The city falls apart like cardboard soaked by rain. Its rugged skin of tall buildings in the center, of concrete sidewalks with reluctance and constant hole, does not prevent the city has the same philosophy that all major African cities I've visited: throng outside misery, unsuitable sales stalls, fruit stored on timbers or shoes littered the streets. City, however, perhaps by the beautiful sound of Portuguese, seems closer; almost, at times, more Caribbean than African.

There are dreams that belong to the world of unattainable, but the passage of time and effort to achieve a chance to realize other more mundane. One of those fascinations had made me reach Agra, famous for hosting the incomparable Taj Mahal.

The church of San Justo y Pastor is at first sight is a unique place; after the second and third look all becomes impossible (...) Right there, bar below (Mason principal symbol), is carved into the rock a cross that resembles the one used by the Templars.

We are finally in Rongbuk, the world's highest monastery, at the foot of the fearsome north face of Everest. The sky is clear. The Monsoon has had a hand. The view is superb, gorgeous. Do not you get tired of looking at Qomolangma, the mother goddess of the mountains. Is, certainly, one of the happiest days of my life. Now just think of walking to base camp.