Jericoacoara

Getting to Jericoacoara (or just simply "Jeri" as all the cool kids call it) proved to be one last slog. The final part of the journey being in a open sided truck with benches on it. We made our way down dusty tracks, which decreased in width until we were eventually driving along the beach. It was like sitting on a washing machine and I lost count the number of times I bashed my head off the roof while suspended in mid air. Just as sunset was kicking in we rounded a corner and Jeri appeared oasis like before us. I'd heard lots of good things about the place and they all proved to be true minutes after clambering out of the truck. There were no real streets, just paths covered in sand. Horses roamed the main "street" which was littered with restaurants, bars and little Caipirinha stands which sold cachaca or vodka mixed with every imaginable fruit. Just out of the truck I was approached by a tout offering a place to stay in a pousada. Being tired and easy going I just said "sure" and followed him. This proved to be an extremely wise decision as the tout in question was called Itamar and from what I have seen and heard since, owns the best pousada in Jeri. A small house with a big communal dinner table, 2 comfy sofas, loads of board games, a big TV with lots of DVDs and hammocks were liberally sprinkled everywhere to ensure you didn't have to walk too far before falling into one.

I stayed 10 days with Itamar and various Slovenians, Estonians, Canadians, Italians, Germans & Americans and must say that it was definitely the most relaxing time since perhaps the Little Corn Islands. My days consisted of getting up late, having some coffee (made by Itamar), retiring to my hammock for a read and a snooze, down to the beach, sunset from atop the massive sand dune, followed by dinner (also normally made by Itamar or one of his friends) and Cocktails (once again served up by Itamar before we hit the town. His favourite being cachaca, pineapple and mint).

So as not to atrophy I decided to learn to Kitesurf. With my Slovenian sidekick we persuaded Cale, a chilled Canadian to show us the ropes. So for 3 days we sat in a lagoon and let ourselves be dragged around by a 7 meter square kite which would fly around the place like a banshee due to the extremely high winds found in Jeri from August to January. In all other "extreme" sports (I hate that expression, but let's face it there is an inherent difference between badminton and snowboarding) you can drop the method of propulsion (windsurfing, wakeboarding) or just fall over (snowboarding, mountain biking, surfing), but in Kitesurfing you are actually physically attached to the kite and letting go won't do too much good (depending on the kite). Controlling the kite is easy enough - pull the bar right, kite goes right. The only tricky part is if you turn right and the kite goes from being on your left side to your right side, you will effectively be putting the kite in the full force of the wind for a couple of seconds. This lead to hillarious (for the bystander) and decidely painful consequences as Slovenian and I did 3 meter backflips in the air as the kite yanked us out of the water and tossed us into the air. After 3 days of battering and brusing we finally managed to get the hang of it and I was up on the board for at least half a second. This is not a sport for instant successes.

But after all this excitement and relaxation it was time for something else, so one afternoon slightly bored I booked a flight to Rio for the next day. Nothing like improvising.

Travel madness: Cayenne - St George - Oiapoque - Macapa

The trip from Cayenne to St. George on the border with Brazil was quick, or at least seemed to be as I spent most of it asleep, banging my head against the window of the Hiace like a death metal fan. I arrived with a headache and jumped in another canoe to get the hell of dodge. Across the river I landed in Oiapoque and was extremely happy to be back in Brazil, even if being able to communicate more or less fluently was one of the highlights of the Guianas.

Oiapoque is a typical border town - dusty, dishevelled and a bit seedy, but I managed to get a bus ticket for 6pm that night, meaning that it would be yet another night without a bed. After a fantastic lunch at a by-the-kilo restaurant (oh how I love these places) I settled in for an afternoon nap before taking the night bus to Macapa.

The bus arrived right on time (quite a change from the Guianas) and we set off down the unpaved road to Macapa, which meant that for most of the trip we were all hopping up and down like kids in a bouncy castle. I managed to get a couple of minutes sleep here & there and we arrived into Macapa just before 4am. A motorcycle taxi took me to a hotel, which I was never so happy to see. Finally a shower and a bed, but my delight was soon to be dispelled by the night porter telling me it was full. He was kind enough to recommend another place so I hiked through the deserted streets of Macapa before finally being successful and checking in to the Hollyday Inn (sic). I showered, shaved and delighted at the creamy airconditioned goodness of it all. But my 10 second revellery was soon interrupted by the arms of morpheus.

The next day I rambled around Macapa, which has 2 exiting things. A fort and a football stadium where the equator forms the halfway line. So the games there are like the northern hemisphere against the southern. Macapa has also no roads anywhere, well except back to Oiapoque which was not high on my list of priorities. In fact the only route out was a 24 hr boat ride to Belem. At this stage long rides are non negotiable, so I got myself a flight to Fortaleza, with the intention of learning to Kitesurf and getting some serious beach time in Jericoacoara...

A holiday from travelling

So all caution thrown to the wind it was a 4 hour flight from Manaus down to Rio. A journey which would have brought you all the way across Europe. I then had a day of calm before the storm in Rio where I looked up my old haunts and had a good old trip down memory lane. It is quite weird, but after Dublin, London and Frankfurt I probably know Rio best of all cities. Slurping down Acai, drinking Guarana by the bucket and chilling out on Ipanema beach watching the beautiful people walk by, I quickly remembered why I love this place.
Erick arrived the next morning, so it was beer for breakfast and the day carried on similarly. Although sitting on Ipanema beach during a rainstorm was not the most pleasant thing ever, although it was a portent of things to come...



After a couple of nights on the town we took a quick 24 hour bus down to Foz de Iguazu and in to Argentina to see the falls.
Again the rain gods were not smiling and the day we visited the falls the heavens broke with a vengeance rarely seen. We were both supersaturated in .3 seconds flat. A combination of wind and rain ensuring that there was not a square millimeter of dry clothing left on us. Nothing for it but to head to a dry bar and wait it out. The next day it was back to Brazil where we took a quick side trip to Ciudade del Este in Paraguay for lunch and a beer (shocker). CdE is like a third world Hong Kong. Nothing but electronics, shoes and perfumes being flogged by the side of the road, in shacks and even in air conditioned malls.

With time to kill before the bus to Florianopolis we headed up to the Itaipu dam, the largest in the world and one of the 7 modern wonders. Not being a huge dam fan per se, I wasn't expecting much, but it turned out to be rather fascinating. The whole scale of the place is just unbelievable. There is a 7 storey building in front of the dam wall and it just looks like a piece of lego.




Our second night bus took us to Florianopolis where we arrived early morning to watch a group of Germans militarily plan their next 4 days. Erick & I went for a sambo & coffee and by the time we came back they were still planning their next tactical move - Taxi or bus? Beach or Accommodation? This village or that? We left them to their discussions and headed to the local bus stop. We jumped out at the lake and Erick went into the local supermarket to plan our next move. It involved 2 beers and a packet of chewing gum. Strengthened we walked across the causeway, went to the beach and found ourselves a cool bungalow complete with a fridge and bbq. The bbq didn't see much action, but the fridge was a hit, due to the close proximity of the local supermarket (50 meters away) and its never ending supply of beer. We arrived on a Friday and were already running low on clothes (I had no trousers left and Erick only 1 T-shirt) so we found a local laundry where the lovely lady accepted our foul smelling garments with good grace and a smile. She then spoke to us in rapid Portuguese. Now, my Portuguese isn't brilliant but I clearly made out the words "tomorrow" and "12". We both took it to mean, come back tomorrow anytime after 12. Happy with ourselves we trotted off and had a jolly good night in Floripa. Duly hungover the next morning we surfaced at around 1 and delicately made our way to the laundry. We arrived to find it looking extremely closed. We meekly rapped on the windows, but to no avail. Oh well, Erick's T-shirt could handle another day and my board shorts were still more or less the colour I bought them in. We passed the day in our usual b&b (beer and beach) style and had another great night out.
Sunday morning and Erick jumped out of bed at 11am like a kid at Christmas and ran (probably hopping and skipping) to the laundry. My pessimism at Brazilian opening hours left me unstirred in the bed. He came back like someone who had just been told that Santa doesn't exist. Well one more day in that T-shirt (which at this stage looked like it might actually jump off him and run away, with the two little arms going like mad). But it stayed put and we headed off to Praia Mole, an absolutely gorgeous beach on the eastern side of the island. Monday morning eventually came around and we visited the laundry again like a pair of orphaned kids. She bestowed our fine smelling and expertly folded clothes upon us and we once again joined the ranks of the clothed people.

Another night bus saw us freeze our cahones off and left us groggy, grumpy and other g words in Sao Paulo at 5am. We caught an onward connection and were in Paraty for lunch. The rain gods were yet again in top form and left us with no option but to sit in a bar and wait for it to break. 5 hours later it slowed down enough for us to venture/stagger out. The two days were pretty much spent like that, except for a brief excursion to a local waterfall where I nearly killed myself by sliding down it in the wrong spot. Better off sticking to nice safe bars...

Finally it was back to Rio where we stayed in the fantastic CabanaCopa, partying up a storm before Erick's departure on Saturday night. Yes, what better time to leave Rio than Saturday at 8pm?? I was going to go to bed early in a mark of respect for his long haul back to Europe, but said fuck that and went out Sambaing until 4am. But Sunday was going to be the start of a quiet couple of weeks. Well until that was, someone said we should go to a funk party where I ended up dancing till 5am. The bass was so strong that it felt like your internal organs were breakdancing. But Monday was the start of a new week and I was flying back to Manaus that night. No better time to detox. Well until at least midday where the heat on the beach was so unbearable that I had to have a refreshing beer to cool down.

So from the beach to the plane and 4 hours later I was back in Manaus wondering if I had actually left at all...

Manaus

After the tight quarters on the Amazon it was time to chill out in Manaus before heading down to Rio to meet Erick for a couple of weeks holiday (and yes the irony of taking a holiday from travelling is well aware to me).

Chilling out proved to be quite difficult as the temperature hovered around 30 degrees both night & day and the humidity must have been at least 120%. Despite this I managed to move myself from in front of the fan to see the famous opera house. It is indeed extremely impressive and the whole idea of building an opera house in the middle of the jungle, thousands of miles from civilization was definitely visionary.

The other fun happening in Manaus was a bit of a laundry disaster. Up until now all laundry outings had gone spiffingly (well except one time in Colombia when I had to leave the town and my clothes weren't completely dry, so I had to stuff wet clothes into my backpack...), but Manaus was to prove different. When I arrived my laundry wasn't ready, so I headed round the corner for a refreshing cerveja. An hour later she was flustered, but just about putting everything in a plastic bag. She handed it to me and I checked the contents. Two pairs of foreign underwear - old briefs in purple and navy blue and one missing T-Shirt. We solved this with a couple of laughs and a bit of pointing in the laundry room and off I toddled home.

That night though whilst putting on lovely new and lovely smelling jocks I noticed that the fair lady from the laundry had written my name on the labels of all my clothes. Not a huge problem you say, but on the jock I was wearing she had actually written on the white waistband of my otherwise super sexy pulling pants.


Yes, I have my name and to add insult to injury it is spelled wrong on my pants. I feel like a 5 year old. The "Back" scribble was put on to try and make it humorous if ever spotted by a member of the general public.

Iquitos to Manaus: Sailing the Amazon

Iquitos to Tabatinga (Brazil) was achieved in a high speed boat which was so high speed that it broke down after 2 hours and we had to wait on the banks of the Amazon until a replacement arrived from Iquitos. The new boat was slightly smaller than the first, so with typical south american ingenuity some plastic chairs were procured and the luckless seatless souls were given pride of place in the aisles. Causing a somewhat tricky obstacle to be tackled whilst going for a pee.

The supposed 9 hour journey turned into 15 and we arrived in Santa Rosa at 9pm where the Peruvian border guards had pissed off home. So I became an illegal immigrant and took a motor canoe over to Tabatinga in Brazil. Within 10 minutes of arriving I had been offered 90% of all drugs known to man and been propositioned by two elderly prostitutes. Whilst there is nothing wrong per se with these gracious offerings by the locals I was not quite in the mood after a day bouncing down the Amazon.

Along the way we had formed a little group - a Chilean couple and an English couple, so as first world refugees we stuck together and found a hotel. A little on the shabby side, there was a pile of sand and a toilet seat in the reception area, watermelon pips all down the hall, no toilet light and no sheets provided (actually not a problem in the jungle heat).

The next day we dutifully put-putted back to Santa Rosa to get checked out of Peru and hiked the streets of Tabatinga to find the Brazilian immigration. That done, it was time to buy a hammock and a boat ticket for the journey to Manaus. All was successfully acomplished in record time so we jumped in a souped up VW camper van taxi and headed 1km down the road to Leticia, Colombia to complete the breakfast in Peru, Lunch in Brazil and Dinner in Colombia grand slam. Leticia was actually nice, a feck lot more salubrious than Tabatinga at any rate.

The boat was leaving the next day at 5pm, so we arrived around lunch to make sure we were in the queue for the best hammock space. We weren´t the first but had a decent position. Around 3pm ¨boarding¨ commenced which meant that the queue kind of disintegrated as people barged through and women and children were called to the front. But we eventually got on, slung our hammocks and readied ourselves for 4 days on the high seas. Well actually we went upstairs to find the bar which served ice cold Skol.

The 4 days and 3 nights passed quickly, a familiar rhythm developing quickly - Wake (normally due to the chap swinging beside me putting on some tunes at 6am), go back to sleep, wake, back to sleep, too hot to sleep, swing in hammock mind refreshingly blank, read, lunch (which was served military style in 15 person sittings from 10.30 to 12.00), doze, read, look forward to dinner, crack open first beer, dinner (strictly 16.30 to 18.00), sunset, more beer... And repeat. The scenery changed little, just a vast expanse of trees bordering the river, the banks becoming further and further apart as we progressed downstream. Every dozen kilometers or so we would pass by a small hamlet, Amazonians doing whatever they do (largely fishing and sitting around doing nothing by the looks of it)

Our little group of 5 was widened with the remaining 5 gringos on the boat. 2 English lads, a Spaniard and two American girls. Time passed slowly like the Amazon, giving us ample time to play every game under the sun - from Shithead to Dominoes, Poker to Checkers. We even threw in a game of eyespy, but the letters A and J just came up far too often. The sunsets were sublime though, a real highlight to every day. The sun going down directly behind the boat, causing the Amazon to turn almost mercurial.

Day 4 came along and the expected ETA of midday was revised to 7pm. So just as the sun was setting we finally got our way and had the barman put on one of our iPods, the English lad sticking on some exquisite house music. So with the sounds of Northern Exposure, the sun going down once again and the fires coming from the Manaus oil refineries raging into the sky we had rather a memorable entry to Manaus.

Rio

While standing in line at Rio airport I realised there were some familiar faces in front of me. I reckoned it was probably some people I had met in Rio, but as I got closer and my glazed eyes managed to focus I realised with a shock that it was the 3 Irish boys from Laos / Bolivia. Yep, 11 months after meeting them for the first time in Vang Vieng, where we were jumping out of trees in to a crystal clear lake, we were now in Rio airport dressed sensibly and all on our respective ways home. We had 2 hours to take off and we exchanged civilised stories. We gradually realised that something was missing and started nervously looking at each other until someone broke the silence and meekly ventured "Beer?". After 51.7 weeks on the road we weren't going to say no. So 4 beers each and a couple of unbelievable stories later an air hostess (or whatever their PC name is these days) comes into the bar and tells us that the plane is waiting. We stagger on to the 747 with the lads trying to persuade the rather good looking hostess to come home to Ireland with us all. She politely declines and a few minutes later we are accelerating down the runway leaving a year of fun, frolics and life changing experiences evaporating behind us in a jet stream.

Rio - The world's greatest city?

Did I tell you that this is one of the world´s greatest cities??
I think it has actually just soared into the top spot in the "Places I want to live" list, knocking Barcelona off the top spot and sending Sydney, Nelson and Buenos Aires further down the list. I just cruised down to the beach yesterday evening for sunset and there were thousands of people just hanging out, BBQing, drinking, volleyballing, rollerblading, surfing, bodyboarding, sleeping, snogging, caipoeiring, singing, dancing and basically just having fun. I think having a beach increases a city´s liveability index by about 100%. Add to that the background of forests, lagoons, granite peaks and islands, add a shot of the great food and amazing juices, sprinkle liberally with Rio´s Joie de Vivre and stir it all together for instant happiness.

I reckon I will be the first gringo to visit Rio and not "do the Christ" as they say, i.e. visit the Christ the Redeemer statue on top of the hill. Rio has an uncanny knack of throwing up low flying clouds from nowhere, so the statue becomes completely invisible in minutes. Today´s plan of sightseeing was nipped in the bud by an errant cumulus so I went surfing instead... Maybe tomorrow, but hey I feel like a local and as we all know, locals never do any sightseeing in their own city. Either that or it means that I have to come back someday...

Dreaming of a White Christmas

So if you are still looking for that special stocking filler, then look no further

Rio #2

After 46 hour bus jaunt from Natal (more about that at some stage) I have arrived in Rio to sit out my last 3 days. Weird Weird Weird.

By the way: There are no presents for any of you in my rucksack so don´t even think about it. No Hard rock cafe Sydney t-shirts / bottles of Thai sauces / Llama foeti / mini christ the redeemer statues (that glow in the dark) / hammocks / key chains / stick of brighton rock.

Right, who is buying me a pint first of all?

Natal

This hungover slug has come to a grinding halt in Natal where life is just too pleasant to continue. Living in a castle, chilling on the beach and hanging out with a mad Danish author.

You forget that you are living in such a paradise, but every so often you are pulled back to irreality. Like this morning after doing some laundry (I told you travelling is fun) I was hanging the clothes out to dry and I get this strange feeling that I am being watched. I turn around and sitting on the wall behind me is a small monkey, looking at me as if to say "what the hell are you doing" whilst chewingly contentedly on a mango he has just plucked from the adjacent tree. We have a bit of a chat and I return to partake in breakfast on the veranda.

The only other thing of import to say is that in one weeks time I shall be getting on a 747 and crossing the Atlantic at 700mph, ending what has been without doubt the best 360 days of my life.

Praia do forte / Aracaju / Maceio

My travel speed has decreased to that of a elderly, infirm, hungover slug travelling backwards through honey. I have been gradually making my way up the north east coast from Salvador. The great thing about this stretch of coast is that it is just one giant beach with crystal blue waters, palm trees and the inherent risk of falling coconuts putting an abrupt end to ones travels...

Praia do forte is a beautiful small beachside town complete with humming birds and small monkeys just north of Salvador. Aracaju is nothing special, but the owner of my hostel in Rio was there on holidays and had invited me to come and stay with them in their parents apartment. Gift horse, mouth etc., so I wasn´t passing up on the chance of a free nights sleep. I arrived at the apartment and realised straight away that it wasn´t your average middle class Brazilian family. The apartment wasn´t one of many on the 4th floor... It WAS the fourth floor. Probably about 200m2, in the downtown area, overlooking the river, 3 balconies and enough space to swing an ocelot. When I woke up the next morning, everyone was out of the house (parents, brothers & sisters etc.), but there were not one, but TWO maids in the kitchen. One fussed about me and lead me to the dining room where a 12 seater table was set for one. So I dined on fresh bread rolls, scrambled eggs, cheese & brazilan cold cuts, fresh fruit salad and pineapple, all washed down with some freshly brewed brazilian coffee served in a fine bone china cup. Somehow it didn´t fit in with my whole living on stale bread and water, sleeping in drains world traveller image (hey I was sitting on their finest mahogony chairs wearing the same boxer shorts I had on for the previous 2 days...), but life is hard and one has to be flexible. So I "Ahemed", asked for more coffee and retired to the living room to watch TV... 2 well fed days later I bid (bade?) farewell to my family (I was getting to used to the luxury thing) and headed up to Maceio, which has some of the nicest beaches in Brazil. The first day there I duly sunscreened up my whole body but somehow omitted my face. The next day I looked like one of those monkeys in Japan that sit and fart in hot springs all day. Onwards ever onwards (this time in a group comprising of an Englishman, an Israeli and a Guatemalan - anyone got a joke handy?) towards Olinda, the first capital of Brazil. A street party or two later and I had to leave - I was having fights with the Israeli. He was inclined to walk 4 kilometers out of town to save 50 cents on his food. I tried to explain that the energy we would lose just by walking all the way would be more than the money we saved. He just growled at me, so with his 3 hear SAS style military training in mind, I fled towards Natal.

Salvador

As soon as you arrive in Salvador you know there is something special about the city - there is an electric vibe rising up from the streets from the moment you step off the [twentyfuckingseven hour] bus. music emanates from every car, van, bus, house, restaurant, bar and hotel. The sounds of samba, salsa, reggae, bossanova and frevo fill the air. The first night I took a stroll around the pelourinho (old city), just following my ears to the closest music source. It turned out to be an all female drum ensemble - Dida. The girls ranged in age from 8-15 and they were all amazing drummers. They played their hearts out for ages, all the time with infectious grins on their faces. I reckon my arm would have fallen off after about 5 minutes. During one piece all the girls had to come to the front to do a little dance around their drum. To be honest I have never seen such self confidence in a 10 year old before. They danced around their drum, jumped up on the the drum, posed, did some cartwheels and generally strutted their stuff. I think any western girl that age would have been mortified to be put in front of so many people to dance, but no, these girls lapped up the attention.

That was basically the sum of Salvador - sleep late (cos there was no going to bed early with all the music being played), read a little, wait for sundown, grab a beer and head out to the nearest music venue. Most of the drum bands would do a procession through the cobbled streets, so it had a bit of a mini-carneval feel to it all. I will never forget one night the procession stopped outside a barber´s shop where a man was getting a haircut. The barber proceed to dance around the man, taking a snip out of his hair everytime the bass drum sounded. The victim customer took it all in his stride and was even bopping around in his chair a bit. I didn´t wait for the end product, but it was definitely a hair cut with soul.

In between times there were always some blokes in the squares around town practising Capoeira. Some not so good - pissed blokes pretending to fight, but some were breathtaking, kicking each other and missing each other´s heads by milimeters & miliseconds. One guy was even doing some backflips over his opponent. Salvador is a wonderful place, music in the air, street parties every night, beaches, cheap accomodation, great food & men pretending to kick the shit out of each other. Now why can´t we have that back home?

Mr. Cab Driver

As opposed to Europe where one must either show extensive leg or cleavage (in case of a girl) or throw oneself in the middle of the road (for a man) to get a taxi, in South America the Taxi drivers are positively aggressive in getting your custom (if you appear to be a gringo). Walking by a taxi rank is the equivalent of a half naked lady walking by a building site - you get whistled at, shouted at and basically terrorised. If you stop walking curb side, deliberate for a second and look any way confused (which admittedly I do far too often), a taxi will pull up beside you within seconds. If you happen to have a Lonely Planet in your hand at the same time, then they will nearly drag you into the taxi. Yesterday I was standing on a main road at a zebra crossing waiting for the little green man with 30 Brazilians around me and a taxi driver stops in front of us all, rolls down his window and says "Taxi?" expectantly.

Idiots.

I have always harboured a deep dislike for taxi drivers, pratically all around the world they are crooks, conmen or just have no clue...
In Prague I once hailed a cab, got in and told the driver where I wanted to go. He nodded and headed off straight ahead, after a couple of kms, he turned right followed by another right soon after, then straight ahead for a couple of kms and he let me out. Yes, I was basically one block away from where I started and had to pay about 30 Kopecs for the pleasure.
In Malaysia they refuse to turn on the meter and are difficult bastards to bargain with. Once I got the guy down from 5 dollars to 2 dollars for a trip to the bus station, so not knowing where the station was, I thought I had a bargain. The driver nearly just pushed the car there - it was less than 1 km away... Sucker. He even grinned at me when I handed over the money.
In Singapore, one of the smallest cities in the world, I asked the driver to take me to a large (and presumably well known) hotel where I was meeting someone. The driver had never heard of the hotel and proceeded to drive all around the world for sport looking for it. I suggested he ask somebody on the street, so we played a round of "ask the locals" and on the second attempt found a bloody ex-pat (of all people) who directed us to it.
In Vietnam if you ask a taxi driver to take you to a certain hotel, he will invariably tell you it a) is terrible, b) is full of prostitutes, c) is closed, d) has burned down, e) doesn´t exist or f) has been zapped by a WMD. If you insist he will probably take you there, but on the way will stop by his brother´s hotel which of course is nicer, cleaner, cheaper, friendlier etc. etc. If you still insist on going to your original hotel the driver will pull a face and grumble like a troll for the rest of the journey.
In Munich I once had a meeting and not much time so I jumped in the cab and told him where I wanted to go. The driver growled at me in deepest Bavarian and told me to basically "walk you lazy fuck". It was two blocks away and my custom wasn´t good enough for him.
In Dublin due to licensing laws there was a chronic shortage of taxis up until recently. Of course the taxi drivers were very happy about this and campaigned bitterly against issuing more licences. At night people would wait (due to Dublin´s excellent public transport) for hours at the main taxi ranks. At Christmas there were stories of people waiting 3/4 hours for a taxi. One night I got so pissed off I walked the 8km home.

So as a mini-revenge against taxi drivers I have perfected a new sport which I have entitled "Taxi Baiting". It involves standing on main streets looking confused (easy) and waiting for one to come by. When he stops and rolls down his window you look at him for a while, look at the taxi (getting his hopes up all the time) look in a certain direction, wait a couple of seconds and then finally say "eh, Noo.". They normally harrumph and speed off disgruntedly. Last night I managed to get 6 hits within the short walk home from a bar to my hostel.

Ah, the simple pleasures in life.

Rio de Janeiro - The start of a love affair?

Before I arrived in Rio I decided I was going to stay in Ipanema. I had visions of myself sitting on the beach, guitar in hand, crooning to the local beauties as they sauntered by. Rio was having none of it and as I arrived there was a rainstorm that would have put Atlantis 2 miles further underwater. I walked into my hostel of choice and said "Hi". There was a guy on the sofa and beer in hand he countered "Soft fucking day, huh?" in a distinctive Cork accent. I smiled, he grinned, we started drinking, we bonded.

The hostel was in a small cul-de-sac with two other hostels beside us and our place turned into a bit of a party central due, in no short measure, to the corkmans & my thirst and my (by now) honed DJing capabilities on the hostel´s stereo. Everyone seemed to be either starting a world trip or were in the final days of their journey before heading home. So the conversations were either of the "Hi, where you from?", "How long are you travelling?", "Wow, where have you been?", "Tell me about x" (For how much I cherish these conversations, see: Traveller Trumps), or of the far more preferable "I don´t care what you do or where you've been, lets talk shite and have a drink" variety.

The week shaped up as follows:
Thursday: No party party
Friday: Lapa street party
Saturday: Salsa party
Sunday: Favela Funk party
Monday: New liver party
Tuesday: Beach

With that I packed my bags and got on the bus to Salvador de Bahia on Wednesday morning.

ps. After 1 week I still know nothing more about the Corkman´s life and times other than his name.

Sao Paulo

I flew from Lima to Sao Paulo (a flight so ridiculously expensive that it cost nearly a quarter of my round the world ticket price) arriving at perky hour of 3.30 am. After 3 hours killing time in the arrivals hall, counting roof tiles, watching flies fight and trying to understand what was happening in the film on TV, I got the first bus downtown and headed to the first hotel I could find to sleep.

Sao Paulo is South America´s most populous city with a population ranging anywhere from 10 to 30 million, depending on who counted, where they went to count and if they were stabbed to death while counting. It is Brazil´s industry hub and has a reputation for violence. I found it to be a great place, full of life, brilliant restaurants, great bars and the best nightlife this side of Buenos Aires.

One night I got invited to a party in a young Japanese/Brazilian textile magnates house. It was in one of the swankiest areas of town, had a swimming pool, a chessboard carpet complete with 1 meter high, 20kg pieces in the hall, two grand pianos in the dining room, a room with just a [very well-stocked ] bar and some barstools in it, a kitchen the size of my old apartment with 4 fridges, a bathroom you could have gone curling in and this was only downstairs. I got back to my hotel at 6am, slinking past the Conceirge who just grinned at me the whole time.

Corumba & The Pantanal, Brazil

Another 17 hour bus ride followed by 10 minutes breakfast followed by another 7 hour bus ride and I was in Corumba, Brazil refreshed and ready to go. Corumba has two things going for it:
1) It is next to Bolivia
2) It is right in the middle of the Pantanal. According to most guidebooks the Pantanal is probably THE best spot in the world for seeing huge amounts of varied wildlife (and for probably contracting the most exotic diseases).

And being keen on birds it was high on my priority list to see.

I booked a 4 day trek into the wilderness and was off the next morning on the back of a pick-up truck with 5 other people. Three of them were lawyers in training and two of these were Swiss, so my expectations of fun and frolics in the jungle were dampened from the start. I mean Swiss lawyers - can it get any worse??

We bounced our way down some hairy country roads and watched the spectacle unfold - Toucans flapped by (disappointingly without a pint of Guinness in their beaks), scarlet & blue macaws flew by in pairs (interesting fact #587: Macaws stay together for life and if one of the partners dies, the other one doesn´t even look for a new partner) and Alligators rested motionlessly beside watering holes with their mouths open wide. Within a couple of hours I had seen more wildlife than on an hour with David Attenborough.

We arrived at our camp late at night and there was already a camp fire with some Brazilian dudes playing music and dancing around. Miraculously the camp also had a small bar which served (in order of importance) Caipirinha, beer and water. We were shown to our hammocks and I threw my sleeping bag in it and proceeded to make my way in an orderly fashion to the bar to quench my dust coasted larynx. With enough beer imbibed to give me the necessary sleep momentum I was already in my hammock at about 9pm. New records were being set.

As usual I stripped off and wiggled into my sleeping bag and drifted away peacefully with all kinds of new, interesting and above all dangerous sounding things going bump, bang, croak, frippet, quark, uhuhooh, wakawaka and grrrrr in the bushes.

It had been mid thirties during the day but no one told me how cold it gets in the middle of the night so I awoke at about 3am with icicles forming on my nose. The fact that my super-light, folds up into nothing sleeping bag has the heat retaining properties of a full body Kleenex didn´t help matters much. I fumbled for my clothes and resumed sleeping, wearing my day clothes plus a hat.

At 6am we were awoken boot camp style by a bell, informing us that breakfast was served. After that the first day was spent walking through the jungle / savannah gawking at various animals I had only ever seen in zoos before: Deer, Macaws, Toucans, Koatis, Armadillos, Vultures, Parakeets, Eagles, Maribou storks, Ibis, Emus, Howler monkeys, Owls, Alligators, Capybara and Hummingbirds to name but a few. Our guide was crazy as a brush and marched barefoot around the place, oblivious to all dangers that were running through my mind.

On the second day it was time for a spot of Piranha fishing. It all sounded like good clean fun until the guide told us to bring our swimming trunks. I trusted his better judgement and we hopped into the truck, destination: piranha infested lake. The rods were bamboo sticks with wire attached and the bait was what looked like a fine rump steak.
All good until our guide ("Hakuna" who, like in the lion king, had definitely Hakuna Matata) stripped off his clothes and started wading into the lake and cast his rod nonchalantly. We all looked at each other nervously and I could already see the lawyers planning a nice reckless damage settlement. Still going by the "He must know what he´s doing" credo, I got into my shorts and waded in after him. After about 3 nervous minutes I finally had to ask him "So why don´t the Piranhas bite us?". He just laughed and said "Because you are not bleeding of course". This reassured me greatly and I vowed to stay away from sharp objects and stopped scratching my mosquito bites immediately. My imagination was working overtime though and every little water movement around me had my pulse up to 180. It was like Jaws, only smaller, and without the give away fin. Once the water came up to my crown jewels and you have never seen anybody hop back as fast as I did.

Within a couple of minutes Hakuna had caught one of the "little" beasts. They are not so little (slightly larger than my palm) and they have a set of teeth that would put a great white to shame. Meanwhile my rod was starting to lightly vibrate and I jerked it out of the water to find that half of my bait was gone, sawn off cleanly. I cast again and waited. A couple of minutes later the same thing happened, but this time I took the rod out only to find the bait missing completely. These bastards were clever. More bait on the rod and I started again, this time getting a rather hefty tug on the bamboo stick. I jerked the rod back and lo and behold there was a wriggling monster of death on the end of the line. I took him ashore and let Hakuna do the honours of taking the hook out. Within an hour or so of Piranha slaughter we had some turkey vultures circling overhead and some huge storks eyeing us up, It was all very surreal.

Day 3 had me horseriding around the pampas on a frisky bastard that liked nothing better than to take off at the drop of a hat. I clung on for dear life as he galloped over the plains, my screams had wildlife for miles around running for cover. I survived and was even doing a bit of the jockey thing at the end. Though, afterwards I was walking round like John Wayne and my arse was sorer than the guy that drops the soap in the prison shower.

After 4 days of fun and frolics it was all over and time to head back to the heady delights of semi-civilization in Corumba. Next destination: Bolivia.

Brazilian puppet

Brazilian guy kills his parents because they wanted him to divorce his inflatable puppet... And why not...