PROLOGUE

One evening in June 2023, my husband came up with an idea.

"What if I book Pafuri Camp * again this year — this time for four nights?"

Pafuri, on the northern border of South Africa near the Limpopo River, holds a special place in our hearts. It's one of those places you simply have to return to.

We were planning another trip to southern Africa, this time with our son. Fourteen days on safari in Kruger National Park — as we do almost every year. The flights were already booked; now we were putting together the itinerary.

"That would be wonderful," I replied. "But four nights? That's a lot of money. Why four nights? It will cost us a small fortune."

"Well, guess why."

"Because you can't live without Pafuri?"

"Yes, but no."

"Because it will be spring in December and baby antelopes will be running around everywhere?"

"No."

"Because you love having a gin and tonic at sunset during a game drive? Or those misty mornings over the river?"

"No. And no."

"Because you're looking forward to the amazing food? Or the elephants that stroll past the tents on their way to the river?"

My husband simply smiled and rolled his eyes at every answer.

"No. Keep guessing."

Eventually, I gave up.

"I have no idea."

"Because that's when we'll be celebrating our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary."

Fortunately, my husband remembers dates far better than I do. In fact, I had to ask him what day our anniversary actually falls on.

I've simply been lucky with husband number three.

Unlike some of my friends, who have to remind their husbands about anniversaries weeks — sometimes years — in advance and casually investigate whether this will finally be the year of the promised diamond ring and the fancy dinner, I can sleep easy.

There will be a celebration.

There will be champagne.

And instead of a diamond ring, there will be romance in the African bush.

GIFTS

Things work a little differently in our household.

We don't exchange gifts according to the calendar. We don't wait for birthdays or Christmas. When we discover an interesting place or start dreaming about a special adventure, we simply make that dream come true.

Birthdays are mostly an excuse to plan another journey.

My gift to Paul is usually deciding where we'll fly next and which adventurous route we'll follow this time. Preferably in a four-wheel-drive vehicle and through a lesser-known corner of the world.

The trouble is that finding such places becomes harder every year. In the age of globalization, charter flights and the internet, there are fewer and fewer corners of the world untouched by mass tourism.

Where are the days when all I needed to plan a trip was  reading a novel by Ton van der Lee, inspiring me to head for the remote, little-visited regions of Namibia?

One unforgettable journey was inspired by his novel Solitaire, at the end of the story he set off to travel to unknown corners of Botswana.   

Inspired we went in search of the magical Kubu Island, rising from the vast white expanse of the Makgadikgadi Pans, the largest salt-pan complex in Africa. A place where thousand-year-old baobab trees stand among the rocks, rooted in a sea of white nothingness.

Yet I keep trying to plan journeys like that.

I design the route, arrange the accommodation and prepare the itinerary. Paul buys the airline tickets and books the four-wheel-drive vehicle at the airport. Then I hand him nothing more than the GPS coordinates of our destination for the night.

He enters them into the navigation system, and off we go.

It's a surprise for both of us.

For him, because he never knows what I've come up with this time.

And for me, because when I'm planning a trip from the safety of my armchair at home, I'm often far braver than I am once those plans become reality.

More than once I've regretted my theoretical courage while actually travelling.

After all, it's much easier to slay dragons from the comfort of home than somewhere in the middle of nowhere, far from civilization.

Still, I carry on.

Perhaps thanks to a magnet on our refrigerator bearing a quote from Eleanor Roosevelt:

"Do every day something that scares you."

Fortunately, I never run out of options.

There are plenty of things I worry about.

In fact, with age, the list keeps getting longer.

NEW HORIZONS

"It is not down on any map; true places never are."

— Herman Melville

May 2026 ( 2,5  years later)

We are driving through a wild, empty landscape. Paul is at the wheel.

I look up at the sky.

Those small, slightly puffed-up white clouds drifting across a deep blue sky I LOVE THEM .

The car suddenly jolts.

And those giant potholes  I  JUST HATE THEM.

So where are we driving this year, you may ask?

It's certainly not Bali. Bali doesn't have landscapes this empty.

It's not the Emirates either. You would search a long time for potholes like these there.

Nor is it Africa. We've spent a whole week on the road without seeing a single elephant.

And it's definitely not the Netherlands. Those little fluffy clouds rarely drift across Dutch skies. And emptiness? That's hardly a word one would associate with the Netherlands.

Other than that, it could be almost anywhere in the world.

Except it isn't.

For the first time in our lives, we are driving through Argentina.

I've planned a new journey. And this time it takes us straight into the magnificent — and demanding — Andes.

BOUNDARIES

When I think about it, boundaries have accompanied me throughout my life.

I started crossing them long before we began travelling. Some were real, marked by barriers, customs officers and passport stamps. Others existed only in my head.

Paul handles altitude without any problems.

I don't.

Looking down into the abyss from a narrow mountain road that has climbed to 4,300 metres through an endless series of switchbacks does not exactly fill me with joy.

Add to that my vivid imagination, which reliably convinces me that every irregular heartbeat is the beginning of an arrhythmia and every bend in the road a potential disaster.

With every metre of elevation gained, I begin to wonder whether I was once again a little too brave while planning this trip.

The sentence is already forming on my lips:

"Please, turn the car around at the first opportunity. Let's go back. I just can't do this."

But at the same time, I know exactly what Paul would say.

"No way. You wanted this. We're not giving up. We keep going."

In Africa, I worry about rain, floods, mud, closed roads, mosquitoes, food poisoning and crime.

Here in the Andes, my list is completely different.

Narrow mountain roads.  Sheer drop-offs.

Tracks that appear on neither maps nor the latest navigation systems.

Trucks coming the other way.

Not knowing the local conditions.  Not speaking the language.  Misunderstandings.

And yet we keep going.

I impatiently wait for the moment when we finally cross the pass and the road begins to descend again.

Somewhere on that mountainside lies my favourite Argentine boundary.

The boundary where the llamas end and the cacti begin.

Notes

• My mathematical mind produced a discrete approximation of the road to heaven.

Elevation profile of the journey:

Y-axis: altitude above sea level

X-axis: time (measured in days)

* For the curious mind: this is the link to PAFURI camp :