"Seven Worlds" by Avantourists

This South-American journey, somewhere between realistic and unbelievable, mundane and astral, takes you into the emptiness of deserts, the depths of jungles or a mind-blowing boat trip across the Amazon river. The power of three magical plants and a shaman’s singing will fling us into the brightest spots of our inner space. Our inner world.

In other words, our life-changing twisted journey in Peru and Bolivia has turned into a psychedelic mind-fuck novel, which is going to catch you too, soon. Stay tuned with out progress! For now, see the trailer @ Youtube and some excerpts below.


“Seven Worlds” by Berit Renser and Terje Toomistu

Ultimately one can’t decide if „Seven Worlds“ is a piece of fiction or a travelogue. It utilizes both genres and leaves the greatest impact when read simultaneously as both. In the context of fiction – the narrative is coherent and meticulously composed. It’s a dashing discovery trip, a bold enterprise, as well as an introspective coming-to-age-story of two young women, hungry for experiences.

As a travelogue, the book is a telling proof that the genre is in need of constant reinvention. One might think that travelogues have begun to lose their importance during the information age, as virtual tourism has changed faraway places into something easily accessible. But „Seven Worlds“ shows us the opposite – there’s still the need for firsthand experience, the uniqueness brought by somebody going through things personally. It enriches and inspires the audience.

Jaak Tomberg, a literary scholar


Excerpts from the book

„Tu bolsa!“ the stranger suddenly shouted to us. I felt there was something unpleasant about him. We didn’t know any Spanish, to begin with.

“Tu bolsa!” he screamed again, right into our faces. „Tengo una pistola, tu bolsa!“
What the hell does he want? It was all I could think of. Bolsa? Pistola? Pistola! Does he mean ‘a pistol’? S. O. S.

His hand was moving towards his back pocket. Does he really have a pistol in there? What does he want? What are his hands doing with Frida’s back? Why is Frida holding the bag with all her strength? (continues in the book)


As Ray led us, we left the main street and entered into a dusty courtyard. The ground under our feet was bumpy. I stumbled on a brick. Ray opened the door on the right side of him. We climbed in and tottered across the stairs, cobbled together from random pieces of timber.  We walked on planks laid on the eaves until ending up in front of another door, barely hanging on a lone hinge. Someone stuck their head out and called Hola! Que Pasa? …I heard cats mewling when their tails were stepped on in the dim light.

A floor board was shifted over. Then another one. Through the hole I could see downstairs. There were some people sitting around a table. „Columbians,“ Ray mumbled. A man with a face like Jim Morrison’s sat down and laid a mirror in front of him. He held a smelly joint in his left hand. His right hand dived swiftly into a minigrip, dropped some white powder on the mirror and divided it into five or six even lines with a payphone card. He looked proudly at his masterpiece. In the same garden where an old lady was watering her flowers and residents were walking in and out of the rooms, this man took a straw‚ and sucked it all deep into his nostrils. I heard the slurping sound even on the second floor where I was at. The man sighed happily and smiled, looking like Jim Morrison at his most handsome. (continues in the book)


His slow way of talking was driving me mad. I wanted to get away. After all, he was lying. But the fatty stopped just for a moment, then went on, still dragging his syllables:

„I told him that these were my girlfriends! Then I punched his face but it turned out that this man didn’t know anything, too. I hit him twice more and asked him about the stuff but I got nothing.“

The cop showed us in an expressive way how exactly he had beaten the thugs. His eyes were shining. He was swinging his fists as if there was a punching bag in front of him. He was in a full hero mode now, unstoppable: „I almost lost hope, thinking it might be just another lost call. But how could I tell you that I had defeated your exceptions again? But suddenly… suddenly! My cellphone was ringing!“ The fatty lifted his large Nokia 5110, to make sure we knew what he was talking about.

„I answered it. Hello!“

The fatty held the silent cellphone next to his ear and re-performed the conversation in its entirety. To my stoned mind it seemed absolutely hilarious but I tried to behave myself.

(continues in the book)


„Tienes hermosos pechos,” he said, looking at my body. I couldn’t understand.

„Frida… Frida! Are you still there?“ I shouted into the darkness, while my neck was being kissed.

„Yeah, I’m here, enjoying the game, what’s up?“ she whispered softly.

„Did you get what he told?“

„He said that you have beautiful breasts.“


„You have beautiful breasts!“

„Well, thanks,“ I said to Frida.

„Gracias,“ I said to the fisherman.

He then grabbed them again.

(continues in the book)


It was like a dream. There was a shaman walking on the left side of me, telling me about evil spirits. That’s right –a shaman. A mystical creature, that mythologies place into faraway places or maybe into forest with ghosts. Not available to mortals. But now there was one just next to me, speaking about mental wars the spirits have and how to suck out demons. His voice was casual. He could have been talking about eating or brushing teeth.

(continues in the book)


Rainbow-colored sunbeams stormed across my mental sight, at one point whirling like foamy waves of the ocean, then suddenly reminding me varicolored fans from Spain or quill weathers of a peacock. In between there flashed feline heads, Marilyn Monroe smiles, Batman masks, luscious false eyelashes. All this unknown world, an insight into the second, third or seventh dimension vibrated in neon colors. The sun, the sea, exotic plants, all acquired a marvelous graphical form. There were flying saucers, wriggly lians, a cluster of interwoven worms; tigers, black jaguars, giant fingerprints, a monkey’s tail made of the Nazca Lines; some more spirals, interwoven strings; knots, patterns from the skirts of Shipibo women. These patterns were the visions the plant has sent to the shaman. Then it all fragmentized into fractals. I went from fractal to fractal with indeterminable speed, as though I was going through thousands of worlds, overlaid on each other. I gasped from amazement.

(continues in the book)


„God damn, they really do sell mental trips around here!“ Frida exclaimed after another sip of wine.

„What do you mean by a mental trip?“ Alvaro asked, gesturing to Nora for the bottle.

„You buy a ticket and ask: „How many days to Pucallpa?“ They say it takes three days. But this ship is crazy! The people aboard lose their minds! There’s nothing else to do but spent the three days laying in the cabin or at the deck, smoking and drinking excessively. After three days, no matter if the boat moved or stayed in harbour at Iquitos, you are in Pucallpa. Mentally.“

(continues in the book)



Do we live in another time zone

That we so innocently wallow in vice

Whirling in the pink night of life?

Creation, pleasure, the cosmical unison

Angelical smile, the mirror for sinful

Competing with time, chased by a flame

The passion ship on a stormy waterway

Swallowing the vivid delight

Captured by our own reflection

Perpetuating the paintings so bright

Onwards! Into the unknown dimension

(continues in the book)


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