Azores — The Chronicles
Unexpected journey
Part I
Whales, turtles, gangs, and chili moonshine
Back in 2021, after a seemingly never-ending and arduous academic journey, my friends and I decided to take a couple of months off in the summer and travel.
Now that I’ve had two years to digest and reflect, I’ll try to put our experiences into words in this series.
We picked a destination after a few rounds of deliberation during the COVID era on a Microsoft Teams call:
We are going on a trip to the Hawaiian islands of Europe, the Azores.
The initial plan had been to spend a month there, but in the end we barely managed 14 days — intensity made up for the length of the stay, though.
At that point, we’d had no idea that this trip would completely change our lives.
We landed on the island of São Miguel in Ponta Delgada. The story of our time there shall be forever etched in minds and hearts of the participants, not to be revealed here, or anywhere else.
What I can let you in on, though, is what happened after we had flown to the next island — Pico. After the shortest flight and the hardest landing in my life, I can say that Pico is a beautiful, volcanic island with its highest peak looming at 2,351 meters above the sea level.
The vineyards grow there as bushes, straight from the ground in a rocky soil dark as charcoal.
Azores and the Atlantic Ocean are known for their rich flora and fauna. And, as it happened, we were right in the middle of the ocean. Half way between Europe and the Americas.
The opportunity presented itself, and we decided to go and see whales in their natural habitat.
I was appointed the head of our improvised communications department thanks to my major in English and Spanish.
It turned out to be a subpar choice.
After a half-drunk, clumsy phone call — where I somehow explained that my last name is spelled with a ‘C’ as in the word ‘China’ — we got our reservation for whale watching the next day.
Happy with job well done, we downed a couple of bottles of wine and gin and tonics. Maybe a bit more than necessary, as the morning would remind us.
We woke up, still forgetting and then processing that we were indeed on Pico — a volcanic island in the middle of the Atlantic. We took in the salty morning air, enjoyed the ocean view, and found that the clothes we had washed and hung up to dry the night before were just as wet — if not more — as when we’d taken them out of the washing machine.
Slow morning on an island, idillic mood… 2 more gin and tonics for breakfast, and a languid cigarette on our porch facing the coast where the land fell into the ocean like a black waterfall.
Nothing but a rhythmic beating of the tide against the cliffs of volcanic rock, and the occasional sounds of unknown animals in the distance.
Tranquility.
Except at that moment, we’d already been behind schedule for our whale watching trip. Not to forget that we’d had a couple the night before, and the combined brain power of the five of us equalled to a single properly functioning brain cell — at best.
When you’re late, it’s usually a sign to set off for your destination. And as intelligent young men with fresh university degrees, that’s what we did.
Now we’re walking on the side of the road — no cars in sight, only to find out a couple of hundred meters into our hopeful expedition that the meeting spot is 30 kilometers away.
We’d had about 45 minutes to get there. On foot.
While I’m no math wizard, it didn’t add up then, and it sure doesn’t add up now.
Well, no use in walking now I guess, we better call a taxi.
Somehow we got a number — can’t remember where or how anymore. Dialed in, and got a taxi driver — Luis — on the line.
And that moment changed everything.
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Part II
Could you spell your name, please? Sure. 'C', as in 'China'...
So far, the gist of it is we got drunk, overslept, and now we’re walking down the street in the middle of nowhere, trying to get a cab.
And we got one. Our new designated driver Luis took us on a ride of our lives.
(By the way, it should be Luís — pronounced /Loui:sh/ in Portuguese which is the official language of the Azores. But for the sake of Hrot, it shall remain Luis).
We needed to make up for the lost time and get to the meeting point for whale watching.
Luis found us walking down the main road (luckily, there’s only one main road on Pico). We explained the situation, and he looked almost excited to take on this ‘challenge’ of getting us to the other side of the island in what seemed to be an unrealistic time frame.
So we’re now driving at 80 mph through the narrow and beaten roads, no other cars in sight.
Not sure if you can imagine the ‘main roads’ on Pico, but whatever you’re picturing — it’s worse.
Tires screeching in every curve and bend we go through. Three of us in the back of the car — we can now smell oil and burnt rubber. We’re zigzagging, avoiding a crash by inches on both sides.
Luis nonchalantly remarks he might’ve forgotten to check the tire pressure, and actually hasn’t checked anything on the car in a couple of years. But ‘we should be fine’. Sounds good, we’ll take it — anyways, we don’t have much of a choice.
Half laughing, half trying not to cry, we drive and drift through the narrow roads of Pico at a breakneck speed, barely squeezing by the sidewalks, shaving edges of the curbs with outer lips of the wheels on both sides.
But we make it to the harbor — the meeting point.
Everyone’s already waiting for us, and giving us suspicious looks as we’re clumsily getting out of the car after the rollercoaster we’ve just been through.
Luis promises to pick us up afterwards and show us a good time — whatever that means.
We find our group just in time to sign the papers — of course, disrupting the whole onboarding process and instructions. People are throwing daggers at us from all sides, but we’re just glad we made it at this point.
We slip on our lifejackets, and then we find our places in these small boats.
The rest can be described far better in pictures than words — but we saw a marvel of nature, majestic mammals in their natural habitat. And the feeling you get when you’re cruising through the ocean with no land in sight is also something to remember.
I can’t remember how long we were out there, but I know that after we got back to land we caught the end of the 5th set of the Roland Garros semifinals.
Djokovic beat Tsitsipas from two sets down. And Luis had already been waiting for us. Beer in hand, ready to drive (not sure how many he’d had up to that point).
While still processing the sight of whales, we were already on our way to a ‘great spot’ for food and drinks.
The spot was, of course, in the middle of nowhere. It looked like a ghetto backyard with a small garden house in the corner. Imagine street food concepts meet gypsy shacks — with a lot of Harley-Davidson motorbikes around.
We weren’t so sure about our fates.
Human trafficking, abduction, or death — those were all possibilities that ran through our minds when we got out of the car.
But both the food (BBQ and burgers) and the company were exceptional. The people were welcoming and warm. Turns out we just might’ve watched a bit too much of nordic crime-noir. We ate and drank to out hearts’ content, and spent like 4—5 hours there — and only paid 20 euros per person.
At one point, Luis and his friends made us try the ‘local specialty’.
You know how it goes:
— What is it?
— Don’t worry, just try it.
And so we did.
It was a 150-proof local home-made aguardiente (think alcohol). Made from chili.
It looked like a shot, so I did a shot.
I couldn’t feel it right away, and for the first couple of seconds I felt fine.
Then the arsenal of 150 proof hit me.
Still fine, I’ve had worse, just a bit of tingling.
BUT then, the chili hit me.
Fuck me.
I couldn’t breathe; my whole life flashed in front of my eyes, and everything was a blur. My lips and tongue went numb, my hands were shaking; I started sweating and walking around in circles like a maniac.
I lift my head to look at my friends — same situation there. I think I heard the words ‘heart attack’.
After taking a couple of deep breaths I put myself together and I was like — bois, we might die here today. Surrounded by a motor bike gang, alcohol is trying to kill us… I love you all, and it’s been a pleasure. See you on the other side.
Needless to say, we survived — even enjoyed it, and made it back to our abode by the ocean safe and sound.
Another day in the books. We sat down, opened a bottle of gin, and started thinking about what’s next…
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Part III
Famous last words? That can't be our boat...
You would think that whales, motorcycle gangs, and chili moonshine is more than enough for one trip. But the Azores adventure was far from over.
Problems kept piling on, and solutions seemed to be lost in the dark. And no one went looking for them. Why bother, right?
This attitude has become the signature trait of our group over the years, and has seeped into our personal and professional lives.
After a couple of days spent on Pico, we decided to taste the flavors of other islands. One of those was Faial, about 40 minutes across the ocean.
We bought our ferry tickets and embarked with the rest of the ever-curious tourists. Each of us was carrying two bottles of wine, just enough to get us through the cruise.
On Faial, in a small port town Horta (later dubbed Hrota), we rented a car. As always, one of us was a designated driver — he would drive us around all day and we provided him with a plenty of entertainment in return.
Our day was full of miradouros and we managed to do a roundtrip of the island in a couple of hours. Among other notable feats — by 12pm we were totally plastered, then we sobered up, then got drunk again, sobered up, and got smashed once more.
Good times.
Anyways, Faial is a beautiful island offering 50 shades of green, cows, craters, and lakes.
Caldeira was a source of infinite entertainment, and you can also experience it in motion here.
After enjoying the views and indulging in the memories of previous days, we decided it was past time we headed back to the harbor. We still had to return the car, and then we could enjoy a couple of pints and gin & tonics together.
Our ferry wasn’t scheduled to arrive for the next hour or so. We found a neat spot near the port where we could enjoy the spoils after the long day. As a bonus, we could see all the boats coming and going, so there was no way we could miss our ferry.
Right?
Nonchalantly taking a sip and ordering another round of beers, we were looking at a boat leaving the port, fully convinced we had at least an hour to spare.
Under normal circumstances, we would have had. But in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean, far from European and German sense for punctuality, we were already late.
Our ship has sailed — this saying turned literally into our new reality.
What now?
Well, first of all, it was a blessing in disguise. Now there was plenty of time for another round of beers. Priorities.
Second, we should probably figure out how to get to the island where we live and have all our stuff.
We finished the beers, and came up with a strategy.
Three of us went down to the ports looking for ‘alternative means of transportation’. It’s a logical move, given the situation — albeit, as we would soon find out, pointless.
Our friend — who had been mostly useless the whole day and had barely put a single sentence together up until the evening — says:
— I’m going to check out some of these local bars.
Sure man, whatever floats your boat. We’d already given up at this point, but the three of us kept lingering by the ports — just in case fortune decided to smile upon the persistent.
But as it usually goes, fortune favors the bold and those without a logical plan instead.
Our friend got back from the pub, grinning from ear to ear.
— So any luck guys?
— No, nada. How about you?
— Yup, got us a guy. It might be a bit pricey, but we’ll get back home tonight.
No. Fucking. Way.
And just like that — a few minutes later…
I find myself putting on a lifejacket and getting into a motorboat with a couple of guys from the whale watching crew. It’s getting dark and we’re about to cross the Atlantic.
We set out; the wind is beating across our faces; and we can feel every wave crashing against our rubber vessel. When we look around, there’s no land in sight, just the vast ocean.
Someone remarks that this is beyond our wildest expectations, and, in fact, this is how life should be lived.
Now, after about 40 minutes, we’re already approaching the pier on Pico; as we disembark we thank our guides and pay them handsomely for their time.
We climb up the pier to have a cigarette, looking across the ocean, thinking about what in the actual fuck just happened.
We got drunk; we enjoyed the beautiful island of Faial; we got drunk again; had a couple of beers; saw our boat and our lives sail away; then we got plastered again; found a solution; and we’re back on our home island — safe and sound.
Who would’ve thought…
Another ‘regular’ day of living in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean was coming to a close. As was our whole adventure; but not just yet.
Stay tuned and subscribe to read about the final leg of our journey on Pico — our coup de grâce; the final baptism of fire.
Part IV: The Baptism of Fire
The final leg of the Azores adventure (at least as told here) had a little resemblance to the final leg of Frodo and Sam’s journey deep into Mordor — into the Cracks of Doom.
The day after we crossed the Atlantic on a rubber dinghy, a decision was made to scale the highest mountain on Pico (and coincidentally the highest in Portugal). The inactive volcano, Montanha do Pico, loomed at 2,351 meters above sea level.
At the time, it was almost unimaginable. Not only had we not been hiking for many years; our collective physical condition was at the level of an 85-year-old man from all the smoking and drinking.
But stubborn and young as we were, we got drunk the night before our hike again. And woke up with King Kong-sized hangovers only to find Luis impatiently waiting for us in his taxi to take us to the foot of the volcano.
Things were happening fast; no one was fully aware of what lay ahead; we were only hoping everything would fall into place eventually.
We had no hiking shoes.
No gear.
No warmer clothes for the altitude.
No idea what to expect.
No food — only alcohol.
Maybe a bottle of water — but I’m not sure.
Luis dropped us off near the meeting point where we bought tickets and ‘got ready’ for the hike.
It was a gradual ascent which proved to be a challenge after a week of eating one meal a day and drinking only alcohol. Some individuals were more resilient than others, and one of my friends didn’t make it past the 1km mark.
He was in such pain that he couldn’t walk, and could only barely breathe. His first thought was to get insured (as he hadn’t been up until that point). So at least he got his travel insurance in order.
Not that I had one.
The rest of us made the decision to struggle on without him, and we continued — now in a group of three. We must’ve made quite the spectacle: hiking in jeans and Vans, faces long due to lack of sleep and proper nutrition.
But we made it to the top of the volcano after about 2.5 hours. I’d like to say that the views from the top were worth it; but it was cloudy and we were surrounded by swarms of miniature flies. We barely spent a couple of minutes up there.
The descent was — as is usually the case — much more difficult than the hike up. When we got back down we found our lost friend lying motionless in the foyer where we’d bought the tickets.
We got him back on his feet and called Luis to come pick us up. He was a bit surprised, as the hike was supposed to take us a lot more time than it did.
This was our last notable adventure on Pico and in the Azores.
Arrival back home was quite difficult because we had to engage in everyday activities and find actual jobs. After about a month of living in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. It was a shock — I almost felt like a member of the ‘Lost Generation’, as described by Hemingway, Rémarque, or Tolkien.
Looking back, I can clearly see the impact this ‘post-graduation’ journey had on us.
I never feel stressed. I don’t perceive problems the same way other people do. For me, there’s always a way to solve everything. Trial and error is my favorite process for improvement.
First DO. Then iterate based on feedback. Adapt. DO again. And repeat… Most people who plan and try to get everything right never get to the ‘DO’ phase. And when or if they do, I’m already miles ahead.
I’m not surprised when things don’t go my way or as planned.
I thrive in chaos. I gain from disorder.
I can improvise extremely well. I’m quick on my feet, and calm even in the most risky, critical situations. Almost to the point of negligence, often to my detriment.
The most attractive challenges are the ones when someone says ‘This is impossible’ or ‘You don’t have what it takes to do this’. I love it. It’s the rush, or almost a high, I get from outperforming other people.
Even if it might seem like there’s no lesson to be found in this Azores series — look again. Or maybe I should say, read again.
It was an experience of a lifetime, and it had a profound impact on my development as a person. That’s the reason why I decided to recap it here.
I’ll be happy to chat or talk about similar experiences you might’ve had, or about your take on this whole adventure.
If you’d like to read more content like this, just wait until I quit my job and go on a month-long trip again.
In the meantime, you can subscribe for unsolicited updates, insults, interesting info, and maybe even the long-awaited Tolkien article I’ve been going on about.
Laters haters!