Heading to my next destination it suddenly occurred to me that I would soon be leaving South America. It’s now a whopping thirty months on the road since I left home, twenty one months since I landed in Colombia via boat from the San Blas Islands. After an eight month intense recovery in Ecuador from two knee surgeries I was almost ready to throw in the towel yet the support I received kept my coals afire. Even the robbery in Argentina didn’t deter me from pursuing a strange and rather obsessive curiosity. I’ve spent Christmas with different families for the last three years and celebrated my thirtieth birthday with complete strangers. My native language has been flipped on its arse sapping me of my humour which was always my secret to building successful and trustworthy companionships. I’ve watched my family grow digitally over the internet and only ever seen my friend’s newborn babies in 7.5 megapixels. I’ve been accepted and rejected from the many levels of society I’ve thrown myself into sometimes portraying myself as the typical drunken loud and obnoxious Englishman or gratefully acknowledged as a sweet, caring and inspiring soul walking a lonely path for others to share. I’ve turned my back on love four times continuing to walk with the shadows and each day that passes is one less day I will spend with my future siblings yet somehow I still remain confident that whatever force of nature picked me to endure such a demanding, challenging and lonesome trail did so because it will all make sense at the finishing point.

One of the most frequent questions I’m asked is where and when the finishing line will be? One of my most common answers is ‘I have no bloody idea’? What I do know is that this project has become much more than a title to Couchsurf the world. Every day I receive emails from people all over the globe encouraging me to continue and thanking me for inspiring them to live life to its fullest. I’ve witnessed stagnant souls jump up from an office chair, throw the keyboard on the floor and walk out the door having just booked the first flight to the place they had saved as a pc desktop display slowly being covered up with unfinished files and downloaded holiday shots of everyone else’s dreams. It seems I’m not the only one who wants to leap from the bowl. Thousands of us have been locked away in a dark cave hanging like giant icicles frozen in time then suddenly along comes an adventurer whose impeding curiosity breaks down the cavern walls flooding the darkness with generating rays of life. Drip by drip movement is restored until finally you fall into a river of possibility winding through mazes on a slide to nowhere falling breathless into an abyss of bewildering depths. After a frantic swim to the surface you fill your lungs with a taste of survival and suddenly emerge into a new ken of existence.

That’s exactly how I felt as I raised my head from the swimming pool atop of my 101st official host apartment block overlooking the city of Recife, further north on the coastline of Brazil. I had met Almir G Castro Jr (ALMIRGOMESJR) at La Bomba in Buenos Aires and have since remained in contact. Ironically I was his 101st guest and the prospect of having access to a pool for a week seemed like the perfect way to un-wind and work on a tan in preparation for my Caribbean adventures.  Almir was one of the most active surfers I’ve crashed with and it was no surprise to share the numerous inflatable mattresses and inviting hammock stretching across his living room with two other surfers, Linda Drechsler (LIMA.D) from Fortaleza and Jascha Behklama (MONSTERCHICKEN) from Germany.  It’s always a joy to have company whilst my host’s are attending university or work and helps balance the budget buying food as a group. We wasted no time heading out to the supermarket to buy some essentials and both hungry surfers seemed as enthusiastic to try my cooking as I was to cook for them.

I knew nothing of Recife upon arrival, only that it’s the fourth largest Metropolitan area in Brazil and is situated beside the sea. I was expecting a tropical paradise yet walking to the supermarket almost destroyed my sense of smell. The city is located where the Beberibe River meets the Capibaribe River to flow into the Atlantic Ocean. A maze of river’s run parallel to all major roads with small bridges connecting walkways which gives Recife the moniker of the ‘Brazilian Venice’ whereas I’d prefer to call it the ‘Devil’s Arsehole’. I have never smelt something so vile. The first time is impossible to forget. I felt abused, empathetic to what the Jews must have endured in the prison camps of world war two. In the midst of relating my travel stories to my new surfer friends in my typical giddy, animated and outré manner, my nescience left my big mouth open and prone to digest a horrendous and tetchy taste forcing my consternation to boil into a frightful cry like an ululating jackal with his balls stuck on a barbed wire fence.  Imagine a fishmonger who returns home from work and suffers a heart attack before having a chance to change his clothes. Try to picture the smell of the house after the CSI crew discover his body a few weeks later. My shit has never smelt so good!

Our small gang joined fellow surfer Mariana Maciel (MARI MACIEL) for my first night out in Recife at a local English looking pub which sadly didn’t live up to the extensive strip search and unnecessary queuing outside. The place was as dead as Michael Jackson’s greatest hits. The only highlight of the night was being randomly stopped by the police on the way home in a car scented with illegal herbal fragrances. Having forgotten to bring her driver’s license I.D, the officer had no choice but to give Mariana a ticket, all the while I was trying my hardest not to laugh at our ridiculous attempts to slowly let down the windows and fumigate the car. And just like Cheech and Chong we somehow found a way to avoid paying a hefty fine and possible jail time once Mariana had remembered she had a high ranking uncle in the police force. After a quick phone call, I witnessed for the first time in my life through blood shot eyes a police man apologize before tearing the ticket into a thousand little giggles from a car full of surfers who had somehow defied the law and escaped a pending pickle.

To celebrate our renewed freedom I joined Almir and roommate Gabriel Faria (GABRIELFARIA) the next evening for my first mysterious insight into the unknown traditional style of dance and music local to Recife called ‘Forro’. A large open bar divided between a seating area and a large dance floor packed with couples enjoying the fresh sounds of the live band jamming to a brew of eclectic sounds. At times memories of my first Oktoberfest flooded back with violins and harps and the occasional twinkle of bells reminded me of Peter Pan, Pixies and Winkle Picker shoes. Then like the ghost from Christmas past, up pops an annoying dainty guitar player with a big cheesy smile and tobacco stained teeth and suddenly I’m back at school, ten years old rushing across the assembly hall in search of the cutest girl to be my country and western dance partner. I still can’t figure out why the hell we had to endure such a ridiculous tradition? Surely learning break dancing or Capoeira would have offered way more street creditability? What is it with country folk anyway? They always seem so naturally high and squeamishly happy and have no shame walking with buck legs and tight jeans and a George Bush Esq. gloat about them. Go back to the corn fields you freaky lumberjack shirt wearing, cowboy boot pairing, bunch of horse riding corn pickers! Aside from my obvious odium towards country music, I did come to love the Brazilian twist and found myself on numerous occasions dancing ‘do si dos’ with a beautiful senorita. I found her boots slightly more appealing.

Deciding to take full advantage of my host’s scenic rooftop, together we organized a cs pool party in an attempt to unify the local members once and for all. For sure one of the most original and enjoyable meetings I’ve helped arrange with a glorious view of the city, beach and endless blueberry sea in the distance. I felt on top of the world, so far from the life I once had back home yet so much closer to the person I aspire to be. Around me only smiling faces, empty beer cans, fresh conversation and that ever present tingle of Brazil’s vibrant summer zest.

Before leaving Recife, Almir had one more surprise install for me. A short bus ride out of the city to the harmonious fairytale town of Olinda! A world renowned UNESCO site and one of Brazil’s best preserved colonial cities, the name itself respectfully honours its splendour ‘O, Linda’ literally translated means ‘Oh, beautiful’. Ancient cobbled streets worn down from the yearly carnival celebrations weave up and around steep terrains filled with colourful shops and houses all strung together like slabs of brightly coloured cheese’s each aged in flavour and bursting with character whilst a background of jungle and perfectly round trees act like bunches of plastic parsley decorating the cheesemongers wonderful array.  It makes you wonder why the hell people choose to live in big, ugly, overpriced, noisy, polluted and chaotic cities instead of small, soundless, sherbet, rainbow, raspberry, raptures by the sea. If it wasn’t for my host signalling it was time to leave, I would probably have got lost in the land of make believe.

I was sad to leave Olinda yet more so my hosts both Almir and Gabriel who made my stay both refreshing and relaxing before my reluctant return flight to the grey and bleak bewilderment of the mighty Sao Paulo. With a few days to kill before my flight to Cuba, I crashed with my 102nd host, the cool and collective Maria Fernanda Menezes, a professional film critic for HBO. Her wonderful rickety renovated house reeked with the souls of artistic ancestors whose ghouls would tuck me in each night for bed. Better still just a few doors up I discovered a dark candle lit English bar with the smell of home, tiny steep wooden chairs at the bar and ash trays spewing with lipstick stories waiting for her whiskery faced romance to step in from the night yet the piece de resistance wasn’t the attractive, perfectly figured ‘Paulista’ to my left but the beautiful curved black pint of smooth draft creaminess folding itself into a crisp clean cloud of virtue that went down faster than Elton John on a small naked boy. Eight pints later provided me with a feeling of satiety both physiologically and psychologically and now fuelled with Gummi Berry Juice once again, I was finally ready to bounce the hell out of South America.

It has been an emotional, sometimes traumatic experience yet looking back now I have no regrets and the only thing I would change if I could would be to bring back my 82nd Official Host in Paraguay, the lovable, munificent and heart warming Klaus Joachim who sadly passed away in May 2009. In typical Klaus fashion he refused to seek medical attention for his lung cancer and instead died peacefully at home in bed in the arms of his wonderful wife Sandra. Both of them are like parents to me and I honour their endless kindness by dedicating my final journal in South America to such a wonderful inspiring soul as Klaus. Like you my friend, I have found it considerably difficult to say goodbye and painful to leave so many amazing new friends and family behind yet as we discussed over the many times you whooped my ass at backgammon, all great things must come to an end, yet the journey continues forever.

In this moment I find myself a taciturn man leaving but my thoughts to join you in whatever heavenly bar you rejoice in and now as we both part ways on our separate new adventures I salute your wisdom and forever your grace and of course how can one forget that big grizzly face.

All my love

A dear friend

Adam .