January 21, 2026 

What stayed with me after finishing Riding the Train of Death was not just the geography Richard Bierregaard covers, but the steady sense of uncertainty that follows him from country to country. From the opening chapters in Argentina, the book immediately places you inside a young graduate’s mindset, hopeful, practical, and quietly anxious about the future. The early train journeys feel almost optimistic, especially the crossing of the Andes, which reads like a moment of transition before the realities of politics and survival begin to press in.

The sections set in Chile are some of the most unsettling, not because of dramatic events, but because of how restrained and watchful everyday life feels under Pinochet’s regime. Bierregaard doesn’t sensationalize this period. Instead, he lets the atmosphere speak for itself through small details, police presence, cautious conversations, and the frustration of professional doors quietly closing. By the time the journey moves north through the Atacama Desert, the tone has noticeably shifted from ambition to endurance.

Bolivia forms the emotional core of the book. The arrival in La Paz and the physical toll of altitude sickness are described with uncomfortable clarity, but it is the failed university interview that truly lingers. That moment exposes the ethical compromises embedded in institutions and forces the author into a deeper reckoning with what kind of career he is willing to build. From there, the infamous Santa Cruz–Puerto Suárez railway earns its nickname not through dramatics, but through accumulated unease and historical weight.

The later chapters in Brazil offer a contrast that feels earned rather than touristic. São Paulo, Rio, and Belo Horizonte are approached through professional hope once again, while the Rio landmarks are woven in naturally, as pauses rather than highlights. The brief episode at Iguazú Falls adds an unexpected human dimension, showing how cultural ignorance can surface even in places meant for wonder.

By the final pages, returning to Buenos Aires feels quieter than expected. There is no triumphant ending, but there is clarity. The journey clearly reshaped the author’s confidence and worldview, and the book closes with a sense that this difficult, often uncomfortable experience was necessary. At under 100 pages, the narrative never drags, yet it leaves you feeling like you have traveled every kilometer with him. 

January 21, 2026 

This is a short book, but it carries the weight of a much longer journey. The author captures what it feels like to move across borders with purpose, only to discover that each place comes with invisible rules that are hard to navigate. Early confidence gives way to fatigue, doubt, and recalibration.

The description of the Santa Cruz–Puerto Suárez railway lives up to its reputation without being sensational. The danger feels historical and systemic rather than immediate, which makes it more unsettling. I also appreciated how the famous locations in Brazil are handled almost in passing, as if they matter less than the interviews and conversations shaping the author’s future.

By the final return to Buenos Aires, the reader can sense how much the journey has changed him, even if he doesn’t spell it out directly. 

January 21, 2026 

What I appreciated most about Riding the Train of Death is its refusal to exaggerate. Bierregaard writes with the calm of someone reporting events as they happened, trusting the reader to recognize their significance. The journey across South America unfolds methodically, and that pacing matches the uncertainty of traveling with limited resources and unclear prospects.

The episode in La Paz is particularly memorable. The combination of altitude sickness and the ethical dilemma during the job interview creates a moment where personal ambition collides with personal values. It’s uncomfortable in a way that feels real, not staged for effect.

The book ends without dramatic closure, which fits the story. It reads like a turning point rather than a conclusion, the beginning of an international path that was shaped by rejection as much as opportunity. 

January 21, 2026 

I appreciated how the famous landmarks in Brazil are handled with restraint. Copacabana, Ipanema, Sugar Loaf, and Corcovado appear, but they don’t dominate the narrative. They feel like brief interruptions in a story that remains focused on interviews, conversations, and decisions.

The Iguazú Falls episode is short, but revealing. It exposes another side of cultural tension, this time among tourists rather than governments or institutions. It’s a small moment that adds texture to the larger journey. 

January 21, 2026 

I picked this up expecting the “Train of Death” to dominate the story, but it turns out to be only one piece of a much larger experience. The book is really about moving through systems that don’t quite want you, whether political, academic, or cultural. That sense of being tolerated rather than welcomed is present from Chile onward.

The writing is restrained, which works in its favor. When the author describes physical sickness at altitude or the moral discomfort of a job interview, it feels earned. Nothing is exaggerated, and that makes the journey more convincing.

January 21, 2026 

This book surprised me with how quietly intense it is. Going in, I expected a travel memoir focused on landscapes and movement, but what I found was more of an internal journey shaped by institutions, politics, and chance encounters. The early optimism of leaving Buenos Aires with a clear goal slowly erodes as the author realizes how little control he actually has over outcomes.

The Chile chapters stand out for their tension beneath the surface. Nothing overtly violent happens, yet the sense of restriction is constant. That feeling carries into Bolivia, where the physical strain of altitude sickness mirrors the moral strain of navigating academic systems that don’t always reward integrity. The infamous Train of Death section doesn’t rely on shock, which makes it more effective. It feels dangerous because it is treated as routine.

By the time the story reaches Brazil, there is a subtle shift back toward possibility, though it never becomes romantic. The ending feels honest rather than neat, and that restraint made the book more convincing to me.

January 21, 2026 

There’s a strong sense of time in this book, not just dates, but the historical moment. Late 1970s South America comes through clearly, especially in Chile and Bolivia, where political realities shape everyday decisions. The author doesn’t lecture about history, but he makes it impossible to ignore.

I found the return to Buenos Aires quietly moving. After everything that came before, the ending feels like a pause before a new life rather than a conclusion. That restraint made the story linger with me after I finished it.

January 21, 2026 

This book reads less like an adventure story and more like a record of persistence. The author moves from country to country with a clear professional goal, and watching that goal repeatedly stall becomes the quiet tension that drives the narrative. The trains, buses, and border crossings begin to blur together in a way that feels true to long, uncertain travel.

What stayed with me most was how the author handled disappointment. There is no bitterness when interviews go nowhere, especially in Bolivia and later in Brazil. Instead, there’s a steady recalibration, as if each setback is slowly shaping a different kind of future than the one he originally imagined.

January 21, 2026 

Reading this felt like listening to someone carefully reconstruct a formative period of their life. The details are specific without being indulgent, and the focus stays on decisions rather than spectacle.

By the final return to Buenos Aires, it’s clear that the success of the journey can’t be measured by whether the original goal was achieved. Its value lies in how it sharpened the author’s sense of self and direction. That realization gives the book its quiet strength.