I shoulder my bags and step off the bus into a blaze. The mid-afternoon sun limns my body in sweat as I scan the sky for the Teleférico. The cable cars bob up to Cerro San Bernardo, hanging from the line like crab apples. It is the first step in what feels, to my travel-fried brain, like a labyrinthine journey to the tiny farm community of Castellanos outside of Salta. I clamber on to the prescribed Saeta bus and bounce and jolt through the city to a soundtrack of Cumbia. People climb onto the bus, their glances at me stretch on beneath slightly arched brows.
I stare out the window, the details of the streets and blocks roll off me like stones on a pile that has already reached its apex. There are bare brick walls, graffiti-stained concrete, and masses of wires hung haphazardly across the streets. Buses, cars, and motorbikes dash across intersections like a pack of robbers fighting over the last share of loot. From the walls, windows, and rooftops, faint brownish stains reach for the street like run mascara that has been slept in. Read more...
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A hunter, oft-stubbled and bleary-eyed, driven by an insatiable hunger for exploration and experience - and perhaps a chance to thin the herd of caffeinated and alcoholic beverages. From the highlands and islands to Edinburgh, Glasgow, and the Borders, I explore Scotland with a pen in hand and a fire in the belly (which could be partly from the whisky). 
