Until the End of the World

At the southernmost tip of the American continent, our paths collided with the Greek couple known as the Mad Nomads. What remains after a brief cohabitation with fellow travelers in places so distant? Well, that’s a question for the road.

by Akis Temperidis
Photography: A.T., Vula Netou, Ilias Vrohidis 

Ushuaia, the southernmost city on Earth. A legendary destination for every traveler, “the end of the world,” as the Argentinians like to call it. Many travelers arrive here on motorcycles, cars, campers, and even bikes, after months or even years of journeying, most coming from North America – some from Alaska even. To reach this point, we hurriedly crossed the windswept Patagonian land, hit the Atlantic at Cabo Virgenes, crossed the Magellan Strait by ferry, and finally made our way to Isla Grande, the largest island of the archipelago known as Tierra del Fuego, a land split between Chile and Argentina. After endless miles of windblown steppes, we encountered the southernmost peaks of the Andes and ended up at the Beagle Channel.

That day wasn’t about fulfilling a travel dream for us; after all, we’d been here before in 2010. But there was a certain sense of vindication, especially for our little one, who arrived here at such a tender age after 26 months of travel through 15 countries across both Americas. It was a historic day, though not for the reasons one might think. Standing at the city’s entrance were Ilia Vrohidis and Angeliki Douglas, with their van – a modified four-wheel-drive Toyota camper – and Ilia’s trusty Honda XR 250, just like the ones he’d used in his previous journeys across Asia and Africa. And just like that, for the first time on this journey, we had company. Greek company. The World Offroad project now joined forces with the Mad Nomads for the coming days.

Mad About Americas

The couple from Greece had just arrived in South America the previous fall, while we were somewhere in Peru. We met them in the early stages of a journey with no clear timeline, a journey that would eventually lead them to Alaska. They named it Mad About Americas. Besides their van and motorcycle, they carried a small inflatable kayak and a paraglider for Ilia, a man whose feet rarely stayed on the ground. As a skilled sailor, Ilia and Angeliki planned on making some professional stops along the way, playing roles as skipper and cook on chartered yachts, mostly in the Caribbean. A simple way to fund their adventures, which they too traveled on a low-budget style like ours.

After years on the road, it was our first time sharing the journey with others. Like most overlanders, we naturally veer toward solitude. Every traveler has their unique rhythm, their own particular style of living.

From the outside, we all look the same: part of a quirky, bohemian tribe who escaped the mundane life and fell into vanlife. Dreamers or adventurers? Explorers or rebels? People see us as they want. But what they don’t realize is that we are a microcosm of the world. From families to singles, students to retirees, vegans to meat lovers, gays to straights, Christians to atheists, rich to poor. Some rush through life, others move like snails.

One loves cities, the other craves rivers, mountains, and solitude. Some drink beer, others prefer wine or water. And don’t even get me started on nationalities. Yet, there’s this strange thing about travelers – those of us on long journeys – we speak the same language, even if our mother tongues are all over the map. We share the same problems, find the same solutions. We’ve all started with similar dreams, but each one of us has a totally unique story to tell.

Every day, each of us paints the journey with our own brushes, even when we’re treading the same geography. Sometimes, a mere 20 kilometers more can change everything – a good experience, a bad one. It’s the road, after all.The crux is simple: despite our differences, we are all fellow travelers. And that’s why we connect, in ways that go deeper than words, even when we have no shared past.

Living together, not without struggle

This was clear during our brief stay with Ilia and Angeliki. For three days, we stayed by a river, just 10 kilometers before Ushuaia. We walked around the city, took a beautiful hike by Esmeralda Lake, and then tackled the southernmost road in the world, from the northern shore of the Beagle Channel, through Harberton Farm, to the easternmost tip of the channel, where the road simply stops. At the 55th parallel south. We dined together, shared endless conversations, and played board games late into the night. These were human moments, nothing extraordinary, but so meaningful. A small Greek group in one of the most isolated corners of the planet.

Years of Shared Journeys

We’d been fellow travelers with Ilia for years, even before this meeting in Tierra del Fuego. We first met him in 2008, in Amritsar, India. It was our first day in India; it was his last. He knew about us, but we didn’t know him. And that’s the magic of travel. In a city with millions, in the most populous country in the world, we met purely by chance. Only when you travel do these incredible encounters happen. Looking back, I regret not hanging out more back then. But we stayed in touch.

When we were living in Italy, Ilia came by before his second major trip, the one to Africa. In 2017, we welcomed him back at Thessaloniki’s White Tower with a crowd of his friends. He had met many of our friends in Africa and stayed with them. A young boy on his first trip, a man hardened by years and experiences, a true traveler. He’s a hardcore one, quiet but sharp.

During his breaks in Greece, he learned sailing, wrote two books – “I Travel, Therefore I Am” – which we carried with us on this journey. He gave TEDx talks, learned to paraglide, and white-water kayak. And now, here he was again, traveling with Angeliki. No return date, just two souls packed into a van, with all their dreams and ambitions.

And Angeliki – what a woman. She dove into this life full-force, at an age when most women are still thinking about careers or children. Every day, after we met them in Ushuaia, she was adjusting to the journey’s demands. She’s learned to live without toilets, laundry, kitchens, or showers, focusing on the real beauty of life on the road. It’s the same for us; often, we’re exhausted, questioning whether it’s worth it. But we always forget it the next morning, when we open the curtain and witness another incredible sunrise.

The Goodbye

On a gloomy, rainy morning, at the spot you see in the main photo of this article, the two travelers packed up their little bed, secured the motorbike inside the van, and gathered the Starlink satellite that had kept us connected during our days at the southernmost stretch of the world. They came to say goodbye. After eight days of peaceful cohabitation, our paths were about to separate. For them, Tierra del Fuego was the start of their journey, while for us, it marked the beginning of the end.

We parted without tears. We promised we’d meet again someday, and then we climbed back into our van. Anastasia was still asleep. We made coffee, exchanged a glance.

“Well, we’re alone again,” said Vula.
“I’ve got a bit of a sadness now,” I replied.

It was as if a piece of us broke off in that moment. But we didn’t have the time to dwell on it. Work was waiting for us in Ushuaia, and the nearby Tierra del Fuego National Park, where we were preparing a mini-documentary about the region’s environmental issues. We hiked a lot, watched the mountains turn white with snow, met Carlito, the world’s southernmost postman, and hung out with Yvonne and David, a wonderful elderly overlanding couple. We also met the family of Maximo, an environmentalist working for Ushuaia’s local government.

Then one chilly morning in mid-March – autumn at the world’s southernmost point, where temperatures were below -2°C, and the windshield frost had us struggling to start the van. A clear sign it was time for us to head north, towards the road home.