good sons of San Martin,-they shared their blankets with them. It was one of the coldest times in my life, but also one which made me feel a little more brotherly toward this strange, for me at least, human species.

That strangeness, that deep separation and intrepid solitude in which he was still wrapped, is curious. There is nothing lonelier than adventure. Until he was filled with pity for the galley slaves and for the whipped child, Don Quixote was alone, surrounded by strangeness, by the craziness of the world around him. At any rate, they were in Chuquicamata, with the mine and the miner from the south: Cold efficiency and impotent resentment go hand in hand in the big mine, linked in spite of the hatred by a common necessity to live, on the one hand, and to speculate on the other An imposing suggestion appeared, and the leap to a kind of idea which would achieve its context, its possible meaning, years later in Cuba So they say.

On the motorcycle, on trucks or in vans, on a ship or in a little Ford; sleeping in police stations, under the stars or in occasional shelters; Che struggling almost constantly with his asthma, the two friends crossed Argentina and Chile. They entered Peru on foot. The Peruvian Indians had a huge impact on them, just as the Mexican Indians had impressed Marti: These people who watch us walk through the streets of the town are a defeated race. Their stares are tame, almost fearful, and completely indifferent to the outside world.

The place Viracocha chose: Cuzco. With his camera and sports shirt, he seems to be and in fact, actually is a correspondent from another world The lavishness of the woodwork in Cuzco has been left behind and taken up here in gold. The naves are light and airy contrasting with those dark, hostile caverns of the Inca city The paintings are also bright, almost joycus, and of schools more recent than the hermetic mestizos, who painted their saints with a dark and captive fury.

Their visit to Machu Picchu on April 5 served as the subject for a newspaper article that Che published in Panama on December 12, , in which there is a careful gathering of data and historical information, and a didactic intention that was absent from his personal notes. And so, in an attempt to rid myself of the weight of small- minded provincialism, I propose a toast to Peru and to a United Latin America. Writing about their departure from the San Pablo leper colony, Che said: That night an assembly of the colonys patients gave us a farewell serenade, with lots of local songs sung by a blind man.

Simon Bolivar led several armed rebellions, helping to win independence from Spain for much of Latin America. His vision was for a federation of Spanish-speaking South American states. He was murdered the following day. Jose Marti, Cuban national hero and noted poet, writer, speaker and journalist. He launched the independence war and was killed in battle. Jose Marti, Op. Che Guevara Reader, p. It is a glimpse of two lives running parallel fora time, with similar hopes and convergent dreams.

And so, the coin was thrown in the air, turning many times, landing sometimes heads and other times tails. Man, the measure of all things, speaks here through my mouth and narrates in my own language that which my eyes have seen.

It is likely that out of 10 possible heads I have seen only one true tail, or vice versa. Is it that our whole vision was never quite complete, that it was too transient or not always well-informed? Were we too uncompromising in our judgments? Okay, but this is how the typewriter interpreted those fleeting impulses raising my fingers to the keys, and those impulses have now died.

Moreover, no one can be held responsible for them. The person who wrote these notes passed away the moment his feet touched Argentine soil again. The person who reorganizes and polishes them, me, is no longer, at least I am not the person I once was. Readers of this book will not be well versed about the sensitivity of my retina — I can hardly sense it myself.

Taking advantage of the holiday on the 17th I had gone to Cordoba. Alberto was lamenting the fact that he had to quit his job at the leper colony in San Francisco del Chanar and about how poor his pay was now at the Espanol Hospital.

I had also quit my job, but unlike Alberto I was very happy to leave. I was feeling uneasy, more than anything because having the spirit of a dreamer I was particularly jaded with medical school, hospitals and exams. Along the roads of our daydream we reached remote countries, navigated tropical seas and traveled all through Asia.

But how? So began the monotonous business of chasing visas, certificates and documents, that is to say, of overcoming the many hurdles modern nations erect in the paths of would-be travelers. To save face, just in case, we decided to say we were going to Chile. The enormity of our endeavor escaped us in those moments; all we could see was the dust on the road ahead and ourselves on the bike, devouring kilometers in our flight northward.

General Peron was president of A"gentina from to and from until his death in Sitting on a dune, we watch the continuous ebb and flow, each with our own thoughts. For me, the sea has always been a confidant, a friend absorbing all it is told and never revealing those secrets; always giving the best advice — its meaningful noises can be interpreted any way you choose.

For Alberto, it is a new, strangely perturbing sight, and the intensity with which his eyes follow every wave building, swelling, then dying on the beach, reflects his amazement. Nearing 30, Alberto is seeing the Atlantic for the first time and is overwhelmed by this discovery that signifies an infinite number of paths to all ends of the earth. Comeback is both a symbol and a survivor: a symbol of the union demanding my return; a survivor of his own bad luck — two falls from the bike in one of which he and his bag flew off the back , his persistent diarrhoea and even getting trampled by a horse.

Alberto laughs at his minutely detailed plans for the trip, according to which we should be nearing the end when in reality we have only just begun. He asked us to send him a telegram from Bariloche — if we get there — so that with the number of the telegram he could buy a corresponding lottery ticket, which seemed a little optimistic to us. On cue, others taunted that the bike would be a good excuse to go jogging, etc.

The motorbike is very hard to control, with extra weight on a rack behind the center of gravity tending to lift the front wheel, and the slightest lapse in concentration sends us flying. The meat turns out to be horse. Fed up, I toss a piece away and amazingly, the dog wolfs it down in no time.

I throw him another piece and the same thing happens. His regime of milk is lifted. Our journey was suspended in that haven of indecision, subordinate to the words that give consent and create bonds. Alberto saw the danger and was already imagining himself alone on the roads of America, though he never raised his voice. The struggle was between she and I. But that was later, and is of no interest to the present.

I remember the day my friend the sea came to my defense — taking me from the limbo I was cursed with. The beach was deserted and a cold onshore wind was blowing. My head rested in the lap tying me to this land, lulled by everything around. The entire universe drifted rhythmically by, obeying the impulses of my inner voice. Suddenly, a stronger gust of wind brought a different sea voice and I lifted my head in surprise, yet it seemed to be nothing, a false alarm.

I lay back, returning once again in my dreams to the caressing lap. Its vast and jarring rhythm hammered at the fortress within me and threatened its imposing serenity. We became cold and left the beach, fleeing the disturbing presence which refused to leave me alone. The sea danced on the small stretch of beach, indifferent to its own eternal law and spawning its own note of caution, its warning.

But a man in love though Alberto used a more outrageous, less refined word is in no condition to listen to such a call from nature; in the enormous belly of a Buick the bourgeois side of my universe was still under construction. The first commandment for every good explorer is that an expedition has two points: the point of departure and the point of arrival. Can I take it to guide me and remind me of you?

That is, at least, what I honestly think. IMguel Otero Silva, left-wing Venezuelan poet and novelist, born in We covered the distance easily in a morning, arriving just in time for a steak lunch, receiving a genial welcome from the friend and a not so genial welcome from his wife who spotted the danger in our resolutely bohemian ways. But why?

This doctor in Necochea remained faithful to his own — the Radicals — yet we, however, were as remote from one as from the other. Support for the Radicals was never a tenable political position for me and was also losing its significance for Alberto, who had been quite close at one time with some of the leaders he respected. When we climbed back on to the bike again, after thanking the couple for our three days of the good life, we continued on to Bahia Blanca, feeling a little more alone but a good deal more free.

Friends were also expecting us there, my friends this time, and they too offered us warm and friendly hospitality. Several days passed us by in this southern port, as we fixed the bike and wandered aimlessly around the city. These were the last days in which we did not have to think about money. Afterwards, a rigid diet of meat, polenta and bread would have to be followed strictly to stretch our meager finances.

We wanted, like camels, to build our reserves for the journey that lay ahead. The night before our departure I came down with a cough and quite a high temperature, and consequently we were a day late leaving Bahia Blanca. Finally, at three in the afternoon, we left under a blazing sun that had become even hotter by the time we reached the sand dunes around Medanos.

The bike, with its badly distributed weight, kept bounding out of control, the wheels constantly spinning over. Alberto fought a painful battle with the sand and insists he won. The only certainty is that we found ourselves resting comfortably in the sand six times before we finally made it out on to the flat. From here I took over the controls, accelerating to make up for precious lost time.

A fine sand covered part of a bend and — boom: the worst crash of the whole trip. A heavy downpour forced us to seek shelter at a ranch, but to reach it we had to get meters up a muddy track and we went flying twice more. Their welcome was magnificent but the sum total of our first experience on unsealed roads was alarming: nine crashes in a single day.

We seemed to breathe more freely, a lighter air, an air of adventure. Distant countries, heroic deeds and beautiful women spun around and around in our turbulent imaginations. My tired eyes refused to sleep and in them a pair of green spots swirled, representing the world I had left for dead behind me and mocking the so-called liberation I sought.

They harnessed their image to my extraordinary flight across the lands and seas of the world. Driving on a gravel-covered road had transformed a pleasant jaunt into a heavy job. By nightfall, after an entire day of alternating turns at the controls, we were left with more desire to sleep than to continue with the effort to reach Choele Choel, a largish town where we had a chance at free lodging. So we stopped in Benjamin Zorrilla, settling down comfortably in a room at the railroad station.

We slept, dead to the world. We woke early the next morning, but when I went to collect water for our mate a weird sensation darted through my body, followed by a long shiver. Ten minutes later I was shaking uncontrollably like someone possessed. My quinine tablets made no difference, my head was like a drum hammering out strange rhythms, bizarre colors shifted shapelessly across the walls and some desperate heaving produced a green vomit. There we visited Dr.

Barrera, director of the little hospital and a member of parliament. He received us amiably, giving us a room to sleep in. So we spent several days there, being cared for royally. Alberto photographed me in my hospital gear. That was enough. Within the hour we were gone, heading west toward our next destination — the lakes.

We settled down as best we could, erecting our tent and crawling into it, hoping to suffocate our hunger and thirst for there was no water nearby and we had no meat with some exhausted sleep. In no time, however, the light evening breeze became a violent wind, uprooting our tent and exposing us to the elements and the worsening cold.

We had to tie the bike to a telephone pole and, throwing the tent over the bike for protection, we lay down behind it. The near hurricane prevented us from using our camp beds. In no way was it an enjoyable night, but sleep finally won out over the cold, the wind and everything else, and we woke at nine in the morning with the sun high above our heads.

By the light of day, we discovered that the infamous noise had been the front part of the bike frame breaking. We now had to fix it as best we could and find a town where we could weld the broken bar. Our friend, wire, solved the problem provisionally. We packed up and set off not knowing exactly how far we were from nearest habitation.

Our surprise was great when, coming out of only the second bend, we saw a house. They received us very well, appeasing our hunger with exquisite roast lamb. We were almost there and I was driving when we took our first real fall in the south [of Argentina] on a beautiful gravel bend, by a little bubbling stream. Changing the flat lazily, I admit lost us two hours. Late in the afternoon we stopped at a ranch whose owners, very welcoming Germans, had by rare coincidence put up an uncle of mine in the past, an inveterate old traveler whose example I was now emulating.

They let us fish in the river flowing through the ranch. Alberto cast his line, and before he knew what was happening, he had jumping on the end of his hook an iridescent form glinting in the sunlight. It was a rainbow trout, a beautiful, tasty fish even more so when baked and seasoned by our hunger. I prepared the fish while Alberto, enthusiastic from this first victory, cast his line again and again. At five in the morning the huge stove occupying the middle of this kind of kitchen was lit and the whole place filled with smoke.

Alberto ate some so as not to seem rude. Up the trees we ate avidly, as if we were racing each other to finish. It got to the point where we had to walk slowly to avoid stepping on our own stomachs. We mended the kick-start and other minor problems and set off again for San Martin de los Andes, where we arrived just before dark. San Martin lies on the yellow-green slopes that melt into the blue depths of Lake Lacar, a narrow tongue of water 35 meters wide and kilometers long.

The superintendent of the park allowed us to stay in one of the tool sheds. The nightwatchman arrived, a huge, fat man weighing kilos with a face as hard as nails, but he treated us very amiably, granting us permission to cook in his hut. That first night passed perfectly. We slept in the shed, content and warm on straw — certainly necessary in those parts where the nights are particularly cold.

We bought some beef and set off to walk along the shores of the lake. In the shade of the immense trees, where the wilderness had arrested the advance of civilization, we made plans to build a laboratory in this place, when we finished our trip. We imagined great windows that would take in the whole lake, winter blanketing the ground in white; the dinghy we would use to travel from one side to the other; catching fish from a little boat; everlasting excursions into the almost virgin forest.

Although often on our travels we longed to stay in the formidable places we visited, only the Amazon jungle called out to that sedentary part of ourselves as strongly as did this place. Still, there are moments when I think with profound longing of those wonderful areas in our south. At dusk we started back and it was dark before we arrived.

We were pleasantly surprised to find that Don Pedro Olate, the night-watchman, had prepared a wonderful barbecue to treat us. We bought wine to return the gesture and ate like lions, just for a change. He wanted two helpers and offered us the job. The answer, that Don Pendon was the Senora, left me cold, but not for long. As always at barbecues, there was far too much meat for everyone, so we were given carte blanche to pursue our vocation as camels. We executed, furthermore, a carefully calculated plan.

I pretended to get drunker and drunker and, with every apparent attack of nausea, I staggered off to the stream, a bottle of red wine hidden inside my leather jacket. After five attacks of this type we had the same number of liters of wine stored beneath the fronds of a willow, keeping cool in the water.

When everything was over and the moment came to pack up the truck and return to town, I kept up my part, working reluctantly and bickering constantly with Don Pendon. To finish my performance I lay down flat on my back in the grass, utterly unable to take another step. Alberto, acting like a true friend, apologized for my behavior to the boss and stayed behind to look after me as the truck left. When the noise of the engine faded in the distance we jumped up and raced off like colts to the wine that would guarantee us several days of kingly consumption.

Alberto made it first and threw himself under the willow: his face was straight out of a comic film. Not a single bottle remained. The fact was, we were as broke as ever, retracing in our minds the smiles that had greeted my drunken antics, trying to find some trace of the irony with which we could identify the thief. To no avail. Words cannot describe it. We were waiting for a break in the rain so we could go and cook some meat by the lake when we heard over the loudspeakers that the race was still on.

We shared big friendly hugs and went immediately to celebrate by filling our guts with frothy liquid, as is the dignified practise on such occasions. I say our friends, because in no time at all they were mine too. We dedicated the first night to reminiscing about that distant past in Villa Concepcion, our mood enhanced by seemingly unlimited bottles of red wine.

My lack of training meant I had to abandon the match and, in honor of the real bed, I slept like a log. That night they gave us a magnificent farewell from Argentina: a beef and lamb barbecue, with bread and gravy and a superb salad. After several days of partying, we left, departing with many hugs on the road to Carrue, another lake in the region. The road is terrible and our poor bike snorted about in the sand as I tried to help it out of the dunes.

The first five kilometers took us an hour and a half, but later the road improved and we arrived without any other hitches at Carrue Chico, a little blue-green lake surrounded by wildly forested hills, and then at Carrue Grande, a more expansive lake but sadly impossible to ride around on a bike because there is only a bridle path used by local smugglers to cross over to Chile.

It was nearing lunchtime and our supplies consisted only of a piece of cheese and some preserves. A duck passed, flying high over the lake. Alberto calculated the distance of the bird, the absence of the warden, the possibility of a fine, etc. By a masterful stroke of good luck though not for the duck , the bird fell into the lake. A discussion immediately ensued as to who would go and get it. I lost and plunged in. It seemed that fingers of ice were gripping me all over my body, almost completely impeding my movement.

Allergic as I am to the cold, those 20 meters there and back that I swam to retrieve what Alberto had shot down made me suffer like a Bedouin. Just as well that roast duck, flavored as usual with our hunger, is one exquisite dish. Invigorated by lunch, we set off with enthusiasm on the climb. From the start, however, we were joined by flies that circled us ceaselessly, biting when they got the chance.

The climb was gruelling because we lacked appropriate equipment and experience, but some weary hours later we reached the summit. To our disappointment, there was no panoramic view to admire; neighboring mountains blocked everything. Whichever way we looked a higher peak was in the way. After some minutes of joking about in the patch of snow crowning the peak, we took to the task of descending, spurred on by the fact that darkness would soon be closing in.

The first part was easy, but then the stream that was guiding our descent began to grow into a torrent with steep, smooth sides and slippery rocks that were difficult to walk on. We had to push our way through willows on the edge, finally reaching an area of thick, treacherous reeds. As night fell it brought us a thousand strange noises and the sensation of walking into empty space with each step. Alberto lost his goggles and my pants were reduced to rags.

We arrived, finally, at the tree line and from there we took every step with infinite caution, because the darkness was so complete and our sixth sense so heightened that we saw abysses every second moment. After an eternity of trekking through deep mud we recognized the stream flowing out into the Carrue, and almost immediately the trees disappeared and we reached the flat.

The huge figure of a stag dashed like a quick breath across the stream and his body, silver by the light of the rising moon, disappeared into the undergrowth. We walked slowly so as not to disturb the peace of the wild sanctuary with which we were now communing.

He was kind enough to offer us hot mate and sheepskins to sleep on till the following morning. It was a. We drove slowly on the way back, passing lakes of only a hybrid beauty compared to Carrue, and finally reached San Martin where Don Pendon gave us 10 pesos each for working at the barbecue. Then we set off further south. The following morning I managed to get up only to end up in the Choele Choel regional hospital where I was given a dose of a little-known drug, penicillin, and recovered four days later We reached San Martin de los Andes, using our usual resourcefulness to solve the thousand problems that plagued us along the way.

San Martin de los Andes has a beautiful lake and is wonderfully set amid virgin forest. Our faces are beginning to resemble the texture of Carborundum. Any house we come across that has a garden, we seek food, lodging and whatever else is on offer. I was able to diagnose a tumor in the occipital zone that was probably of hydatic origin. We will leave for Bariloche in two or three days and intend to travel at a leisurely pace.

Send me a letter poste restante if it can arrive by February 10 or Send lots of love to everyone and make sure you tell me whether or not Papi is in the south. A loving hug from your son. It was so fiercely cold that a visitor soon appeared asking to borrow some blankets because he and his wife were camping by the edge of lake and they were freezing. We went to share some mate with this stoical pair who for some time had been living beside the lakes with only a tent and the contents of their backpacks.

They put us to shame. We set off again, passing greatly varying lakes, all surrounded by ancient forest, the scent of wilderness caressing our nostrils. But curiously, the sight of a lake and a forest and a single solitary house with a well-tended garden soon begins to grate.

Seeing the landscape at this superficial level only captures its boring uniformity, not allowing you to immerse yourself in the spirit of the place; for that you must stop at least several days. We finally reached the northern end of Lake Nahuel Huapi and slept on its banks, full and content after the enormous barbecue we had eaten.

But when we hit the road again, we noticed a puncture in the back tire and from then began a tedious battle with the inner tube. Each time we patched up one side, the other side of the tube punctured, until we were all out of patches and were forced to spend the night where we were. An Austrian caretaker who had raced motorbikes as a young man gave us a place to stay in an empty shed, caught between his desire to help fellow bikers in need and fear of his boss.

In his broken Spanish he told us that a puma was in the region. They have huge blond manes I placed our revolver near my head in case the puma, whose shadow filled our thoughts, decided to pay an unannounced midnight visit. The day was just dawning when I awoke to the sound of claws scratching at the door. At my side, Alberto lay silent, full of dread. I had my hand tensed on the cocked revolver. Two luminous eyes stared at me from the silhouetted trees.

Like a cat, the eyes sprang forward and the black mass of the body materialized over the door. It was pure instinct; the brakes of intelligence failed. My drive for self-preservation pulled the trigger. For a long moment, the thunder beat against and around the walls, stopping only when a lighted torch in the doorway began desperately shouting at us.

At midnight I woke to the noise of rain and was going to get up to cover the bike with a tarpaulin. But before doing so, I decided to take a few puffs from my asthma inhaler, irritated by the sheepskin I was using for a pillow. As I inhaled, my sleeping companion woke up, hearing the puff. He made a sudden movement, then immediately fell silent. I sensed his body go rigid under his blankets, clutching a knife, holding his breath.

With the experience of the previous night still fresh, I decided to remain where I was for fear of being knifed, just in case mirages were contagious in those parts. We reached San Carlos de Bariloche by the evening of the next day and spent the night in the police station waiting for the Modesta Victoria to sail toward the border with Chile.

Y and now. I feel my great roots unearth, free and In the kitchen of the police station we were sheltering from a storm unleashing its total fury outside. I read and reread the incredible letter. Just like that, all my dreams of home, bound up with those eyes that saw me off in Miramar, came crashing down for what seemed like no reason. A great exhaustion enveloped me and, half asleep, I listened to the lively conversation of a globetrotting prisoner as he concocted a thousand exotic brews, safe in the ignorance of his audience.

I could make out his warm, seductive words while the faces surrounding him leaned closer so as better to hear his stories unfold. A feeling of profound unease came over me; I felt that I was incapable of feeling anything. I still believed I loved her until this moment, when I realized I felt nothing.

I had to summon her back with my mind. I had to fight for her, she was mine, mine I slept. A gentle sun illuminated the new day, our day of departure, our farewell to Argentine soil. Carrying the bike on to the Modesta Victoria was not an easy task, but with patience we eventually did it. Getting it off again was equally hard. Then we were in that tiny spot by the lake, pompously named Puerto Blest.

A few kilometers on the road, three or four at most, and we were back on water, a dirty green lake this time, Lake Frias. A short voyage before finally reaching customs, then the Chilean immigration post on the other side of the cordillera — much lower at this latitude.

There we crossed yet another lake fed by the waters of the Tronador River that originate in the majestic volcano sharing the same name. This lake, Esmeralda, in contrast to the Argentine lakes, offered wonderful, temperate water, making the task of bathing very enjoyable and much more enticing.

High in the cordillera at a place called Casa Pangue there is a lookout that affords a beautiful view over Chile. It is a kind of crossroads; at least in that moment it was for me. I was looking to the future, through the narrow band of Chile and to what lay beyond, turning the lines of the Otero Silva poem over in my mind. Daydreams took me soaring away while I maintained my rhythm at the pump.

A curious expression came across his face as he watched us struggling to keep the vessel afloat, naked and almost swimming in the oily pump-water. We had met several doctors traveling down there who we lectured about leprology, embellishing a bit, provoking the admiration of our colleagues from the other side of the Andes. They told us about the distant leper colony on Easter Island where a small number of lepers were living; it was a delightful island, they said, and our scientific interests were excited.

But in those happy days in the south of Chile, when our stomachs were still full and we were not yet totally brazen, we merely asked him for an introduction to the president of the Friends of Easter Island, who lived near them in Valparaiso. Of course, he was delighted. The lake route ended in Petrohue where we said goodbye to everyone; but not before posing for some black Brazilian girls who placed us in their souvenir album for southern Chile, and for an environmentalist couple from who knows what European country, who noted our addresses ceremoniously so they could send us copies of the photos.

There was a character in the little town who wanted a station wagon driven to Osorno, where we were heading, and he asked me if I would do it. Alberto gave me a high-speed lesson in gear changes and I went off in all solemnity to assume my post. Rather cartoon-like, I set off with hops and jerks behind Alberto who was riding the bike. Every corner was a torment: brake, clutch, first, second, help, Mamaaa The road wound through beautiful countryside, skirting Lake Osorno, the volcano with the same name a sentinel above us.

Unfortunately I was in no position along that accident-studded road to appreciate the landscape. The only accident, however, was suffered by a little pig that ran in front of the car while we were speeding down a hill, before I was fully practised in the art of braking and clutching. We arrived in Osorno, we scrounged around in Osorno, we left Osorno and continued ever northward through the delightful Chilean countryside, divided into plots, every bit farmed, in stark contrast to our own arid south.

The Chileans, exceedingly friendly people, were warm and welcoming wherever we went. Finally we arrived in the port of Valdivia on a Sunday. Ambling around the city, we dropped into the local newspaper, the Correo de Valdivia, and they very kindly wrote an article about us.

Valdivia was celebrating its fourth centenary and we dedicated our journey to the city in tribute to the great conquistador whose name the city bears. They persuaded us to write a letter to Molinas Luco, the mayor of Valparaiso, preparing him for our great Easter Island scam. This may be because Anglo-Saxon immigrants in Chile do not mix, thus preserving the purity of the indigenous race, which in our country is practically nonexistent.

And we made the most of it. Raul was a veterinary student, not particularly studious it seemed, who had hoisted our poor old bike on to the truck he owned, bringing us to this quiet town in the middle of Chile. His invitation was the reason we prolonged our stay in the land of Pablo Neruda, and we became involved in a lively bragging session which lasted for some time.

In the end, of course, he came clean on that inevitable problem lack of funds , meaning we had to postpone our visit to that very interesting place of entertainment, though in compensation he gave us bed and board. So at one in the morning there we were, feeling very self-satisfied and devouring everything on the table, quite a lot really, plus some more that arrived later.

Us, experts, key figures in the field of leprology in the Americas, with vast experience, having treated 3, patients, familiar with the most important leprosy centers of the continent and researchers into the sanitary conditions of those same centers, had consented to visit this picturesque, melancholy little town. Soon the whole family was gathered around the article and all other items in the paper became objects of Olympian contempt.

And so, like this, basking in their admiration, we said goodbye to those people we remember nothing about, not even their names. We spent the whole day fixing and conditioning the bike while every now and then a dark-skinned maid would arrive with little snacks.

We worked energetically but no sooner had we put the spare on we saw it was losing air; it too was punctured. It seemed we would have to spend the night out in the open as there was no question of repairing it at that time of night. Early next morning we took the inner tubes and tire to the garage to remove some bits of metal that had become embedded in them, and to patch the tire again.

It was close to nightfall when we left, but not before accepting an invitation to a typical Chilean meal: tripe and another similar dish, all very spicy, washed down with a delicious rough wine. As usual, Chilean hospitality wiped us out. Alberto and I, unharmed, examined the bike — finding one of the steering columns broken and, most seriously, the gearbox smashed.

It was impossible to go on. The only thing to do was wait patiently for an accommodating truck to take us as far as the next town. A car going in the opposite direction stopped and its occupants got out to see what had happened and offer their services. They told us they would do everything possible to help, with whatever two scientists like ourselves needed.

But we had nothing to ask of them, except for a truck going the other way. We thanked them and settled down for the usual mate when the owner of a nearby shack came over and invited us in to his home. We downed a couple of liters in his kitchen. There we met with his charango, a musical instrument made with three or four wires some two meters in length stretched tightly across two empty tins fixed to a board.

The musician uses a kind of metal knuckle-duster with which he plucks the wires producing a sound like a toy guitar. Around 12 a van came along whose driver, after much pleading, agreed to take us to the next town, Lautaro. We found a space in the best garage in the area and someone who would be able to do the soldering, a short and friendly boy called Luna who once or twice took us home for lunch.

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The dramatization of a motorcycle road trip Che Guevara went on in his youth that showed him his life's calling.

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Facebook english only please torrent At my side, Alberto lay silent, full of dread. We were carried from arid tablelands to valleys with only slight trickles of water running through them, barely sufficient for a few small, stunted trees to grow at their edges. Distant countries, heroic deeds and beautiful women spun around and around in our turbulent imaginations. The continued success of the Quechua warriors drove enemy tribes further from Cuzco. And then it was off, a stowaway to Antofagasta and then inland to Chuquicamata, the vast open cast copper mine the largest in the world today where he was horrified at the conditions of the miners. Cultural ActivitiesMovie GuidesPrintables.
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Route of the motorcycle diaries torrent There are four presidential candidates, of whom Carlos Ibanez del Campo here most likely to win. Movie guide als. We used an interpreter to advance the operation because none of the fishermen, all pure Aymara, knew any Spanish at all. We considered swimming in the lake, but after testing the temperature with the tips of our little fingers we thought better of it Alberto made a big show of taking off his clothes and boots, only to put them back on again, of course. What does it matter if we stay there a year; who cares about studying, work, family, etc. No one in Chile pays much attention these route of the motorcycle diaries torrent to los politicos. Lago Frias, Argentina.
Bittorrent movie downloader Quizzes with auto-grading, and real-time student data. To the contrary, his mythic status has only served to heighten his youthfulness which, together with his daring and his purity, seem to constitute the secret essence of his charisma. At eight the next morning we found a truck to take us to the town of Chuquicamata. So began the monotonous business of chasing visas, certificates and documents, that is to say, of overcoming the many hurdles modern nations erect in the paths of would-be travelers. Further debate and another shot at sleeping between our blankets.

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We've opted for the latter, as it is one of the highest mountain roads in Europe 2. The ease of the ascent might actually surprise you, as the road surface is as smooth as baby buttocks and the backdrop gets more beautiful by the inch. As the altimeters add up, so does the contrast between the vegetation at the bottom of the pass and the arid, volcanic surroundings at the top.

As you get higher, the road gets more and more challenging - but it is a test that rewards you almost immediately with one of the most dazzling views in Europe. One to devour and cherish, over and over again. Great stuff. Backboned by the Piedmont region, the km long Mercantour national park will treat you with some last alpine peaks before heading straight towards the Mediterranean Sea.

The landscape will transform dramatically into more southernish - not only the vegetation, but also the architecture and the allround 'feel'. The final part of our trip will entertain you with steep roads and perched villages, as a chainlink of the Alps and the omnipresent "Big Blue". From there, the Mediterranean will guide you towards the finish in Menton. But hey, why not go back the way you came? Contributed by Motorcycle Diaries. Motorcycle-Diaries is all about amazing roads, endless landscapes, hidden places and the passionate people that you meet along these roads.

Find the best places to stop for hotels and restaurants, panoramic views and many more By creating an account, you agree with the terms and conditions. Already have an account? Sign in. No account yet? Sign up for free. Encountered this one piece of tarmac you have to tell all your friend bikers about? Tell us all about it, with some pictures and a location! A spectacular viewpoint, an old watchtower, a restaurant or hotel on the road, … Share the most interesting spots with your fellow bikers.

Roughly two centuries before the Common Era, a frolicsome chap named Hannibal turned the Second Punic War upside down when he piloted a herd of elephants and soldiers through the Alps in order to avoid the Romans on land and sea, and attacking Rome from the north - the side they had least suspected it. Two millenia later, we can safely agree there are less bloody, war-torn ways to conquer the Alps - without losing out too much on the spectacular side.

The roughly kilometer long route kicks off from Thonon-les-bains and heads towards Nice, while spoiling you with no less than eighteen Alpine mountain passes. Where next? Like what you see?

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