By my estimation I am roughly 6218 miles from home. We have cameras in hand, gas in the car, a general plan and the belief that things will work out. There is nothing commericial about what we are about to do, about where we are about to go or what will eventually come from this little journey. We are making this trip because we are modern storytellers and because it is the only thing we know how to do. There is always doubt, but with doubt comes humor and the idea that the worst case scenario, barring death, isn’t all that bad. Mate´, cookies, sweat, film, microphones and a map. What else could we possibly need? And out there, lurking at the edge of the unknown, is the belief that “Alcatran” is alive and living in the area we are aiming for. The modern Colonel Kurtz, an unknown wildcard of violence, myth and fear. We take precautions that ring only of false promise. If we are there it is only because he wants us there, or perhaps he has plans for us. The trip begins in silence as the weight of the world takes hold. We fly a parallel course of feeling like we are doing the right thing but knowing that just beyond our hope lies a region of darkness. As the kilometers tick by they are reflected in the collective heartbeat of the Uruguayan countryside. An endless sea of green.