Un Viaje Ordinario: Lapis de Goa

By Marc Xando

Un Viaje Ordinario is an extraordinary biography in two parts, chronicling a life of chaos, adventure, and transformation. It follows a boy from a remote small town as he becomes a wanderer, street brawler, adventurer, and businessman. Fate draws him into Soviet espionage and an international criminal network, setting the stage for a riveting survival story.

Marking his turbulent journey to adulthood, the protagonist wrestles with mental struggles and a relentless search for meaning. Oscillating between extremes—indifference and excitement, hedonism and asceticism—his life is anything but ordinary.

The sequel, Lapis de Goa, continues the saga, tracing childhood dreams into adulthood and across distant lands. What connects these stories? A young man, still fleeing inner turmoil, embarking on a timeless quest to unravel life's mysteries.

As one reviewer says: "A story so extraordinary, it seems impossible—and yet, it happened."

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 14, 2025
• ISBN: 9798350986723

Marc Xando

Marc Xando es un aventurero, filósofo y narrador cuyo extraordinario recorrido vital trasciende continentes y épocas. En Un viaje ordinario y Lapis de Goa, Xando nos invita a explorar su fascinante odisea, entrelazando aventuras reales con profundas reflexiones filosóficas y existenciales.

Book preview

Cover of Un Viaje Ordinario by Marc Xando

© 2025 Marc Xando

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

ISBN 979-8-35098-671-6

eBook ISBN 979-8-35098-672-3

Contents

PART One: Un Viaje Ordinario

Chapter 1: Echoes of Childhood

Chapter 2: Escape from Helsinki (1989)

Chapter 3: A Season in the Sun (1989)

Chapter 4: Tides of Freedom on the Coast (1990)

Chapter 5: Crossing Borders and Creating Connections (1991)

Chapter 6: Speeding Through Shadows (1991)

Chapter 7: Island of Second Chances (1991–1992)

Chapter 8: Whispers of the Baltic Spring (1992)

Chapter 9: Kisses Before the Road (1992)

Chapter 10: Monkey Business in Portugal (1992)

Chapter 11: A Journey Through the Land of Smiles (1992–1993)

Chapter 12: Reflections of the Mind on the Costa del Sol (1993)

Chapter 13: A Moment of Reckoning (1993)

Chapter 14 Mysteries of Goa (1993–1994)

Chapter 15: Lost in the Chaos: Bombay and Beyond (1994)

Chapter 16: Summer of Hearts (1994)

Chapter 17: Footprints Across the Globe (1994)

Chapter 18: Almost Like a Honeymoon (1995)

Chapter 19: Sales and Sunsets (1995)

Chapter 20: Goldfinger’s Grip (1996)

Chapter 21: The Calm Before the Storm (1996)

Chapter 22: Secrets of Tenerife (1996)

Chapter 23: Dancing with Gangsters (1996-1997)

Chapter 24: The Last Flight Out:

A Farewell to the Underworld (1997–1998)

Chapter 25: Summer in Moomin Valley (1998)

Chapter 26: Running into the Light (1998-1999)

Chapter 27: The Wild Shores (1999)

Chapter 28: My Last Resort in Timeshare Business (1999)

Chapter 29: Cycles of Fortune (2001)

Chapter 30: Stone of Secrets (2004)

PART Two: Lapis De Goa

Chapter 1. History Repeats Itself (2004)

Chapter 2. Into the Unknown (2005)

Chapter 3. A Relic from the Past (2005)

Chapter 4. Behind Vatican Walls (2005)

Chapter 5: The Weight of Wonder (2005)

Chapter 6: A Riddle from the Past

Chapter 7: Tomb of Ayutthaya (2006)

Chapter 8: The Final Revelation (2006)

Epilogue

PART One:

Un Viaje

Ordinario

Chapter 1:

Echoes of Childhood

My earliest childhood memories take me back to the yard of a car repair shop in a working-class town in eastern Finland during the early ’70s. The shop sat in an industrial area a few kilometers outside the city center, far from any children my age. But for a three-year-old with an active imagination, the yard held endless possibilities. Perhaps it was there, in the long hours spent alone, that my solitary nature took root, or maybe I was simply suited to being alone from the start. My family—my father, mother, older brother, and I—lived upstairs in the shop in a simple concrete room, originally built as a coffee break area for the workers.

While my father repaired cars from dawn till dusk, my mother worked at the church, leaving me to entertain myself in the shop or the nearby pine forest. The world around me seemed vast, limited only by the reaches of my imagination. My brother, three years older, was fascinated by our father’s work and spent his free time by his side. He had little interest in the endless adventures I invented.

The repair shop itself left strong impressions. I can still recall the ever-present smell of motor oil permeating every corner, seeping into the ground of the sandy yard. Summers were enjoyable, but the brutal Finnish winters made life upstairs unbearable. The icy yard lost its appeal, and the small animals and ants I’d watched all summer had burrowed deep into the earth. My parents, hardworking and determined, eventually saved enough to secure a bank loan, allowing them to buy a one-bedroom apartment on the outskirts of the city—a place that felt luxurious in comparison.

The new apartment was in a cluster of buildings surrounded by a train station’s rail yard, a sprawling forest, and a giant sandpit with a sand-bottomed soccer field at its center. Moving there was revolutionary. For the first time, I was surrounded by children my age and older, and there was always something to do, always someone to play with. My territory had expanded, and with it, the bounds of my imagination. Back then, parents weren’t as involved in their children’s daily activities as they are now. Alcoholism was common among adults, and success in school or work wasn’t a priority in child-rearing. My mother was gentle and endlessly loving; I knew I could always count on her, no matter what happened.

To understand my early years, you have to picture this small town of 30,000 in eastern Finland as it was then. It felt larger than its size would suggest, with most people’s lives revolving around it; few imagined leaving for the larger cities, and even fewer would have been able to, even if they’d wanted to. The town had a youthful population and a bustling nightlife, filled with an air of restlessness and energy. A visit to the city center was a treat, with small general stores that sold all sorts of toys. I could hardly afford any of them, but it was a thrill to wander the aisles, lost in dreams while the shopkeepers patiently looked on. These small Finnish towns are emptying now, with young people leaving, jobs fading, and a sense of desolation settling in. But back then, it was full of life.

When I first moved to the apartment complex, it didn’t take long to meet the other kids in the yard. I wasn’t in school yet, so the days stretched endlessly in front of me, mostly spent outside. The courtyards of each building formed clear boundaries; if you lived across the street, you were the enemy. My first encounter with gang fights happened when I was just five, fueled by the animosity between neighboring houses. Every evening, dozens of neighborhood kids gathered in the shadows to clash in makeshift battlefields behind the buildings or in the nearby woods, safely hidden from our parents. We crafted our own weapons—whips from rubber scraps scavenged at the local tire repair shop. The clubhouse in the basement became a clandestine armory, though our parents believed it was just a hobby room. Scars from these battles stayed with some of us, leaving small but permanent marks on our faces.

Despite this rough introduction to playground politics, most of my childhood memories are happy ones. Life was full of freedom and adventure. In the summer, we’d play soccer on the sandpit field; in winter, it transformed into an ice rink perfect for skating. When construction began on a swimming pool and sports hall nearby, the site became a treasure trove for building forts. Once the sports hall was completed, famous Finnish singers and bands performed there on weekends, drawing crowds of rowdy teenagers. Annoying these groups was a favorite pastime—though when one got mad enough to chase us, we learned to run fast!

One memory has stayed with me for decades. I’ve never been particularly spiritual or superstitious, even as a kid, but something strange happened. I wandered into a warehouse by the train station and watched a documentary about glass melting on a big screen. Mesmerized, I watched the molten glass transform into an egg-shaped yellow-brown gem. That night, I dreamed I found a similar stone in the sandpit nearby. The next day, I returned alone to search for it. I couldn’t believe it when I actually found a round, glassy stone in the sand, but I ended up tossing it back.

Things got stranger a few months later when a traveling Tivoli (a kind of funfair) set up in the sandpit. Wandering through the tents and sideshow attractions, I passed an old, dark-haired woman who called out to me, asking if I wanted a fortune told. I shyly said no, but as I walked away, she called after me, Did you find the stone? The words struck me like lightning, but I didn’t turn around. Maybe I’d dreamed the whole thing, yet the memory haunted me for years.

By six, we’d moved across town, and I started kindergarten. The kids were different here, but I quickly found my place. Janne, the tallest boy, would yell, Anyone who goes outside before me gets hit—except him! and point at me. I noticed early on that, despite my lone-wolf nature, people often respected me and wanted to be friends. Even in conflicts, I seemed to hold my own. During one recess, a bigger boy challenged me behind the outhouse. He thought he’d win easily, but I struck him first, right in the face. He burst into tears. The teacher supervising recess, oddly enough, didn’t step in right away; instead, she watched, as if to see the outcome. Later, as she escorted me to timeout, she whispered, You’re a tough fighter.

Throughout primary school, my days were mostly carefree, and I found joy in sports, especially soccer and ice hockey. I practiced with local clubs, but by fifth grade, I started gravitating more toward solo activities. I still had plenty of friends, but something about the solitary pursuits suited me better.

One rough spot in those years was my fifth-grade teacher, who often picked on me. It stung, but I held my silence, silently vowing revenge. Once middle school started, I let it go, but I never forgot him.

When I was ten, I started doing summer jobs, cutting grass with a manual mower. The work was tough but rewarding, and I saved money while building strength. In the winters, I used to clean grimy auto repair shops after school. I also fished with my dad, though I didn’t enjoy it much and often ended up cleaning nets afterward. But at thirteen, everything changed when I fell in love for the first time. We spent a blissful summer together, but by autumn, we went our separate ways. Her family moved, and we lost touch, though the memory of that summer stayed with me.

By fourteen, I’d found an outlet in the local gym and began training with older boxers. I also started karate with a new instructor in town. I loved the intensity of the training, and within a few years, I was competing at the national level. My best friend Martin and I trained together constantly. He was a talented boxer, though initially timid in fights. He’d also been offered a position on the town’s soccer team, but I selfishly encouraged him to stick with boxing.

Soon, the city’s hierarchy became clear. At the top were the bodybuilders and strongmen who dominated the nightlife. Beneath them was a gang of tough guys from the city center, followed by out-of-town punks and gypsies who’d come to show off. Finally, there were lone wolves like Martin and me, who lived in the suburbs and had no formal gang. Despite that, we earned a reputation, and eventually, even Hage, the city’s top strongman, took notice of us. One night, he invited us over. I ended up in a fight with one of Hage’s crew members and knocked him out with a single punch. After that, I had a reputation I didn’t entirely want.

Fights grew more frequent, and I found myself defending against multiple attackers. During one fight, I broke a guy’s facial bone, which led to a court case. Even though I hadn’t started it, I was found guilty and had to pay a fine, which cost me my place in the local sports club. That stung more than I’d admit.

Before I turned eighteen, I began experiencing severe anxiety attacks, often escaping into intense training to cope. I’d drown the discomfort in weekend drinking and easy flings, drawn by my reputation and appearance, even though I struggled with self-image. Over time, a group of young guys started training with me, looking up to me and adding to my reputation. At a certain point, I’d had enough. The attention became too much, and I decided it was time to disappear from the city.

Leaving was the only way I could see to regain control of my life.

Chapter 2:

Escape from Helsinki

(1989)

In many ways, I was a refugee in my own country in the late ’80s. Having just reached adulthood, I arrived in Helsinki one early summer day with a small leather suitcase, holding little more than my passport, a change of clothes, a toothbrush, and three thousand Finnish marks—a considerable sum back then. Despite having visited before, I felt like an outsider in a city I barely knew.

Not long before my move, I had been involved in a setup where I staged a car theft for a payout, earning four thousand marks from a satisfied client. That was how I funded my journey, leaving me with just enough to get by in Helsinki for the time being.

With no solid plans, I took an impulsive route, buying a month-long train ticket. It led me to Turku, then on to Stockholm by ferry, and eventually across Europe. After wandering southward through Denmark and Germany, I reached Italy, drawn by the warm climate and the relaxed pace of life. My last trip to Italy, spent with my friend Martin on the Riviera, had left me with a deep fondness for the culture. This time, I arrived solo in Rimini, where I met Mara, a Milanese girl who had come for a beach holiday. Those days felt unreal, filled with the kind of freedom I longed for back then. When it was time to part ways, she saw me off with a mix of sadness and understanding.

Returning to Helsinki, I relied on a few friends who had also moved to the capital for work. The challenges of reconnecting in a pre-mobile era kept my life unpredictable, and the latter part of the summer became a series of odd jobs, from hospital maintenance to food delivery. Life in Helsinki felt raw, unpredictable, and turbulent. I stayed close to my childhood friend Ugi, a talented boxer whose carefree attitude often led us into fights—once even a knife fight at a beach. Still, we walked away with minor injuries. I couldn’t settle, and I didn’t want to.

I deliberately avoided relationships and a stable job, not wanting anyone to see the struggles I kept inside. My belongings stayed packed, ready to leave at a moment’s notice for the next five years. My inner restlessness drove me from one adrenaline-fueled situation to the next. The thought of army service, expected soon, weighed on me heavily; I hated the idea of staying put, submitting to orders. I dreaded a life of stillness.

One day, in a bar, I reconnected with an old training partner, Vahur, who introduced me to Vladimir, a Russian with deep connections across the Soviet Union. Estonia was still under Soviet rule, and Vladimir operated beyond Soviet borders—a privilege few enjoyed. They invited me to join them on a trip to Leningrad, promising all expenses covered. I had time before conscription, so I agreed.

Crossing the border into the Soviet Union was surreal. The official and unofficial worlds ran parallel; tourists would exchange currency legally, while a leather-jacketed underground network offered far better rates. My companions ran a shadowy operation, officially dealing in household goods but primarily focused on products for athletes—medicinal ampoules smuggled across borders, disguised as electronics. With connections deep in Soviet customs, they moved items without a trace. What appeared on the surface to be a simple business was, in fact, a well-oiled smuggling network: household goods flowing into the Soviet Union, pharmaceuticals discreetly making their way back to Finnish bodybuilders.

We stayed at the Hotel Pulkovskaya, a lively hub for wealthy foreigners, attractive locals, and unofficial money exchangers. It was the kind of place where everything was available in excess—rubles could buy a night of luxury that was unattainable back home. The Soviet Union was collapsing, and for a curious young man like me, it was a magnet for adventure and discovery.

One night, during a dinner gathering, a Soviet doctor suggested a way to avoid the Finnish draft: a fabricated leg injury, complete with X-rays and medical documentation. He would send a report to a doctor he knew in Finland, who could confirm my condition before conscription. I accepted his help without hesitation.

Our time in Leningrad came to an end with late nights and chance encounters. I met a beautiful woman in a nightclub, one of the many glamorous figures who filled that strange, half-secret world. We parted ways, and as a parting gift, Vladimir gave me a Nagant revolver, said to be from the war—a keepsake I still hold on to.

The conscription plan went as expected. With my leg injury documented, I was exempted from service. It felt like I’d barely sidestepped a trap, one that might have come with strings attached from the Soviets if not for the Union’s eventual collapse. I ran into Vladimir again years later in Spain, but that’s another story.

Many might think poorly of my choices, and I can understand that. But for me, it was about survival, living on my terms. I felt no obligation to fit a conventional mold, to give back to a society that didn’t understand me. I was loyal to friends but wary of anyone who seemed insincere. Though I navigated life with intensity and sometimes recklessness, I was loyal to those who mattered. My life was a game, a deck of cards I learned to play well, occasionally bluffing when the stakes were high.

Once my conscription issue was behind me, I realized I was done with Helsinki. Winter approached, and I was homeless. I had become a wanderer, living with friends, spending nights wherever I could find shelter, training in martial arts by day, but haunted by panic attacks at night. Only three things helped ease the restlessness inside: exercise, women, and alcohol.

One day, I saw an ad for a job on a tropical island. It was Tenerife. I used almost my last bit of money to buy a plane ticket and left, determined to escape Finland. I was a