Patagonia.

To be clear, we were not talking about the necessities of farming, or those small places to keep out Old Killer Thomas More and Nasty Marx, but fences the length of small countries, stretching without end, and locking up mountains, and all the sky above, and the desert far beyond. Taut rotten wood and wire across rivers and streams, with the water always escaping and being caught again; owned to unowned to owned again, and always by the very, very few.

"There are just two things I don`t like about Argentina - the wind and the fences. And I guess you can`t do much about the wind." But always along the road the wire fences run, without public right of way, stuck in a world that moves. Like an international border that stops one walking because two hundred years ago an old man drew a line.

I spend my days riding parallel to wires, and thinking You´re ugly wires You´re ugly wires and wrong.

While all the world is blocked away, in a landscape so huge I feel contained and ordered in my movements, when movement has come to mean freedom. And I am one of the lucky ones in a world where the freedom of movement for all is a forgotten, ignored, repressed, basic human right. We were born walking and stopped. We survived because of our adaptability that we are slowly surely losing standing still.