14 October - ??!! – Buenos Aires part 1

Or – yup, feels like home.

I find myself feeling rather apprehensive about Argentina. For start there’s the language thing, sure, but everything is just looking slightly different. As we bus the 16 hours south from Iguazu to Buenos Aires, the palm trees are replaced by terrain that looks more like Britain – flat, green, scrubby, there are ‘real’ buildings to keep the winter out (in Brazil, having holes in your house was no big deal). It doesn’t help that it’s overcast this morning, and looks windy outside (I'm writing this section on the bus to BA). The days of lying on beaches and drinking coconut water may be over for the time being.

The buses are also different. In Brazil, you stop every few hours for food and to stock up on supplies. Here, you get fed and given drinks, but you lose any control over what and when! But...you do get wine with dinner. Oh yes. There’s an entertainment system like there was on the very nicest of Brazilian long distance trips, but they didn’t give you headphones – it just came out of the speakers. There was no choice of whether to listen to the movie or not. Luckily it was in English with Spanish subtitles.... Unluckily, it was ‘Made of Honour’.

We arrived in BA at lunchtime, to a grey, windy, polluted and COLD (14 degrees! Iguazu was 25+ every day) city. Ah – feels like home. Within a day I’d had a Spanish lesson, a tango lesson, the weather started to warm up and I started to think I might like this city.

I’m starting to realise that I’m being a cultural parasite, latching onto anyone and everyone I meet who I think is cool. Eg – ‘oh, you’re a surfer – I’d like to give that a go’, or ‘oh, so you’re into football – I could be a football fan for a while’ and lately ‘ooh – hippy scene, hmmm’ (don’t worry mum, as of today I am still tattoo and piercing free for the time being). I feed off their obsession for a while, then dislodge when I or they move on, and sit around waiting for the next victim to wander too close to my blank page personality.

I feel like it’s a bit like all my possessions and clothes were burned in a fire, I’ve got the insurance money, and now I can go out and buy whatever I want – starting from scratch with a new look. I’m currently hogging the changing rooms, trying things on to see what suits.

Apologies where due to any all weary hosts to my parasitic behaviour- thanks for letting me into your worlds. It’s been really fun (me gusta), but I’ll go away and think about it and maybe come back and purchase at a later date.

It’s a fun way to live, but I can’t help thinking that by the age of 24 I should maybe have a better idea of where I fit into the world. Am I actually the artsy type, or is that just an outfit I adopted as well? Or will I ultimately turn out to be a business type, or even a travelling hippy type?! I like the idea of the lifestyle, though not sure if I’ll eventually miss doing anything intellectually challenging (for the moment there’s always learning Spanish) or if parts of my brain will eventually just lapse into a coma or rot entirely if I stay here. I’m doing a lot of thinking – asking a lot of questions to which I don’t have answers yet. But that’s ok, and this is good. This is why I’m here. And there are lots of other people similarly confused and directionless, looking for guidance at the tops of the mountains and middle of the oceans and in the midst of city culture and in the new and exciting people you meet, and, quite often, in the bottom of a beer bottle.

On which note I either have to take up some more serious exercise than tango, or just stop eating if I want to drink. I swear I’ve put on a ton of weight since arriving in BA – you don’t do all the physical activity here that you would in the countryside. And PAX hostel and it’s dungeon bar are bad influences. It’s too easy to stay up drinking until 6 or 7....or 9...in the morning, sleep the morning away, Spanish in the afternoon, then back in the bar for happy hour (and, glory be, free popcorn) at 7pm.

In addition to hangovers, having a Spanish lesson in the middle of the day, plus homework kind of puts paid to any major sightseeing, and the weekends are, ahem, often hangover days, so I do need to get a wriggle on and actually see some sights!

But, I think I’m sticking around here for a bit – there’s so much cool stuff to do: gigs and tango and parties and Spanish learning and such. It turned out that the hostel is looking for a receptionist for the busy Christmas and new year season. I ummed and arred for a while: (reception? Again? That job is going to haunt me forever) but I figured that: no I’m not time limited, yes it’d be great if I could recoup just a smidge of the overspend I’m currently ignoring from Brazil and all the expensive cultural activities I’m shamelessly engaging in here, yes I like this city, no I’m not done seeing it yet, and yes I have some friends here that it’d be nice to hang out with more, and yes it’d be wise to take hostel-work-experience when it’s offered to me so that when I really do need a job to pay my way, I have that experience under my belt....

Photos tell a better story, but highlights so far have been my two walking tours of the historic architecture and the like.... the boca vs river football match (voted as the top football experience of all time in the observer...if it was at the boca stadium. Shame it was at river, but it was still amazing... I’m definitely a footie convert...or am I? Was that about the people I was hanging out with again???), splashing out at the best BA cocktails at the marriot plaza hotel bar (still good value at £5 with free caviar and smoked salmon canapés), la bomba de tiempo percussion group at Konex, and ‘la grande’ playing at club aráoz (imagine riff based, live arrangements a la grand union or connect projects, but way funkier and actually filling a 700 pax night club full of young arty types dancing their little latino hips off), tango lessons (and HOT tango instructors – you can lead me anywhere, baby..), and too many fun nights to mention in the pax bar hostel (cop out touristy nights, but I’m not going to feel guilty....). The bits I always really hate are the goodbyes when you’ve had a really good time with someone, or a group of people, it’s so frustratingly unfair when they get taken away from you. I’m building up a good facebook collection but it’s not quite the same. The only two things that are currently annoying me about the city though, are 1) continuing gratuitous smoking in public places: clothes stink, and 2) the grid system the city’s laid out in. Everyone knows I’m a fan of patterns and mathematical simplicity, but I’m of the opinion that cities should be organic, not geometric. It’s just wrong. Wrong. However, I will leave you with a quick maths problem, courtesy of James from my tango class (royalties in the post):

There’s this native American indian called Walking Horse who needs to transport his three wives over a river. Clearly the way this is done in their culture is by riding a hippo across (bear with me). There are also hungry lions prowling on each bank, so the chief has to always be shooting at them with a bow and arrow to stop them eating him and his wives.

Anyway, the smallest wife goes first, and the hippo has no problem easily swimming across the river with her on his back. The next wife, however is a bit bigger, and halfway across, the hippo starts to struggle and drift downstream. Walking horse abandons his bow and arrow and dives into the river to save wife number 2, however meanwhile the lions have taken their chance and eaten both the other wives. When he got back to his village, the chief asked him: why did you sacrifice two wives to save one? Surely that doesn’t make sense? Ah, but Walking Horse replied: the squaw on the hippopotamus is equal to the sum of the squaws on the other two sides...

Iguazu Falls 10-13 October

Or: the park where they grow rainbows

National Parque de Iguazu is 67,000 hectares, surrounding the 275 cascades that stretch 2 ½ kilometres, delivering up to 12,750 cubic metres of water per second into the foaming river below. This park grows a lot of bromeliads, a lot of butterflies and a lot of rainbows.

The best thing, watching the water tumbling over the falls, being equally deafened and soaked by the spray that must be so heavy and so light at the same time, was the knowledge that it was not here for our benefit.

The extensive tours, fenced catwalks around the forest and over the rivers, visitor centre and overprices snacks suggests that this is just a huge theme park. That at night, the falls get switched off so’s not to waste water, the coatis take off their costumes and are the little people inside go home to their families, and the butterflies get put away in a box ready for tomorrow.

But this amazing thing has been here since before it opened to visitors in 1934, before it was ‘discovered’ by goodness knows what bullying colonial invader. Before even the Guarani people came to settle in this area on the search for their heaven, the ‘land without evil’. I wish I could see the time-lapse footage of how this area developed: the combination of tectonic activity or glacier movement or wind erosion, or....my geography isn’t good enough.... that caused so many rivers to come together in this one place, and drop into this canyon in this way.

Apparently Eleanor Roosevelt’s words, on seeing the falls, were “poor Niagra”. I haven’t seen it, but I won’t be upset if I don’t, know. Yep, this is bigger!

You can visit the falls from the Brazilian and Argentinean sides. Brazil is good for an first overview, then Argentina for the spectacularclose-ups.

We stayed on the Brazil side for the sunset – which in itself wasn’t the best I’d seen, but we stood and watched as the swifts came home to roost behind the water, first congregating in the air, and showing off their acrobatic skills flying so close to the gushing torrent that would dash them to pieces in an instant. First 50, then 100, then soon thousands.

I’ve said ciao to Brazil and Hola to Argentina! And am not enjoying reliving the same complete ineptness at the language that I experience in Sao Paulo a month ago. I borrowed a French girl to help me buy my bus ticket to Buenos Aires, and have been shamefully conducting even the simplest transactions in combinations of English and pointing. It didn’t help that half way across the border I ended up trying to converse with the border guard in German (Portuguese words kept creeping into my consciousness instead of German ones. Dammit). So I’m now COMPLETELY confused.

Luckily the falls themselves are tourist-tastic, with signs in English and English speaking guides, and on the Argentinean side I spent the day by myself, dodging in between the large groups on the narrow catwalks to take the photos, and occasionally stopping to just wonder at the vastness of it all when I found a quiet spot. Irritatingly my camera battery ran out just before the best bit, but it was never going to do it justice anyway...

A quick nip to the triple border (Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay) for last wave at Brazil, and it’s time to move down to Buenos Aires where I’m very excited about Spanish lessons and tango!

6-9 October 2009 Pantenal

Or: Debbie is totally vindicated in her anal planning-aheadness, as even when things go awry, she still makes in by the skin of her teeth.

And.... smooth on the inside, crunchy on the outside... can you guess what it is yet??

Our machete-wielding guide, Carlos, told us to meet him by the hammocks at 4am ‘wear long trousers, proper shoes, bring sun cream and insect repellent’. Off course I wasn’t going to argue, but having just spent the best part of two days travelling from Salvador, I was pretty shattered. Luckily the early to bed early to rise mantra held fast here, so I gratefully sank into my mattress by 10pm.

Dutifully my tour-and-room-mate Keith and I woke at 3.30am, dressed, packed a rucksack, and ventured outside, into a thunder storm. The first rain they had for a month. The dawn safari was cancelled, and I fell into a puddle and got wet feet to boot. Back to bed for a couple of hours before breakfast.

The journey here had been far from stress free. I had first tried to book my flight from Salvador to Campo Grande (connecting in Sao Paulo) when I was in Itacare. The internet site seemed to accept foreign bookings, so off I went, putting ‘USA’ as my home country because Britain/Great Britain/UK/England weren’t on the list, and paid with my visa debit. The visa page dutifully appeared assuring me that the transaction had been successful, but the Gol page confirming the reservation never appeared. Hmm. Then cue two days of rain and no internet connections whatsoever in the whole town, so I had to wait for it to come back on, check my email – no confirmation email, check my bank account – no money had been taken, my Gol account – no booking. Luckily they’re not so penny-pinching as easy-jest or cryin-air, and have a free customer helpline, with an English speaking option... I ascertained that my booking had been ‘cancelled’, never quite found out why, and had to make a reservation on a later flight (arriving at midnight, not 10.40pm) to get the same price (just over £100). They didn’t take foreign cards over the phone, but I was assured I had a reservation, and all I had to do was turn up at the airport two hours before, where I could use my British visa card, and all would be well.

So I turn up, about 3 hours before, just to be on the safe side. They’d lost my reservation. Pout. I could get the flights I wanted, for more than twice the cost.... or, I could get a later flight, make the same connection in Sao Paolo, for only a bit more.... oh ok. Chill, it’s only a little more expensive. Longer waiting time here, but I still arrive at the same time in Campo Grande, which is good because the tour guide is picking my up and I forgot to get his phone number from my emails before I left. All I have to do now is pay....

Visa... declined...

Maestro....declined (to be fair I’d forgotten my pin because I’ve never used the darn thing except online)

Luckily I had an ENORMOUS wad of cash to pay the guide and get me whatever I would need in the middle of nowhere, so cash it was. It was only after I walked away that I realised my flight arrived in Sao Paulo at 2245, and the boarding time for the Campo Grande flight was 2230,departing 2310. Great. That’s going to be fun. One false move and I’m stranded in Sao Paulo for the night and will miss my tour. I checked in and waved goodbye to my rucksack, certain that even if I made the connection, the chances of my baggage following were pretty slim.

So I now had 4 hours to wait in a pretty sparse airport. I had a wander, changed all my travellers cheques (total waste of time – difficult to change, bad exchange rates, and you lose money converting £ to $ and then to Reals. Never again, just glad to be rid of them), ate a subway sandwich (with some global-brand-guilt, but it contained real vegetables! And wasn’t airport-overpriced!), browsed the artisan shops, ambled through security, regretted going through so early as there is NOTHING the other side, and settled down to read about Argentina.

In the end it WAS fine, the flight to SP landed early, and all the domestic flights arrive and depart from the same lounge, so another quick nip through security and I was back at the gate for the next leg. It was only now I realised that this wasn’t a 50 minute flight, it was actually 1 hour 50 – we were crossing a time zone!

Gol make a big song and dance about their fleet being the most modern in the air, but it doesn’t stop them feeling like tomy my-first-planes

So I arrive at midnight and wait nervously by the baggage carousel: black suitcase, holdall, pram, red suitcase, cuddly toy! (kidding), and wait.....YES ! my rucksack! Blimey.

I also realised tonight, as I was installed in the tired, grimy, tv-blaring-in-room-next-door-all-night ‘National Hotel’, that a reasonably-priced hostel is infinitely preferable to a really cheap hotel.

After a pretty rubbish night’s sleep, we were on the minibus to the camp. (2 of us, in a 16-seater. Overkill? Whatever, it was a band new merc sprinter with air con. You didn’t hear me complaining)

It was meant to b a 5 hour journey, but after just one and a half, we ground to a halt at a police road block, and I managed to ascertain from our driver that the road ahead had been blocked by a native Indian tribe because of some land dispute. Well, it’s more original than a burst water main or overturned lorry. We hung around at the nearby services for a while (they had never seen so much business, what with all the cars, trucks, buses and everything else piled up behind the cordon), checked the situation, thought there was a back way through a farm, but that was blocked as well, and eventually after an all-you-can-eat lunch in a town nearby, somehow got through...

The other members of our group were not impressed by the 90 mins they had to wait for us in the afternoon sun. The minibus dropped us at the end of a track road, then it was an hour by bouncing, sliding open truck (why oh why was I not wearing my sports bra) 20km or so down the dusty track to the farm that would be our home for the next 4 days.

The Pantenal is amazing. Over the 4 days of truck safari, walking, horse riding and boat tours, I saw thousands of birds – blue macaws, parakeets, vultures, cranes, herons, spoonbills, a very exciting eagle that has to put his head right backwards to finish his song (ask me for an impression when I’m home), toucans, red macaws, goodness knows what else. Thousands upon thousands of cayman (they’re all pussies – you can get really close, and when you’re too close they just slide into the water and float away) that congregate together in lakes, their babies with unreasonably large heads, and if you shine a light on them at night their eyes all glow yellow and it looks like a miniature city....

Capybaras, the largest rodent in the world, trotting about day and night and paddling around in the water.

Giant otters – that make the most amazing caterwauling squeaking noises (halfway to guinea pig squeals), and run away from the cayman trying to steal their lunch off them (which may well have been a baby cayman). We caught two families in the middle of a territory squabble, swimming and then bounding over the little islands towards each other.

Armadillos – well, just one, but it was the middle of the morning, and this supposedly nocturnal creature was pottering about looking for grubs. We first saw him from a distance, and took a raft of photos through the foliage thinking that’d be the best chance we’d get, but gradually we edged closer and closer until we were just a foot or so away from him, and he was clearly either oblivious to our presence or thought we weren’t a threat. No wonder the Indians hunted them almost to distinction. You can just go and pick the silly things up! We didn’t, but one of the boys did start poking it. I was trying to whisper him to stop it. ‘I’m trying to get it to turn round’. Whatever. Stop it. There was a lot of boys-poking-nature going on over the week. I guess some things never change as you grow up.

A smattering of deer, rhea, and one little snake.... Unfortunately no jaguar, anteaters or anacondas. Maybe next time.... I really wanted to stay another night, because a guide had promised he knew where to find anteaters for me. And I wanted to stay for one night in the campsite, rather than the Pousada (why this wasn’t an option when I booked the tour, I don’t know. Yes of course I want to sleep in a hammock and no I don’t want to be turned to an ice cube by the air con in the ‘real’ bedrooms). But it was too late to change my bus ticket, and anyway I don’t think it was the anteaters that this guide necessarily wanted to show me.... but that didn’t worry me. I’ve learned how to deal with Brazilian men now (being very firm.... and unfortunately, once they’ve made a move, you just can’t hang out with them as friends any more because they take it as permission to relentlessly pursue you until you have to part ways. Big shame because tagging along with Brazilians is always when I have the best fun, and what kind of traveller goes out of their way to avoid the locals? Booo.)

The best wildlife was seen on walking and truck tours, but the other activities were really fun. Piranha fishing: “yes you can wade into the river, but make sure you dig your toes into the sand otherwise the piranhas might think they’re sardines...” er, yay? “and don’t take them off the line yourself if you catch one, they bite” yay again. The problem was a lot of the landings were fish that flew off the hook on the way up out of the water, and happened to land on the bank rather that splashing back to safety. Lots of squealing and using the end of the bamboo rod to keep flipping it up the bank, pin it down, and then I put it to good use dispatching one of them. Well I’d rather it was good and dead than lying there gasping and flipping while someone fetched the guide or the proper dispatching tool. I had two that got away, but apart from that I was just piranha feeding. The boys had better luck, and we took a good stash home to be fried and served up at dinner.

Horse riding – wow, ouch. 2 hours is a lot when you haven’t really been on one since you were eight. Inner thighs and lower back. Would be good exercise if I keep it up! Pantenal horses are trained in the reins-in-one-hand method. One hand free to rest on your hips like a cowboy. Oh yes. I was a little disappointed to be given the smallest horse of the pack. More so when it turned out it was a particularly lazy walker and had to be firmly cajoled into a trot now and again to keep up. He got his own back when we forded the river though – he decided drinking was not enough. He was going to have a little swim. Thanks Homario – wet trainers.

It was amazing to be on a horse again though, and trotting, and galloping (why hadn’t I discovered this before? Much more comfortable than trotting.) Keith didn’t think so – galloping along, there was some miscommunication which caused his horse to veer off the path into the bush, by which time he was doing all he could just to stay on, let alone steer him back. Then the horses front leg found an armadillo hole, Keith bailed off sideways, and the horse did a forward role that would make the British gymnastic team proud. So there was the horse, tangled up in his reins, staring at Keith, going ‘whatdidyoudothatfor??’ and Keith, in slight shock, staring at the horse, going ‘whatdidYOUdothatfor’, when the guide came trotting up looking for them both. “what did you do that for? You can’t let him do that you know. There are armadillo holes off the path.” Keith was livid. To his credit, he got back on. But there was no more galloping for him. What with that and being propositioned by the cook around the camp fire (we have sex in hammock, yes? ) poor Keith had quite a couple of days.

The farm/pousada itself was an amazing place to be– not necessarily the rooms, which were ok, but the shower was cold and the knob did give you a slight electric shock every time you turned the water off. But the surroundings: the family of pigs with 2 piglets that wandered and foraged freely in the farm yard (and we once found in our room when we left the door open), a tame red macaw that came to the farmhouse for breakfast every morning and then pottered about posing for the tourists (and also wandered into our room – there must have been something tasty in there), a toucan that we fed papaya to at lunchtime. He took every piece very gently, but wasn’t to be fobbed off by the woody centre of a pineapple. He spat it out, cocked his head to one side and waited, not quite patiently, for the good stuff.

There were plenty of hammocks to spend afternoon siesta in, but you were lucky if you got any sleep – the parakeets and eagles and parrots and toucans squawking relentlessly in the nearby trees soon put paid to that.

After over a month it still gets me – the sign of a good few days is an actual lump in my throat as I drive away. The Pantenal is a magical magical place, where time doesn’t really mean anything, the boundary between humans and nature is blurred, and one place that technology still can’t find you. Definitely one for my list of places to revisit.

Sorry no photos yet! I've had real trouble logging on to facebook recently, let alone uploading pics. watch this space (cos they're good 'uns)

Salvador, Lencois and Itacare catch-up post!!

Salvador or ‘now you see it, now you don’t’

This was a hit and run city for me – though I did enjoy some advantages of hanging out with Brazilians: they had a hire car, so no bus journeys to get into town; it was safe to go for a swim after dark; it was safe to walk around town with a camera; and they cook good barbecue. mmm...

Salvador is a good mix of nice beaches, nice historic sights in the old town (mainly churches again!) and nice nightlife, but it didn’t excel at any of these, and I’m getting the feeling I prefer the small towns. So after just 3 days it was time to move on. So many options, so little time, but as I was deliberating, I got talking to James the Aussie lawyer and Marc the Kiwi banker, and decided to tag along with them the following night to the Chapada Diamantina, a national park 6 hours inland from Salvador, with many beautiful caves and waterfalls, and a mecca for adventure sports.

Lençois, or ‘that’s gonna hurt tomorrow!!’

Sore bum episode 1: Ribeirao do Meio

After a 6 hour overnight bus churney, we arrive bleary-eyed at 5am to a surprisingly warm Lençois. The hostel was only 5 mins walk away, and easy to find, but it was sweet of them to send someone to meet us . I was shown up to the airy empty upstairs dorm, and after choosing my bed, then finding the only decent mattress in the room and moving it there, I took the opportunity of a few more hours kip before a very nice breakfast of cake with guava jam. mmmm

This was clearly a take-it-easy day, and there was a waterfall that the locals use as a water slide, just an hour’s walk from town. It was clearly the done thing to do your tour booking in the evening, and all the offices were open till 10 or 11pm. We’ll figure out tomorrow’s activities later on.

I say just an hour – it was incredibly hot, hilly and rocky, and boy was I glad to hear the rushing of water that marked our destination.

The waterfall was gorgeous. Far from empty – about 20 others, a mix of Brazilians and gringos (mostly with guides I noticed...not necessary....) - but at least the area was untouched by tourist infrastructure. There were no ice-cream sellers, no toilets and no gift shop. Glorious.

I studied carefully the method for sliding down the waterfall – a careful climb up the 30 degree- oing rock face, avoiding the slimy bits, then a launch bum first into a deep rut, and let the water carry you down, using hands for balance. My first run was fun, but a little cautious, so I quickly returned for a second go. This time, though, I got it a bit wrong, veered off sideways, skewed round nearly 90 degrees, bounced my way over the rocks and landed unceremoniously head first into the pool with a very sore bottom. That was the end of my waterslide antics, but I did have a couple of nice 5m rock jumps into the pool, and a clamber about the rocks further downstream (sore contusions on my feet from that though – teach me to go barefoot, but then I’m lusting after the natives’ hardy, jungle-ready feet, so need to get in training) before we headed for home, stopping only at a stall in the middle of the forest, manned by a sole little old lady, for fresh mango and cold drinks. All day we had been ‘escorted’ by a local dog, who probably does a good trade from gringos’ packed lunches, so it was only matter of following him back to town, and we were soon tucking into grilled chicken with mango sauce followed by banana and chocolate pancakes in preparation for the gruelling day ahead.....

Sore bum episode 2 – mountain biking

This’ll be a short entry as the day was broken into few but long lasting parts:

1) 2 ½ hours up and down, through 12km forest trails (fine) through rocky, hilly, watery bits (fun, to a point), and many, so many sand pits (the first few were amusing, then as I got tired, the day got hotter, it got almost to the point of frustrated tears as my bike ground to a halt in the dust for the 20^th time). The problem with sand pits is that when you stop, the cooling breeze stops, and that’s when you start to feel overheated. Also, the sand being thick, your shoulder muscles tire quickly as you’re less rolling, more dragging the darn bike through. It didn’t help that I was carrying 4 litres of necessary water in a cheap rucksack without a waist strap. Sorry shoulders.

2) 2 blissful hours for a swim in a waterfall, lunch (where Eric confessed his difficulty in understanding Marc’s kiwi accent) and a canoe ride (and impromptu swim) through the swampy Lagoa Mirimbus.

3) 3 more painful hours (saddle soreness kicked in and sugary drinks not having enough of desired effect) on the 20km dirt road back to Lencois. At least there were no sandpits, so progress was better, but after 2 big hills my knees gave out and I had to walk up the rest of them. In perpetual guilt that I’d spent the day lagging behind the guys, and they, especially James, had spent the day waiting for me, I took upon me the mantra I had recently read had kept Sir Ranulf Fiennes going on his third, and finally successful Everest attempt: keep plodding, plod as though you have to keep plodding forever. Eventually you run out of trail to plod. Continuing apologies to James, Marc, and our guide Eric for being so slow..... I promise I will commence cardio-vascular exercise soon....

4) 15mins fun fun FUN 5km downhill mountain biking trail, steep and rocky and just like you imagine mountain biking to be. Eric promised to restrain his speed so I can follow his path down, so I zoom off behind him assuming he’ll be setting a responsible beginner’s pace. No such luck, and I quickly lose him, but I’m too busy having fun, and enjoying the speed, following the best piece of advice that day by far from James ‘you’ll go where you’re looking’. Ahhh, that’s why my going ‘look at that big rock, I’d best not hit that rock’ usually ended up in striking it truly and squarely, coming to a dead halt or slowly teetering off entirely.

So there I was, just thinking how difficult it actually was to come off a mountain bike, several times bouncing out of my seat or skidding one wheel or the other but always somehow recovering, when I came to a narrow channel between two large rocks, just misjudged the central path between them, hit my pedal against the right-hand side, and flew off in the left-hand direction. Knowing Marc was close behind me, I quickly got up, ascertained all the bits that still needed to work did, and clambered back on. More gingerly now, I wound my way down to the halfway point where Eric looked up and down from mud smear to elbow scuff to bloody knee. ‘you fall off?’ yup.....fine though! ‘Want me to clean up that knee?’ nah, only a graze...

‘you know it may be easier to go a bit faster – you may be more likely to come off if you’re gonig slow’

Ok then – caution to wind, off I zipped again. Of course I fell off again somewhere near the bottom. I can’t even remember how it happened , but it was off the same side, so the left knee got another battering, left thigh picked up a few bruises, and the contusions reached up my bum cheek. Three weeks later, they’re still there....

Back on I got and very VERY gingerly now, wound my way to the bottom. Fell off again Eric....

‘Can I clean up that knee now?’ Nah...it can wait till we get home... *drip, drip....* ‘I’d better clean that up’ oh ok.... a few excruciating iodine-filled minutes later, I was steristrip-ed, be-plastered and good to go. I thought you said it was downhill all the way now Eric? I panted (and eventually walked) up the hill into town. ‘I said the trail was downhill – the trail has finished now and we’re just riding back to town’. Darn technicalities.

Meanwhile... about an hour back, James had decided to make a break for home, promising to cook us dinner. Trouble is he hadn’t check which way was home... so we had come to our turn-off from the trail – no James. 5 mins of hollering later, still no James. Ah well, maybe he didn’t see this turning and he’ll be waiting for us as the next one. We can take any of the next few turnings home. Will this be a longer way home? I asked, hoping it didn’t sound too whiney. ‘best not to ask’ replied Marc. Quite right.

Next turning, no James. Well let’s sit here a while and maybe James’s realise we’re not following, and come back. We waited as long as we could, but it gets dark here around 6pm, and we had no lights, so we had to get home. Marc assured me he’d find his way home, and Eric assured us that the trail ended up at the main road, and all he had to do was decide (or ask a passing car) to turn left onto it, and that would lead him into town. I still felt rather guilty as James had been stopping and waiting for me all day.

So we get back to the tour office in town. I whoop and cheer more than a little, but James wasn’t there. Eric told us to go and shower, he’d wait at the office. If he wasn’t back by dark, they’d go out to look for him.

After the most painful shower in living memory (so many scrapes and bruises I hadn’t noticed before), James still wasn’t there. I was just about to go back down to the office to find out what was going on, and Marc hollered up to my dorm that he was back. Apparently yes he’d cycled like the wind for about an hour, come to the end of the trail, waited for us for another hour, then as it was getting dark, finally flagged down a car to check which way it was back to town, and set off. Eric had just gone out with a friend on a motorbike and met him on the road, dragged James onto the moto and cycled his bike back himself.

Whereas James is self-proclaiming to have gone 50k that day, to me and Marc he’ll always be DNF – did not finish....

Between miss slomo bent on self-destruction, the incomprehensible kiwi, and the maverick lone ranger, I think Eric deserved his fee that day...

Sore bum episode 3 – car tour and extreme rock jumping

The day following the mountain biking was spent recovering, swinging in the hammock in my room and researching my next destination (in internet cafes – no internet in hostel, let alone wifi! Boooo!) The boys have left that morning, but I wanted to take a car tour the following day before an overnight bus, a fairly easy-going day and good way to see the highlights of the Chapada DIamantina without weeks and weeks of trekking.

Sedentary it wasn’t though – I actually got a lot of action-hero practice in. We started the day at Cachoeira de Diabo, feeding the mini saqui monkeys granola out of the palms of our hands before clambering down the rocks to the waterfall pool to swim. I don’t know who first suggested it, but it transpired that there was a ledge 8m up from the pool that was good (and safe – sand underneath) to jump from, so I soon found myself clambering back up the rocks after Phillipe the clearly adventurous German in my tour group. I watched him jump first, arms by his sides, feet first, no problem. But I have never felt so scared in my life. I’m sure it must be more than 8m – the 5m the other day was no problem at all, but this seemed like such a huge distance. I started to shake, and knew I had to go sooner rather than later, before it got worse. Feel the fear and do it anyway. I jumped – I was in the air for less than 3 seconds, but the terror was absolute and all-consuming. Hitting the water, I firstly ascertained that I was indeed still alive, and secondly realised that I must have slightly jack-knifed, and my bum had hit the water with some force, causing it to complain somewhat painfully. Poor bum – it’s been through a lot in the last few days!

That was quite a way to wake up in the morning, and I actually found the short period of adrenaline really tiring, but onwards....first to a cave with impressive stalagmites and stalactites in fun formations (see photos), then Gruta Lapa Doce (sweet cave – very clear water). Here we snorkelled in pitch blackness with only a dull torch and whistling Brazilian for guidance (nothing to see in the cave, but you had to pretend you were exploring virgin ground- the ceilings were really low, and you never knew when you were about to pock your head on the wall), and a quick zip-wire (after the rock jump, a doddle. See movie number 2....hilarious.) Then gruta lapa azul – just a photo op really, the bluest of blue waters. Lapa azul is connected to Lapa doce, but you can only get between the two by scubing.

Last stop of the day – a short scramble to the top of Morro de Pai Inacio (big, flat-topped hill to you and me) for the sunset, which I don’t think I’ll ever tire of seeing.

All in all – rock jumping, scrambling, snorkling in the dark, zip wire – my first day at James Bond school went pretty well. Back to the hostel for a quick shower before the 3 buses that should deliver me to Itacare within 20 hours or so. I’m getting more adventurous with my voyages...

Itacare – can I stay here please??

Paradise. Not much else to report as I spent the days on the beach, the evenings drinking caiprinhas. Except that I learned to surf! Well, began to learn.....rather than paying £70 for 3 lessons, I had an impromptu 10 mins from lovely Sam (English athlete staying on in Rio after the world modern pentathlon championships for a month of surfing – rock on) on a board that was too short, on a beach with enormous and dangerous waves, then Sam’s wavelust got the better of him and I was let loose to practice on my own. 2 bruised, salt-water-swallowing days later, I think I need to get those surf lessons after all....

There was also a hilarious evening at a restaurant where it transpired that the diners are also the guest singers on the platform. Protesting that I didn’t know any Brazilian songs, I was hauled up to the stage and shown the English song list. What on earth was ‘Westerday’? “you know, westerday......all my trouble seem so far away” lol. Ok, so I sang that for them, but wasn’t allowed my caiprinha back until I sang another...how come the others were exempt from this?? Not knowing the words to ‘hotel california’ or ‘house of the rising sun’, past the first line, I enquired what ‘Ymag-yn’ was. “you know!! Ymag-yn all the peepull...” brilliant. I kind of know the words but not necessarily in the right order, but I inserted a few Laahs and seemed to get away with it. Very funny – I just hope everyone else had had more Caiprinhas than me and was hearing me through rose-tinted earphones.

Beautiful beaches, buff men playing capoeira and surfing (the people watching/perving boundary got seriously blurred), great company (Anita and Sam, I miss you!) and nice weather (apart from that torrential rain for two days) – I could have easily spent much longer here. Heck, I could have stayed forever, but, you know, onwards! And I had my Pantenal tour all booked and ready to go...

Salvador take 2:

Another hit and run – just a day’s grace between returning from Itacare and catching my flight down to the Pantenal. Arriving from an overnight bus, I felt surprisingly chirpy, so after breakfast I trotted down to the ‘swimming beach’ that I’d missed first time around, to burn off some of those salgado (deep fried meaty snacks – yum) calories. I had forgotten that it was a Sunday, so the beach was heaving even at 8.45 am, still I managed to find space to swim further out, once I’d dodged the mass of little bobbing bodies that squealed with delight every time a wave picked them up, threw them unceremoniously onto the sand and sucked them back out again.

In the afternoon, I took the opportunity of being in a large city to go shopping – I heard binoculars were a must for the Pantenal...so it took me most of the afternoon, but I tracked down the only pair in the city. And, as my legs were so hairy after a month that I would be in danger of being taken in by a family of monkeys, I also invested in an epilator. My skin was still too bruised and scabby to take either razor or wax to it. And there wasn’t a chance I was going to show these battered pins to a beautician in a million years.

Wow! The prices! Any imported brand has a massive tax levied on it. Fine where Brazil has its own thriving industries, but where there’s little or no choice, downright mean... there’s 103% tax on luxury cars, a can of red bull is £3 in the supermarkets, and a deuter day sack costs around £200. Ouch. That explains why the mountain biking was so expensive – all the bikes and parts are imported.

As for these epilators, the Brazilian brand would have to do.

No banks in the Pantenal, so got another £200 in cash – which the atm decided to give me in equivalent of £3 notes.

*thanks*

Then back to the hostel to chill out and persuade my rucksack to accept my new purchases, before heading to the airport....

Photos album 3 – Ouro Preto, Salvador, Lencois and Itacare!

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=126699&id=522925763&l=8ea5b25883

16-20 September - Ouro Preto, and Debbie achieves a better understanding of the space-time continuum by travelling through an awful lot of both.

Ouro Preto – 16-18 September

If it wasn’t for the palm trees, this could be Tuscany. Purely theoretically of course – I ‘ve never actually been to Tuscany. A welcome clean breath of air after the honkin, bustling and big town shenanigans of Rio, Ouro Preto is a small town wedged into a valley not big enough for any kind of town at all. Cobbled streets wind up and down unlikely inclines – wise locals get around mainly on scooters while tourists puff and wheeze their way between the 13 churches, museums and mines dedicated to the towns two main boasts – gold, and the sculptor of church interiors Aleijadinho, the ‘little cripple’ as he became after he contracted what was probably leprosy. The huge number of churches for the miniscule population was not only a show of wealth in the uber ornate baroque interiors, gilded throughout in gold. No, this was a mining town and mining was a dangerous profession – the more churches they build, the more protection they could be afforded from god against tragic accidents.

Apart from the scooters, this town has a extraordinarily high proportion of tired old Volkswagen beetles that to this day I can’t explain. Answers on a postcard please. They did seem to be highly proficient at getting up those hills, even if they were rather noisy about it.

Which brings me almost to my hostel - O sorriso do lagarto (the smile of the lizard. no I don't know why...). First I had to get there from the bus station. The overnight bus from Rio spat us out at about 5.30am, and according to google maps (good ol google maps) it was just a 12 min walk from the bus station. Right down here, first left, a quick dog leg to carry on in the same direction, then left for a hundred metres or so. How the hostel owner laughed when I showed him this map. What looked like the shortest way involved two particularly precarious, but luckily downhill, slopes, that I inched my way down, to the delight of the locals who looked on as they made their ways to work, knowing that with the weight of all my bags, the slightest slip could deliver me unceremoniously rolling and sliding to the bottom without any hesitation. I still allowed myself to be a little smug though, when I arrived at the same time as a French couple who’d been on the same bus but paid 10 Reais (just over £3) to cab it there.

The Sorriso Lagarto hostel was the strangest I’d seen so far – the owner was lovely, really helpful and friendly, and taught me some good salsa rhythms. But the building itself? I could never quite get used to our dorm being on the first floor (up a small spiral staircase), and the bathrooms being either straight off the dining room or in the basement (and several of those wet rooms without a separate shower cubicle so you can’t get changed in there) where the lockers also were. Why would I want my locker to be 2 floors away from my bed? And why should I have to walk past the night guard in my nightie just to go the loo in the middle of the night? The latter I put up with, but the former was too much. I resorted to locking valuable in my rucksack and then locking the rucksack to the bed.

The churches were pretty, the mines were interesting, but not as impressive as some of the ones in the UK, but what really got me was that without my knowing, I’d managed to arrive right at the beginning of the Ouro Preto Jazz festival. I did not fly thousands of miles to get away from LJF only to be confronted by a bill of our good friends Madeline Peyroux, Lionel Loueke and Richard Galliano among others. I stayed to watch the first night – Lionel playing with some trumpeter and his small band. I forget the name. The title piece ‘After the big rain’ was interesting and Lionel had some good bits in there, but someone needed to tell them that this audience may be jazz fans, but inside they’re still Brazilians, and at 10pm on a Friday night they want to be DANCING. These introspective 10 minute noodly solos that build atmosphere or some such nonsense may work in pizza express but they cut no mustard on an open air stage on a balmy Friday evening.

After 3 days I was done with history and ready to get back to the coast, to some more backpackers, and some better supermarkets. Saturday morning I packed and set off for Salvador.

Diary of a bus journey – Sunday and Monday 19 and 20 September

As much as Washington (the owner of the Ouro Preto hostel) and others had warned me off this journey and insisted I’d be better off flying, as much as anything else I was curious about the experience. What on earth do people DO with themselves for all those hours, pray tell?

Purely in the interest of investigation and your amusement, I decided to find out, and, inspired by Serious’s new timesheets, here’s my timesheet for the journey....

Origin – Ouro Preto

Destination – Salvador

Route – OP- Belo Horizonte (2 hours). Belo Horizonte- Salvador (22 hours)

And they’re off

Saturday 19 September

1025 - Having taken my time to get as clean as one can possibly get in one sitting, I leave the hostel to walk 15mins to the bus station in Ouro Preto, intending to get the 11.30 bus. Discover there’s actually an 11am bus and buy a ticket for that instead. Brazilian bus tickets can only frustratingly be bought at the start of each leg, or an approved local travel agent, so I can’t buy my BH- Salvador ticket until I get to BH. Hence getting there at lunchtime when I know the bus doesn’t leave until 7pm.

1100 – bus leaves for BH and I spend my time fretting about what I do if tonight’s bus is already full. I need to stop said fretting- I have my contingency plan ready, so I don’t need to worry about putting it into action until whatever happens happens. Nothing I can do about it now. Have set myself the mission of finding out what the locals do with themselves when they’re trapped on a bus/in a bus station for nearly 30 hours (count em)

1105 – mission progress: not going well. I have been assigned a seat right at the front of the bus so I can’t see anyone else. I think from previous short-hauls, that sleeping, staring into space, and chatting to neighbour (if applicable – there’s oddly very little talking to strangers on buses here) are the order of the day. And in that order.

Sleeping sounds good to me – the hostel in OP was on a main road next to a petrol station and on a hill, so most hours of the day and night there was some kind of revving of tired engines, beeping of tyre pressure gauges, and I don’t know where that party last night came from, but yep, that was annoying too...

1105-1120 – wrote in my journal

1120-1200 – dozed

1200-1245 – stared out the window as the bus crawled through the outskirts of BH

1245 – arrive BH. Find ticket hall and the office for the company I need

1300 – buy bus ticket. Thank goodness I am so early. The bus is already half full and it looks like I’m sat next to someone. Drat. Was hoping for this long stretch to have a double to myself.

1300-1315 – pray that whoever will be next to me is not fat/smelly/snoring

1315-1330 – cruise the concourse checking out the shops and snack bars on offer, struggle to fit me and my luggage through the turnstile to the loo, and then decide I need a sit down

1330-1345 – Peruse guide book, scribble in journal, and debate leaving rucksack in a locker and venturing out of the bus station for lunch at a restaurant recommended by guide book. Think that would be sensible – 6 hours sitting in the same bus station is quite a long time...

1345 – hang around outside the left luggage lockers until I figure out how it works, pay my R$6 and head out into the scorching heat of the Brazilian afternoon

1345-1445 – wander around trying to find the recommended restaurant, passing and dismissing many reasonable alternatives on the way. Giving up, I attempt to retrace my steps, but get hopelessly lost,although I do bump into a German couple who’d been in the same hostel as me in Ouro Preto.

1445 – finally refind a reasonable looking per kilo restaurant and sneak in a wholesome looking plateful just before they close. Portion judgement starting to improve. But only slightly.

1515 – resume wandering and find an atm that a) accepts visa and b) doesn’t levy a hefty charge of its own on top of my banks own miserly scroungings. Sit down in the shade to read about Salvador. Top Traveller tip – if you need shoes, BH is the place. I saw more Calçado shops than anything else while milling aroud. Glad I’m not staying here though. The one place that looks interesting to visit (the municipal park with accompanying art galleries) was deemed by the guide book to be ‘not safe to go alone’ Big raspberry to BH for that. I came, I saw, I comida-ed per kilo. That will suffice.

1630 – looks like it’s starting to rain and a dirty old man has decided to come and sleep in my bench, so I set off to find a supermarket to stock up on cheap water (22 hours! That’s, like, a whole reservoir), but find only a drugstore (hello? Big city! Not even one little supermarket or convenience store?). Not cheap, but cheaper, I console myself, than it would be at the bus station.

1645 – back in bus station and write up timesheet for the afternoon

1655 – finish writing timesheet. Only 2 hours to go!! By gum its hot in BH today – about 35 in the shade. I smell really bad already and won’t see a shower for another 24 hours. Yay. Maybe it’s not me who needs to worry about my seat neighbour. Maybe it’s the other way around...

1700 – amuse myself by people-watching, guessing who might be a foreigner, following the progress of an argument that ended in about 10 municipal and military policemen arriving to get in on the action, and sniggering when I realise one of the policemen is pootling around on a segway. Avec bicycle helmet. Repeat after me – I am not at all willing him to fall off.....

1700-1715 – staring into space

1715-1800 – learnt some Portuguese eating words: knife – faca, fork – garfa, spoon – colher and other such useful things. Discovered that Poltrona is not just a powerful protective spell. Oh no, it means ‘seat’ in Portuguese. Not so glamorous huh, Ms Rowling?

1800-1830 – pick up just a bit more water (what if we break down? Whines my paranoia), some chewing gum (34 hours without a toothbrush), my bags from the lockers, and finally a salgado and orange juice from a snack bar. I’m not quite sure if we would stop for dinner. Then I descend to the gloomy platforms under the concourse. Let’s get on with it, shall we?

1830-1900 – wait around while what looks like the entire life possessions of at least two families are weighed and labelled for the luggage hold

1900 – finally! We have lift off. Seat neighbour has unfortunately arrived but he seems pretty benign – very quiet, slim (which also probably means he won’t snore, sitting up) and on crutches (so hopefully will not be eager to be up and down to the loo every hour). Doesn’t seem to smell yet either. Plenty of time for that.

I wish I knew more Portuguese so I could make conversation with the fella, offer to help him to the loo or off the bus, or get something out of his bag, or just ask him how he is. He looks pretty miserable.

Think I can see some empty seats near the back. Not sure what the etiquette is of moving to a seat that’s not yours. If no-one gets on in the outskirts I may try that out.

Current status: hot and sweaty and a bit apprehensive. And a bit disappointed that there isn’t at least one more foreigner on the bus. Aircon is on but I can’t feel it yet. Still, all that is warm and fluffly awaits in my hand luggage for when the chill descends.

Status of other passengers’ pastimes – mostly staring, a little chatting, one on the phone, and the guy across the aisle from me playing with a rubix cube. Respect.

Wish I had a window seat so I could at least lean against it to sleep. I hope for not too many mountainous stretches that throw you around.

1930 – 30 mins in. Don’t want to think about how long still to go. The only part of the driver’s speech that I caught before we left was the word for ‘24’. 24 hours? Noooo! Time for some staring I think. Someone at the back starts off a tag-team coughing session. These guys smoke like a rich ladies chimney in the middle of a wet January. The lights are turned off and lots of passengers try to sleep

1930-2230 – sleeping! I fancied tucking into the picnic stashed in my bag, but all the other reading lights were off, and I didn’t want to be the only one munching away with my light on. Am attempting the ‘when in Rome’ approach to bus travel. I also have my computer with me, charged and poised for emergency games of hearts and patience, but I don’t feel good about flashing my relative wealth around in a bus full of people who I can only assume can’t afford to fly. I also have to wander around alone with it when I get off this thing. Brazilians are generally lovely, but I’m sure there are one or two who wouldn’t say no to the opportunity to make a quick buck by relieving me of this when I disembarque.

2230 – We’ve stopped.....somewhere....for 15 mins. I get up to wander around if only because I think my neighbour doesn’t want to ask to get out. Out he indeed got after me, and smoked on the platform. Bugger. That’ll teach me to be charitable.

2245 – off again, and waiting for the aircon to do its thing and get rid of this lingering tobacco aroma

2245-0500 – an impressive amount of sleeping, for a bus. I can’t even remember if we stopped once or twice, but hardly anyone got off.

0500- Narrowly missed sunrise because another bus was in the way. We stop at a squat brick building in the middle of nowhere for a toilet that doesn’t pitch around when you’re on it, a face wash, and pao de queijo and coffee for breakfast (why did the English never think of baking the cheese into the dough, so that it stretches and bounces when you chew it?) I was itching to buy even more water, but was too groggy to deal with getting a ticket at the door and paying on exiting, just for that.

In the 10 hours we’ve been travelling the landscape has completely changed. Lush Atlantic forest has given way to scrubby savannah- like plains. I turn my attention to lion-spotting.

0500-0900 – more sleeping

0900-0930 – stop for second breakfast. I choke at paying four Reais for a bottle of water, and don’t allow myself to buy corn on the cob as penance. We have a new driver who drones out the same old introductory message – on auto pilot, his words slur together on a monotone and it’s hard to pick out the information. I think he said 7 hours to go. Yippee! But that means arriving in Salvador at 5pm. Sunset is 5.30 and I have a rule that arriving in a new town after dark is not the best time to explore their bus system. I’ll have to get a cab. And it’s a Sunday, which means much higher tariffs. Darn.

0930-1215 – make a start on the Sam Brown novel I’ve been carrying around with me for 3 weeks. Feel slightly guilty for doing this instead of practising Portuguese

1215-1245 – lunch stop, just as I had resorted to using the on-board loo, so I missed the announcement of how long we had here. I took the opportunity to practise a phrase i’d just learnt: por favour, quanto tempo ficaremos parados aqui? (how long are we stopped here please?) Unfortunately, all that came out was ‘Quanto tempo aqui?’ but no matter, it worked. 30 mins. Got my per kilo food – 256 grammes. That’s more like it. I wonder if I could start a diet craze in England where you weigh your food?

1250 – on the road again, with, I’m pretty sure, not everyone we should have. I return to my book. I never thought I’d be saying this, but please could you turn up the air conditioning?

1300-1630 – more reading, two more stops. Next stop Salvador! Did the driver say ¾ an hour? Current status: disgusting. My face is greasy , my hair is limp, my teeth are furry, and if I don’t lift up my arms to wave hello to you, it’s for your own benefit.

1800 – arrive Salvador, quick nip into the supermarket to stock up on water, then catch a cab to the hostel. The driver got lost, but charged me less, so I don’t mind too much. I arrive just in time for caiprinhas, but by this point, I was nowhere near social acceptable enough for that. I have never needed a shower more. But on the whole, I really enjoyed the mammoth bus trip. A day of sensory deprivation and enforced boredom was really restorative – the equivalent of a lazy Sunday in front of the tv – and once I had fully disinfected myself I was refreshed and ready to face Salvador!

Photos - the second instalment! these are taking longer than I'd hoped as you need a fast connection to be able to upload albums to facebook.....hooray for developing nations

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=126583&id=522925763&l=1a1f2e0123