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1. THE PRICE OF PEACE, this image that perhaps you already knew, was taken in the cell where Mandela spent more than 20 years with no possessions other than those you see there and forced to do forced labor, Mandela was imprisoned unjustly and lacking the minimum human rights, Mandela who saw hundreds and thousands of his brothers die at the hands of white apartheid had more than reasons to hate and cry for blood and war but when he was finally free he always leaned towards a peaceful solution even against his wife and people close to his movement who wanted revenge and retaliation. And it was understandable after so many years of criminal oppression, murders, torture and disappearances. However, Mandela said: "As I walked out the door to freedom I knew that if I didn't leave behind all the anger, hatred and resentment, I would still be a prisoner"; to start thinking, taking into account that the transitional justice process in South Africa is one of the most successful, South Africa has grown economically, there are no more killings or massacres, however many of the most serious evils in this country did not end with the process, nor will it happen in Colombia, there is still a lot of inequality and poverty and many remain dissatisfied, especially victims who were never compensated, however no one can deny that South Africa is now another country, a much better one that leads the entire continent black, one who bet on La Paz after many years of hatred and apartheid. That was Mandela's great legacy to his country, that of forgiveness to be able to start again and leave a better country for his children and his children's children, hopefully our destiny will also be La Paz. (Peace yourselves, read history, watch documentaries, think for yourselves, the future and the decision is in your hands and consciences, vote.

2. 
I couldn't believe it, diving in Malpelo at 28 degrees Celsius when at that time the temperature was always between 10 and 15. It is painful to see the coral, which in itself is rare in these waters, dying, but #Malpelo is resilient and fights, and it is spectacular. but nature continues to give us signs and warnings and we do nothing. It's inspiring that there are people like @biodiverst... follow them, they are true heroes of our ocean. Please, if you like this content, comment and share it, it helps me a lot.

3. 
ORCAS HUNT THE LARGEST SHARK IN THE WORLD, exclusive, these images by my friend Peter Romero are one of the very few there are, of the hunt for a whale shark by the orcas, how are they? Nature is the
Nature and even the greatest or most powerful is also vulnerable. Thanks to @ozeam dreamer for this exclusive preview, we hope to see the full sequence soon.

4. 
Where the idea came from, here are some chilling images of one of its doors. This is the Nyarongo #volcano. In #elcongo. It has the largest lava lake in the world, you have to use special equipment to get close and you have to rappel down more than 500 meters into its interior. (I had told you that I was finally going to release this material, I will do it little by little and towards the end of the month the complete short documentary, I hope you continue the series and share and comment on it)


5. Travel the world without censorship. (libro)

Around six in the morning on a cloudy day in 1991 my right arm was crawling on a cow's ass. Only the shoulder remained on the outside, and my face was pressed against the animal's hips while I listened to its reproductive system. What the hell can a mortal do in such an unworthy task at such an early hour of the day?, you may ask. The truth is that the task is honest and, far from any perversion, corresponds to the refined art of bovine gynecology, so to speak. Rectally, the veterinarian, zootechnician, administrator or chosen laborer must help in the insemination process or diagnose if the cow is pregnant. In those days, I was nothing more than a clueless student from the province who had no idea what I wanted or what I could be in life and who, due to twists of fate, had ended up studying a career very far from my aspirations or dreams. 22346.jpg

Due to my height, the morning breeding classes became a real ordeal, since reaching the uterus of a cow (generally Norman or Holstein breed, quite tall by the way), forced me to stand on the tips of my fingers. feet, in an effort of classical dancer or Michael Jackson impersonator. It was barely enough - if the cow moved, I moved with her - taking into account that it is not the firmest of positions and that not even the most nymphomaniac of cows likes to have any ghost enter her, up to her shoulder. , an arm sheathed in a latex glove. My class was in maintaining dignity and composure practically hanging from the animal. In that position, so profane for me, I was blessed by the light: while, pulled from side to side, I brooded over my misfortunes, the cow suddenly became still and silent. Surprised in flagrante by eyes that rested on me, I raised mine and met his. It was, I'm sure, an intimate moment. The cow looked at me, with that patience with which cows look, and seemed to say: "Do you really want to do this for the rest of your life? Is that why your grandmother revealed to you Mark Twain, Jules Verne, Jack London?" Will your adventurer dreams end like this; to be like an explorer of yesteryear who yearned for the summit of Everest or to nail a flag to one of the poles?

It was an epiphany. Suddenly, everything was clear: I would tell my parents, I would assert my will: I will live, I told myself, from the adventure. I then removed my arm covered in excrement. I headed to the first bridge in sight. For years I had the idea of ??trying a pendulum, or what they called bungee jumping at that time: jumping off a bridge, tied to an elastic rope so that there is no sharp impact. Thus, the jumper describes half an ellipse, a giant swing.

For the first test I opted for a small pendulum: a pedestrian bridge. I survived the jump. I will never forget, however, the astonishment of the bus driver against whom I almost ended up crushed.

Not without effort, I moved forward motivated by this achievement and saved with discipline. Together with a group of friends who shared my sporting schizophrenia, we ventured to find the root of our dreams: we were the first in Colombia to experience a bungee jump.

We believed in our feat and with closed eyes we launched into it. On MTV a group of gringos, dressed like a grunge band, jumped off bridges in California. The program was called Extreme Sports. We were delirious about one day meeting them. As sometimes things are easier than they seem, we met them and, if that were not enough, we returned to the country with the first bungee cords. They cost 2,000 dollars. They came tied to a red neck—as the typical American, fanatic and ignorant of some southern regions, is known—named Mike Stine, who sold them to us. The gringo, by the way, returned with us. Happy, we sheltered him, because he was one of our heroes. However, this would change in the future.

We tried the Sisga bridge, in Chocontá, Cundinamarca. Since I had the idea for this whole adventure, they let me jump first. I can't describe what I felt. In the first jump one does not realize anything, but in the second, euphoric and conscious, I swallowed the void with open jaws, reached the limit speed and bounced with the elasticity of the ropes. My hair stood on end and the dose of endorphin, adrenaline and dopamine was such that I almost had an orgasm (or better yet, an airgasm).

Thank you, Verne, Cooper and all the adventure writers. He was a Mohican in his rite of passage, a lone wolf on the Alaskan steppes. I defeated the monster of lack of vocation, the provincial complexes, to make my first dream come true. Once the divine desire was fulfilled, I continued with the human one: living from adventure.

For forty thousand pesos a victim, we started throwing people off the Sisga bridge. I have never seen so much money together. Overnight, we became the most popular guys on the block: adventurous, scrappy and successful, even though our reach did not go beyond the Bogotá scene of alternative bars and adventure sports.

I went from being a frustrated writer—who spent his days with one arm on a cow's ass at De La Salle University, who worked at night in the wardrobe of a bar called Transilvania hanging coats for pretty girls and enduring stares. disdainful of their alternative boyfriends—to being someone who was popular, who could pay the bills, and who was suddenly attractive to the…opposite sex. I was on my quarter hour.

You will notice some resentment in my words and you are right. Who wouldn't be resentful, studying a career they hate, living penniless in a student residence with tenancy plans, sharing the bathroom every day with a dozen strangers, ignored by the opposite sex and knowing that the only words they could What to expect from the girls at the bar were: "Dude, keep up with my vintage jacket"?

At the university the situation was worse. My dad, I don't know from where, insisted that I study Animal Science. The only land in the family was what we had under our fingernails; All our livestock was limited to the scarce two cattle that we had eaten in our lives. I didn't fit in among many of my companions, all of them in Texan boots, lovers of Vallenato, Lanera or Norteña music, armed with the sex appeal that their luxurious campers and trucks, their countless hectares somewhere on the coast or the plains, gave them. and their incalculable heads of cattle.
My social life was a failure, but I made some very good friends at college, who, in addition to offering me their friendship, invited me to study at their house. I took the opportunity to have lunch in a cap or take dirty clothes to put22452.jpg in the washing machine. In exchange I gave them a hand with their subjects. Taking into account that my only assets were plenty of time to study - as a result of getting very good grades without much effort - I also earned the contempt of some classmates who looked like landowners, who not even with all their gold and power could buy a little bit of brain.

This was more than fifteen years ago. However, many things have not changed in the country headquarters of the Universidad de la Salle – where a graffiti reads: “if your daughter is ugly and ordinary, send her to study veterinary medicine” – nor in the world of underground bars, where Pretty girls still spend hours in front of a mirror to look unkempt and boys, protesters and supporters of the anti-globalization movement, spend three hundred dollars on their Dr. Martens boots.

Surely today, in the closet of one of those sophisticated bars, some loner who fights against failure will hang their clothes wondering how such idiots manage to go out with those goddesses who don't even look at them. My greeting goes to him…

But I return to my story. The bungee had taken me out of absolute anonymity. Not only was it exciting and fun, but it opened the doors of social life for me, which I always contemplated from the showcase. With the copious income from charging the jumps, my friends and I rented an apartment. On the first floor we put an office with a brand new sign: Extreme, Adventure Sports.

The happy days, however, were short-lived. We became greedy. A capitalist partner appeared. He knew about numbers, about business, but little about the endorphins that are released when jumping into the void: the essence of adventure.

For his part, Mike Stine, who served as an instructor, discovered how much cocaine is worth in Colombia. He gave fifty dollars to a jíbaro in Zona T in Bogotá. He told him: "Cocaine." He expected one gram - what he bought in the United States for that money - but the ñero brought him ten and asked for the league. So he had nine left. Poor red neck had never seen so much drugs together. He looked at us as if he had just won the lottery. I didn't know where to start. He made little lines, little dolls; I didn't sleep, I had cereal for breakfast, not in milk, but bathed in whiskey. He became crazy and aggressive on us. My friends, who always had an excuse to leave me stuck with Mike, ran off and left him in my charge. In the following days my job consisted of helping him translate his conversations with jíbaros and ladies of the happy life. It took me a day to learn that powder in English is not dust, but fuck.

One day we went jumping near Girardot, Cundinamarca. Mike, as always, was drunk and high. It occurred to him to cool off with a guava ice cream in a Styrofoam box that was sold to him on the street. The next day, he woke up writhing from guava and dysentery.

He shouted at me from the bathroom: "Pirry, help me, I'm bleeding." When I got up, I found it on the bathroom floor. He was dirty with his own excrement, sweating and shivering. My friends didn't show up. To get him out, I had to wrap him in a blanket. It stunk. I took him to the emergency services of a hospital. I hardly had the means to pay: just around those days, we lost our permit to jump in the Sisga. The money stopped flowing….

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