Adios, Adeus.

28 de Noviembre

"Now Mooney, where is our van?"

The road from Iguazu and Argentina took us to Campo Grande, a quite unremarkable place but gateway to the famous Pantanal region of Brazil. You may remember from a previous blog rant on an example of Bolivia’s incompetence, but Brazil gained this region for the price of one white horse, swapped to them by a lunatic Bolivian president. What Brazil now has is part of the largest wetlands area with some of the most diverse and unique wildlife on the planet.

The mighty Jaguar resides in these parts, but is ever so elusive. The best opportunity to catch a glimpse of the cat is through the Northern Pantanal region, but at a price tag nearing $2000 for a four-day trip! So rather than end our year long adventure early, we opted for the far more affordable and evidently basic Southern Pantanal, where stories of previous sightings of jaguars had to make do, as we unfortunately didn’t spot one that wasn’t in a guide book or painted on the side of a campground gate.  Still, we managed to get up close and personal with many other animals and birds.

Bulletproof jackets were necessary after reports of armed piranhas

Chernobyl fish had some excellent mutations

Snappy the Croc looked after her lovely eyelashes

Caimans are related to that scary alligator bugger, so caution is the immediate action when you come across them. The campground was littered heavily with them, so the odds of accidentally stepping on one of perhaps falling into its jaws at some stage seemed incredible high. They lie listless on the riverbank or just below the waters surface, with only their peering eyes and leathery head breaking the calm. They are surely planning their next attack, probably a surprise one on a traveller as they fumble for their flashlight in the darkness. But alas, they are timid little handbags, and even scatter at the sight of tiny little hummingbird coming down for a refreshing drink of nectar from the river reeds. But they still seem to emanate an aura of invincibility and possess the come near me and I’ll chop you to bits attitude. They are quite approachable, unless you were a steak, and even happily pose for photos. Some of the fellas have parts of their tails bitten off. Turns out, the local piranhas don’t mind Caiman tail as a snack, and will chomp on them at any given opportunity. Turns out, that we don’t mind local piranhas as a dinner treat either. We dined on some of the Pantanal’s finest, caught by others (although we were on the fishing trip, Kylies first effort must have snagged a giant killer fish that ate her rod and reel, and after hours of toiling in the sun, my first and only successful effort leaped from the hook embedded in his razor gums, and danced like an epileptic with Tourette’s, on fire, on the dinghy floor before becoming trapped beneath the slats, where to this very day, he still remains), thankfully, as with a bit of lime, its very tasty. The catfish someone caught, not so. I would probably prefer cat.

zzzzzzzzzzzzz

The roar of a Howler Monkey is similar to that of a lion. Morning alarms were the sounds of the jungle, an orchestrated troupe, and a symphonic noise reverberating off the trees. We heard them sing in the Amazon, but this time, we got to see them, as they were right outside our Jungle lodge. I use the term lodge very loosely. It’s hardly a resort. Our cabin consisted of one long room on stilts, which generally gets rebuilt every year once the wet season floods recede and the caimans piss off. In the Hotel el Mono, hammocks line the poles, rocking us gently to sleep every night in peaceful abode. It was either the tranquillity or the 80% DEET to starve off the plague proportions of mosquitos that put us to sleep. Stings and hives became war wounds, and daily around breakfast we were scratching like lepers on crystal meth. The bugs are getting smarter I reckon.

Apart from bouts of wildlife watching and malaria catching, time was spent relaxing by the river, cooling ourselves off with the sweat brought to us courtesy of the billion percent humidity that only jungles can give.

The capybaras are cute animals, if you can ever say that about what essentially is a giant rodent. They are very cuddly looking and we think we want one as a pet. Getting one back into the country might be an issue but we figure we will just stick a g string on it like most of the larger Brazilian girls do and get her in on a tourist visa.

The elusive howler monkey

The cowboy would shit bricks when he turned around

It was a long, dusty and bumpy drive back to civilisation in Campo Grande, and rather than endure another overnight bus (which we thought we had sworn off before Brazil), we flew out the next morning to Sao Paulo.

Sao Paulo wasn’t on our original list of plans. It’s a giant, mega city with a population just shy of that of Australia’s. It has more private helipads and hence, helicopters, than any other city in the world. There isn’t much for the traveller to look back fondly on, unless you are a chopper enthusiast. The reason we ended up here, was because, true to our form of not finding out that there are major public holidays or events in the cities we visit beforehand, we had to let two days pass before a single seat on any bus became available for the coast.

But we found ways to pass the time; I can’t remember fondly as to what any of them were. Oh wait; they have an excellent metro system. Which is still horrifically crowded, and folks do like to push in shove their way to the front. The Paulistas are the Asians of South America, just with souvenir shops inside their churches. Admittedly, it’s known as the gastronomic capital of South America, and thanks to its large Japanese expat population, we had an awesome katsu and noodle lunch in Little Tokyo.

But the hostel we stayed in was dreadful, one of the worst. Cramped, dirty, hot rooms, where they somehow managed to fit 8 bunks into something that resembled a cupboard. Walls with decades old grime and wooden cornices eaten through from what we suspect was giant vermin. And then there were the live ins.

The chagrin of backpackers are locals who live in hostels. They call themselves travellers but the furthest they venture out to is the toilet for a spew. They get a bed in exchange for chores around the hostel: painting, cleaning or shagging desperate backpackers that are unfortunate or drunk enough. They bring mates in, and think not of your desire to sleep (I mean, why else would you book a hostel bed?) and in fact you only get in the way of their drunken fumes and Portuguese sing-alongs at 6am every single morning.

We usually go private rooms in hostels but Brazil is just so damn expensive for such, but now we have learned why. We think they deliberately crap up their dorms to force you into upgrading.

Cachaça dangerous

Hot dog flavoured chips. Just awesome

Finally, we arrived to the coast, two days later than planned, but happy enough anyway, as we had stumbled into the wonderful ye olde world of Paraty. It’s a small town on the coast, with giant cobbles paving the way to quaint restaurants and bars, delectable little shacks and buildings, and homely hostels without live ins. Around the town are a selection of nearly a hundred world-class beaches and bays to soak up some peace and quiet. It’s the kind of town where horse and cart are still modus operandi. And it’s famous for its Cachaça, which is the tonic for the world-renowned national drink of Brazil, the Caipirinha. A cane spirit mixed with lime and sugar and ice, and ridiculously refreshing and addictive.  Probably due to the two tablespoons of sugar per small glass.

After two days, we moved onto Ilha Grande, one of the most beautiful spots in Brazil. Getting there was relatively simple, despite the wrong information about bus times from our host in Paraty. But after two hours on the bus, an hour on the ferry and half an hour walking barefoot through the sand with our backpacks, we made it to our place on the Island, and spent five days here, relaxing, relaxing, and relaxing. Soaking up the rays, snorkelling, swimming, kayaking, a hike or two, sunset drinks via cans of Brahma from the supermarket on the beach, and a few dinners with friends we made in Paraty, made for a great stay.

Ilha Grande is famous for Lopes Mendes beach, which has been recently voted one of the top ten beaches in the world, number three I think. Now we have seen a few beaches in our times, and although this was a fine beach of squeaky powdery sand that talked to you with each footstep, it was slightly underwhelming when compared to what the Philippines, Zanzibar and the Caribbean have to offer.  Or for that matter, Copacabana and Ipanema beaches here in Rio. We found more beauty in a little bay we visited with our skipper Jeronimo and his dog Pepa for the day. No one else around, just a few of us enjoying the natural, stunning setting.

During our time there, some newborn puppies had arrived into the world, little black ones, abandoned by the river of dead fish that cuts through the main town on the island. They grab everyone’s attention as their sad eyes please for milk or water. Some local kids had built a kennel for the litter, and would visit many times a day bringing gifts of nutrition. On our final night, on a walk past the dog house, we noticed that all were gone except for one, left all alone in the dark to fend for herself, probably no more than a few weeks old, without family to care for her. Kylie named her Becky for some reason, and we set about finding a home for the pick of the litter. We were pleased that Jeronimo was able to take in a sister for Pepa and another crewmate for all his further voyages.

Becky the once homeless puppy

And now we are in Rio De Janiero. One of the world’s best cities. The beaches, made famous by some pretty appalling songs, one of which is stuck in my head right now; Copa…Copacabana and Ipanema (I think there was a girl from there).

The beaches run for kilometres, flanked by the city centre and rainforest mountains. It’s an opportunity to study the many microcosms of Rio De Janiero life. The skimpy swimsuits, the beach volley ballers, the surfers strutting their stuff on the waves, Samba dancers practicing their moves in readiness for Carnaval in February. The beaches are spectacular. Long, white and full of activity. It’s easy to gaze over the sands and wave and get lost for hours people watching. But of course due to the rather inclement weather experienced in Rio, the surf was closed due to rough seas full of rips, but we delighted in watching the surfers try to tackle the waves but seriously fail on most occasions.

Sugar Loaf Mountain towers above the city, and a cable car runs to the top allowing unparalleled views over the city and sea. Sunset is the best time to go. Not that we know. Unfortunately we lucked out and used all our good weather coupons on the coast, and the city was shrouded in constant fog and cloud, taking away something special from us. We did manage to pop up late one afternoon during a break in play, and yes, it is proof and true what everyone says, Rio is a spectacular city. The views are incredible to say the least.

Sugarloaf Mountain

At the Copa, Copacabaaaanaaa

Big Jesus is something else. One of the New Seven Wonders of The World, along with Rio’s natural harbour, as voted by Brazilians, it sits upon the Corcovado, a hill in Rio, His arms outstretched, iconic, overlooking the city, and some say, the country.  It’s known as Christ the Redeemer, and it’s a raffle to get up there and see it. First, you must hope for good weather. Cloud cuts you out and Jesus spends his day alone in the sea of fog. If weather permits, you then take a train up to the viewing platform, if you are lucky enough to take a train, as the crowds tend to ensure that you may be waiting a wee while down at the bottom bargaining with the touts flogging mini Jesus statues and fridge magnets.

Our first attempt at Corcovado was clouded out. The man at the train ticket office offered to sell us a ticket to Jesus but was quite adamant that we couldn’t see it. So we gave up for the day, sensing the weather for the rest of the day was planning on being equally as rubbish.

The next day was a washout. Rain all day, so Jesus found shelter in one of the umbrellas bearing his image hawked regularly on His streets below. There was a glimmer of hope, a possible miracle, when the clouds parted and skies cleared at 6pm, with a hint of an opportunity to see the Man. But thanks to peak our traffic, our bus only crawled along the corridor and we missed closing time by that.

Finally, on our fourth and last day, we headed out, in the rain, hoping that Senor Jesus could perform one of these miracles everyone was on about in the Bible book, and show is face. Hey, we weren’t asking for a water into wine magic drink (although that would have incredibly awesome), just a bit of sunshine to bounce of your noggin. Up we travelled the steep descent into the mountain, and there was our prayer answered, for about eight seconds, the skies broke, clouds shooed away, and we saw Him. Then it was business as usual. A local told us Rio gets 360 days of perfect weather a year. Unfortunately, the five days of shit were when we were there. But we got some photos, he’s looking very grey. He is a few millenniums old I guess.

Most miracles were performed during the bong sessions

When you mention Favelas in Rio, you think poverty, crime, drugs and flashbacks of the very violent true story, and later movie, City Of God, set in Rio’s slums. But the majority are hardly any of these. What they are is a bunch of vibrant communities, where we actually felt more welcome and safe than any of the slums we shopped in or inadvertently passed through in other cities, such as La Paz. Although we took a guide we could well have visited on our own, down in to the dwellings of locals and through the stacked, colourful, narrow streets that are synonymous with Brazil.

But don’t get me wrong, the treacherous ones like those depicted in the movie do exist, just not for tourists, although at times we wished the Aussie bogan backpackers in our hostel that kept us up all night with their loud shite would happen to stumble into one at some stage.

The spot the ball editor was sacked for his indiscretion

The colourful favelas were held together by string

Our Portuguese isn’t getting any better, and nor is it likely too. We missed speaking Spanish and couldn’t get our head around the similarities of languages, funnily enough, so we had pretty much given up for the last few weeks and reverted to hand signals, pointing, and generally looking stupid. Hopefully we will start to understand things over the next few days and keep them in the bank for any future conversations in this language. But we can order Caipirinhas, and that’s all that matters.

And thanks, or obrigado, to the Brazilian people. They are fantastic, happy go lucky, if not anything goes, confident bunch of people, and some of them even have the look. Or are confident enough to think they look good in a g banger. Always willing to help you out especially when language difficulties arise, which was ever so often. And thanks to the chemist who cheerfully assisted me despite handing him a handwritten Portuguese note requesting earplugs. Most notes handed over the counter request money from the till, so I can understand your initial look of concern. And special thanks to the owner of a small café, the Pavao Azul who provided us with shelter and beer from the Rio storm that hit one day.  She was so happy to have foreigners in there she gave us a few free tasty snacks and a hug and kiss as we left.

So that’s it for South America. A beautiful continent. From the Andes to the Amazon, sea lions to monkeys, snow and sea. From 24 hour bus rides, dodgy hostels, rice and beans, handling new languages and fumbling with foreign coins and local buses. We will miss you. You have been magnificent to us (except the border guard in Bolivia) and we will leave with the fondest of memories from some of the most incredible experiences of our lives.

Now, to Europe.

Adios, Tchau.

Mark y Kylie