The Yellow House On The Hill

A generous shower and two loads of washing later and I finally felt revived enough to mix with the rest of the group at Casa Amarelinho where around twenty five fellow volunteers found the hike up numerous steps under a stifling Rio sun up to the house almost as strenuous as I did. It was hard to get the head around such a mixture of nationalities ranging from Estonia to Colombia as well as the mélange of personalities. Most disturbing of all though was the inhabitants unusual kindness and immediate generosity towards each other which I simply could not adjust to, questioning their motives and quasi interest in my life and instead opting to keep a safe distance to such awkward behaviour.

With the Brazilian elections coming up in Autumn, why not vote for World Cup 1994 winning striker, Bebeto

On the Monday I decided to join my new colleague at my project, Alex from Vienna (he is so proud of his motherland that he should work at their tourist board), for the fifty minute bus ride to the communidade favela in Batam, in order to take a closer look at our social centre Tatiane Lima - run by Luciano, a good natured and jolly fellow, beside him his wife - a touch more school matron but a wonderful cook. For my first English class with Alex I prepared some thought provoking white board pictures of various fruits and meat for the children, only it being an overcast Monday morning nobody attended.

In the afternoon we took on the advanced English lesson - focused more for the community members who wish to enhance their language skills in preparation for the upcoming tourists opportunities that coincide with the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio and 2014 World Cup.

An hilarious misunderstanding occurred when our student, with his jesters facade, asked us mid demonstration on transportation, as to the translation for the word ´Banheiros´. Alex and I assumed his query was related to the transit world and when dumbfounded by badly sliced guesses we asked him to act out and draw up on the board what word he meant. It appeared that he wished to visit the loos. His actions and drawing were a little too graphic to share.

The lovely team at Tatiane Lima, Batam

On route home we conquered the unscheduled buses (there are no timetables and at times no fixed stops - so very Brasil) leaving through the streets back to Centro. An urban myth I cared to overhear is that the bus conductors are paid by the total distance covered during their shift which provides an easy answer to the soaring velocity at which the omnibuses blaze over the tarmac with little care for the pedestrians or swaying passengers thrown around like tarzan on a twisting vine (Jane is replaced by an irascible Carioca).

In store back at the Iko Poran office in Santa Teresa was an intensive Portuguese course that all the new intake had to prepare and attend to for four hours each evening on their first week of the programme. Orchestrating the ordeal was an ex-Melbourne-ite lady with snake and skull fascinations and between castigating us for our mispronunciations would divulge in glorious raw detail her perfume laced trail of seduction across the city with weekend millionaires and local biker boys.

Some light reading aimed at the children, found at the Tatiane Lima library

On our first free day on the Friday (hallelujah for three day weekends) a group of us including Bimo - Chicago, Alex - Vienna, Shakira - St Lucia via East 17, Nick - Boston, David - Santiago, Jen -Seattle, Elissavet - Greece and two Spanish senoritas, threw our worn beach towels over our shoulders and arrived at Poste Sete on Ipanema beach to make the most of the incalescence in the atmosphere. The highlight for all of us was spying a rather glamorous photo shoot in the distance featuring a long blonde haired and leggy naiad on the pier who on closer inspection was nothing more than a transsexual. A disappointment.

To make up for this disaster, Bimo, Alex and I found some sort of solace by eating a warm churros - a Brazilian version of a donut, layered in fine sugar and filled with ample warm dulce de leite sauce. An utter revelation.

In the evening, the group bought in a few of bottles of terrifically cheap vinho tinto and Antarctica chopp before meandering down the steps towards the well trodden and destructive Lapa. After a couple of muscular caipirinhas and some ill advised tequila shots sponsored by Shakira, what followed can be described only as...

[SCENE MISSING]

In the morning, wearing the same clothes and without my keys, Alex and I were joined for lunch at the nearby favela Cochina restaurant by Aaron all the way from downtown L.A. During mouthfuls of grelhado frango and a sheer mountain of batata frittas, he divulged to his two sunglass wearing and still slightly inebriated friends of what occurred the night before. Apparently Seattle Jen and I fell on a pile of garbage on our staggering route home and after sitting atop the mound for several minutes in fits of laughter we realised that we were in fact sat on a homeless man and his cardboard empire as if we were in the comfort of a leather sofa. Fom what I can gather, the bum was found rocking gently in a foetal position when we arose. Perhaps our initial good intentions for addressing social injustice in South America was not quite going the way it ought to have been.


Tatiane Lima kids try out some capoeira



At the project with (l-r) Eabhall, Me, Shakira, Aaron, Jen, Luciano, with Alex and Nick in the background looking shady

At the weekend, after a kind invitation from the team at Tatiane Lima, a swarm of us visited the social centre in order to celebrate Shakira´s imminent departure, though we found out on arrival that it was more of a general caipoeria dance fiesta aimed for all the community. However, after a noose enticing litter of speeches in Portuguese, we passed around heaps of local cuisine and plastic cups of Caipirinhas - which were more akin to pure liquor and some sugar. To close the evening the children at the project, aged from anywhere between three and twelve, proceeded to entertain and shock us in equal measure with their body popping and intimate grinding on the dancefloor. They learn at a very young age over here indeed.

Some of my kids get street

i-Pod Song of the Day - Orestes Barbosa - Chão de Estrelas

My first foray into the wonderful world of Brasilian music was through the film Woman On Top with the luminous Penelope Cruz. The album celebrates more the acoustic side of the country´s warm rhythms and tepid verse.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-UzrMiWr8fg

Lapa + Natasha = Certain Disaster

With Matty now long gone (after an eventful twenty six hour delay in both Santiago and Auckland, I am informed), I once again found myself marooned on an isolated emerald islet fending off the once decapitated thoughts of something close to being content.

In order to keep overheads low, I downgraded my five bed suite at CabanCopa in favour of a more industrious eight bedroom dorm – located at the West Wing of the hostel with the window facing the kindergarten next door. I now had to get used to a seven am wake up call comprising of a deep swell of chanting children singing nonsense nursery rhymes in Portuguese as well as the Brazilian national anthem screamed in a joyously haphazard chorus; the perfect initiation to a new dawn, and an immediate nuisance to the temples. Attached to the bunk bed above me harboured a rotation of nasally challenged sleepers, drowning out the infants´ shrieks with a tinny detonation of exhaling lungs.

Classico Copacabana Scene - a touch wonky, mind

It was not all insomnia in Room 31. A quartet of Dubliners were kind enough to give me some company for the week; Marc - rivalling Ainslie Harriet in the kitchen (with his cooking discipline rather than camp manner), Karen, Mona and Ciara who all provided me with the pre–night ritual of ´chatsies´ as well as tormenting my patience with the habit of flicking my damp travel towel off the hook and on to the wiry haired floor.

On the street corners when the sky was not aging with a surging gloom, I discovered a myriad of snacks and treats (salgados) within the glass displays of neighbouring stalls. These ranged from the delicious and thick Açaí - a purple rainforest berry blended into a smoothie with granola and bananas. The light and spicy Arab influenced frango Esfina pastries also mounted my lunch time hit list alongside the teardrop shaped Coxinha, where salt water was replaced with a generous helping of minced chicken. At thirty pence each, the balloon sized mangos sold at the fruit stand comprised a plump and exotic finale to midday consumption. In order to burn off the snacks, Marc and I attempted to play ultimate frisbee against an American and Australian on Copacabana beach. Our thunderous strides upon the velvet sands ensured that we lasted a breath taking seven minutes before the four of us were glistening in moisture to rival the nearby Atlantic and nursing a faltering heartbeat.

The Lapa Steps

Marc and I were more successful playing beach soccer, spraying liberal shots which cannoned against the ample oily buttocks of leisurely Carioca ladies as Karen and Mona wisely sunbathed by the raging tides and feigned little acknowledgement of our mischievous existence.

On an eventual clear day it was time for me to visit the Lapa Steps and to finally meet the eccentric and brilliant artist Jorge Selarón, who managed to compose the 2000 or so vibrantly coloured and themed tile montages covering 250 steps - his opus over the past twenty years. His most famous pieces of art depict him as a pregnant lady, which is fairly disturbing to say the least, especially as his only comment on the In Utero themed paintings are that it represents a personal problem from his past. Dressed in a red beret and Super Mario crimson overall, I took my chances to speak to him during his exhausting process of replacing chipped tiles. He didn´t seem to understand what I was saying and instead simply turned his back on me and ran away into his house.

Lapa Tiles of Lord Krishna and Ma Durga

On my way back down the stairs I bumped into two Danish students whom Matty and I had met during the Salt Flats Tour in Uyuni, Bolivia (they were in the working JEEP in front of us, often helping to re-start our faltering engine). After a quick thimble sized espresso that I somehow had to pay for, I caught up with two mischievous souls from London and somewhere near London - Chris and Roberta, who both had a penchant for mocking anyone nearby in good jest, which was fine by me. After that I met the Dubliners for an extraordinary Thai meal at Go Wok in Ipanema, followed by a chopp or eight of local brew at a bar whose cache of flamboyant clientele had not been registered by us until close.

Ipanema, Go Wok dining
l-r - me, Karen, Marc, American, Mo-Jito, American

On the Friday, my final night at Copacabana, I managed a swift reunion with Josepha ´Totten´ from my skydiving glory days in New Zealand, who was also touring South America with her friends Ellie and Laura in close pursuit. I foolishly gave in to their siege of Natasha Vodka and squeezed limes and agreed, alongside Marc and some American brothers from Connecticut, for one last night in Lapa. Amid a whirlpool of samba, a confusing amount of transvestites sauntering down the streets with heavy hands and veiny feet and barbecued meat on a stick, we eventually crashed back in the hostel in the early hours.


Pre-Lapa with Natasha and Ruthy, L and Ephy

My alarm did not turn on the following morning. I awoke at eleven, bleary eyed and with the taste of sewer on my lips and already an hour late for my induction at Iko Poran in Santa Theresa along with the other members of my intake.

Arriving at midday by a casually paced taxi and with a half packed roller-pig, day old stubble, blood shot eyes, no shower, four hours sleep and the breath of death, I was introduced to my fellow volunteers and Program Director who were all sat in a formal circle in the magnolia dining room exchanging pleasantries.

It was not a positive introduction to the project.

Rio Song of the Day: INXS - Beautiful Girl

What a treat to listen to VH-1´s Moods on Thursday with an early nineties theme as I sat in the CabanaCopa bar awaiting to be fed by the Dublin crew. Apparently this song was written for the INXS keyboardists birth of his newborn child. Which is nice. Like the song.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aH986VE47M8

i-Pod Song of the Day: The Strokes - You Only Live Once
There is a new Brooklyn indie rock band on the road called Strokes who I reckon will be the next big thing, watch out for them. This is the opening track from the awesome First Impressions of Earth second album.

Twenty ways to see the world

or twenty ways to start a fight

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GQq4UEL__DI

The Runway Towards O Cristo

Once the uncomfortable feeling from Buzios left the veins like a warm black river, we returned to Rio with the consummate ease of the seasoned sailors that we had become. On return to our hostel we were heckled by two teenage troublemakers, who shouted out ´Hey Luigi and Gary!´. It was none other than two upstarts that we had adopted in Foz do Iguazu that we named Effy and Mia (to compliment their Skins generation repertoire), who in turn greeted us with the monikers that they believed to be most suitable for us.

Every Friday night, the Central district of Lapa is renown for the street party that they host, and as the entire hostel were joining in on the festivities we couldn´t shy away from the event, even though a packet of Oreos and hot milk before an early night was always more preferable. After a few experimental drinks of $5 Riel Vodka (around £2 for the litre - classy stuff), lime and Pepsi light (it was on offer at the supermercado) prepared by the kids, we samba´d on to the public bus following our hostel tour guide (who looked strikingly like David Seaman) towards the carnival. Upon arrival we were greeted by a cacophony of kettle drums, whistles, food stalls and pools of spilled mojitos and poured rum.

Lapa Friday Night Street Party

Taking a slight detour from the roof top samba bars a handful of us took in the eclectic delight of the lapa steps - created by the Chilean artist, Selaron, and watched on at the procession of revelry wandering and dancing by.

We had been forewarned by the staff at CabanaCopa to be wary of our belongings and possessions as the plethora of ravers was a cheap invitation for petty theft - even with the heavy police presence looming in the backdrop. Within the first hour a young foppish English dandy got pick pocketed by a swift and precise move. His Bolivian purchased pyjama pantaloons and rowdy manner exposed him to the thieves like a Pyramid atop the Pyrenees.

View from Corcovado mountain

With me nursing a mournful head and a bowlful of excess the next morning, Matty in his enthusiastic dawn delirium forced upon me a day of sight seeing. A prelude to this was a wretched hour long queue outside Fluminese´s home ground as we attempted to purchase some tickets for the evening game at the Maracana stadium. Following a miserable half day detour back to our hostel on the metro only to return back to the centre by the public bus towards the towering Modern Wonder of the World and the largest Art Deco statue in the world - O Cristo de Redentor / Christ the Redeemer sat aloft the Corcovado mountain. By the point we had arrived we were informed by an official guide that we had missed the final train to the summit and had to negotiate a rather steeply priced minibus to see the site. I was ready to crawl into bed and lock up the world, firing my musty arrows of torture onto passersby.

Big Jebus on a hill

However, the grandeur of the 40 metre high ivory white statue overlooking the burning city under the sun emblazoned the fading embers of the day. Better still, the King of the Jews provided us with a blessing of such exquisite fortune it was hard not to fall at the feet in gratitude. Taking place behind the torso of Jesus was a photoshoot for the next series of Brazil´s Next Top Model. The girls appeared like an epiphany and it was only respectful to their burgeoning careers for us to have a little chat with the contestants and allow them the privilege of a photograph to commemorate our meeting.

We were running fine of time, as kick off for the football game began to draw ever nearer, so we parted sadly to the models who evaporated from view as suddenly as they had appeared.

Fluminese fans cheer at the opening goal

Further uptown, via the crowded metro, and on to the boiling pit of the Maracana stadium, observed by a swarm of military personal complete with batons and handguns within their pockets and belts. We entered the ground and heard the barrage of thousands of home support singing boisterously to spur on the team to victory. To their delight, as firecrackers hit the pitch, Fluminese won an open game 3-1 against Atletico PR (not my old work team) after a virtuoso display from their nimble and creative number 10, Washington.

We slept that night with the echoing songs of the Fluminese faithful ringing within the ear drums as thoughts of our model friends burned red behind the eyelids.

A fine day indeed.

On Sunday, it was time for Buckinghamshire´s favourite and UEA´s coveted Hockey Player of the Year 2003, to leave my side and return back to his patient fiancee in their Surrey Hills apartment in Sydney. After six weeks on the road and a disorientating trail of long haul bus journeys, Pisco Sours and misdemeanors, we parted with our first successful Around The World high five.

Time to say farewell to so many bad ideas that we had on such beautiful days.



Rio Song of the Day: Selena Gomez - Round and Round
I am slowly catching up with what the kids are into as the bar at the hostel displays VH-1´a mood chart during the evening. Darling Selena makes Rio´s song of the day more for her visual qualities rather than her vocal talents. I can not believe I never watched Disney´s Wizard of Waverly Place when I had the chance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfcvO2t8Ntg



i-Pod Song of the Day: The Temper Trap - Fader
The Brazilians are still enamoured by the song Sweet Disposition by the Melbourne five piece, which is a lovely song, for sure, but it is time to delve deeper into their debut album Conditions for a rather more uptempo composition.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L18tjO2GYnU

The Whole Sordid Buzios Bunch

6:12pm and we arrived in Rio, the final leg of the adventure, one where the walls would hopefully collapse on me at the close of this year long fiasco. Through the heavily blacked out windows of the taxi cab it was difficult to make out the exhalations of the city, passing white washed amphitheatres and graffitied derelict buildings adding political slogans and caricatures to concrete. Our first night was spent at El Misti hostel in Botafogo - enough time for us to watch Fluminese gather an entertaining stalemate with Botafogo in a crowded bar where we ate a sizzling plate of chicken strips and spicy chorizo sausage before returning to our three storey bunk beds, swaying violently with every passing snore.

Going coco-loco on Ipanema (muscles not shown)

For the morning check out I wheeled rollerpig past the bear sized yet placid German Shepherd hostel guard dog towards Copacabana and our new hostel, CabanCopa (see what they did there). Excitement grew in waves as our havianas led us to the infamous stretch of beach, encased by mountains and ill-themed and hastily built high rise hotels and apartments. I managed to split my big toe on a crack in the pavement and solace was soon found from the excruciating pain in the murky depths of an Agua-Coca by Ipanema beach as blood gushed from my carved open skin.

The bruised digit was in better shape the next day, the camp limp was still on show, much to the public´s delight, but the wound was healing slowly, enough for us to take a bicycle ride circuit of the Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon (Matty denied me the joy of a tandem). Shortly afterwards we took a brief tour of the Centro district, taking in the magnificent, if slightly overly ornate, Teatro Municipal as we then hunted down the largest plate on offer at the all you can eat buffet Temperante Restaurant near our accommodation.

Having a ball by the swaying fishing boats in Buzios

For our final short trip we opted to travel to nearby Buzios - known adoringly by the proletariat for being the Brazilian millionaire's weekend resort of choice. Suffice to say we did not fit in among the deftly paved stones leading to the bay and the fairy lit seafood restaurants. Brigitte Bardot unearthed the town in the late 60's and it has since maintained its allure and prestige within the country, enough for them to display an unflattering bronze bust of the silver screen nymph overlooking the rocking fishing boats.

We dined at a Chilean restaurant (utterly budget but copious amounts of frango y arroz was served) where we enchanted the hostess with our rowdy rendition of Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le! to remind her of our Andes allegiance. A curious turn of events ensued soon after. A Brazilian couple, sat at a table nearby, interrupted our meal intermittently with strange and sporadic queries. The blond girl from Sao Paulo (whose English was very good but her accent strayed towards Borat) and her beast of a boyfriend who looked the spit of Lou Ferrigno from the Incredible Hulk series, joined our table uninvited and continued to litter us with more questions in between our panicked sips of Caipirinha. Among the barrage of inquisition were 'Do you like dancing girls?' and 'Are you married?'. After consulting each other in Portuguese they asked the pair of us to join them for a trip to a secluded beach the following morning. Matty and I agreed nervously knowing that we would be leaving the next day back to Rio. They left shortly afterwards, leaving a trail of relief.

View from the Mix Bar, around the time we started mixing with the underworld

We gathered that the two of them were most certainly swingers and breathed easily knowing that we would never see them again. Until a few minutes later, that was, when The Hulk came back to the restaurant, clubbed a giant fist on Matty's back and demanded that we join them for a drink next door in his colossal baritone. We nervously dragged our feet to the Mix Bar and were relieved to see that the swingers had captured a South African traveler and had duped him into joining their sleaze fest the next day as well. Safety in numbers.

As the night unravelled we discovered that the Durban based tourist was nothing more than a narcotics dependent, negotiating on the beach with his local dealer and scoring off passing strangers in between hurried conversation. Amid our bewilderment, a Boston born lad named Eddie - all East Coast drawl and Tony Soprano ideals - came over to us in a serpentine swagger, and sneered through his discoloured teeth "tell yer boy to watch his back, he's messing with the wrong guy" as he pointed his opaque beer bottle towards the South African who was by now handing some dirty paper notes to a shadow in a hat. Wise guy Eddie then cornered the two of us and implored us to entertain three 'mature' ladies, sat on the bar stools in their evening dresses under a heavy miasma of Chanel #5, and to take them back to his 'castle'.

Me: I think they are going to hurt us
Matty: I know, just smile politely
l-r (A terrified Jack Johnson, A South African crack head, A Brazilian Borat and The Hulk)

It transpired that the ladies were nothing more than elegant night walking harlots and that Eddie was the ringleader of their twilight income. Who was to disclose us of their criminal intent but the Brazilian swingers who were the most trustworthy of all the sordid group. Each individual conspired against one another; the South African to obtain more funds for his hit, Eddie to sell the services of his petticoat squaws and the debauchees for their natural vice. It was all too much for two boys who just wanted a pudding before bedtime and we decided to take the brave choice of running away like lightning back to our hostel.

Back in Rio, on Pão de Açúcar

Buzios Song of the Day: Alanis Morrisette - Hands Clean
The Brazilians appear to have a fascination with Alanis, wherever we go, be it a juice bar, cafe or an emporium, they play either her best of or the entirety of her debut, Jagged Little Pill. Can´t complain though as it has been a while since I've listened to 'Alan Morrissey' as Thom Yorke calls her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbrbhJttNu8

i-Pod Song of the Day: Vanessa Carlton - A Thousand Miles

I think somebody must have bought this on i-Tunes and added it to my i-Pod when I was not around as some primitive jest.
Ok, ok, I bought it, and must concede this song is brilliant. It reminds me of driving my pine green Saxo (1.1 litre engine, manual windows, tape player - the works) back home after a days work in the Volvo factory in Rotherham, shaping metal and being shouted at by gruff Yorkshiremen for not being strong enough to carry sheets of corrugated steel to the basement.

Matty is also guilty for singing along merrily when I played this on through the PSP speakers in the dormitory.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cwkej79U3ek

Sailing On A Toy Wooden Boat

It had dawned on me that I had not done anything to irk the authorities of late and so Matty and I decided to remedy this by taking an illegal trip over the border from Brazil to Paraguay, to venture deep into the markets of Ciudad de Este. We had been promised, by our hot/cold receptionist, that we could get anything under the stalls, from pirate DVDs, automatic weapons and Class A drugs. I was more interested in a golf umbrella which I bought for some Argentinean Pesos, as well as two packs of AA batteries. I live for danger.

However, having not had either of our passports stamped for departure from Brazil or entry into Paraguay (it was raining and we didn’t want to get wet socks whilst queuing up at immigration) we rode our luck whilst on the public bus returning over the bridge back to Foz do Iguacu. Two customs police officers boarded the bus and began to search everyone’s bags for the legality of merchandise that they had just bought. Matty and I were sat at the back of the bus and opted for the brave move of showing them our booty of lithium batteries along with a confident nod and closed mouths. Our plan worked a charm as most of the bus were shepherded towards the dark roof of customs and the police station whilst we were not given a second glance. Silence is easy to hide your nationality and guilt.

We sat expressionless amid the rows of chattering passengers with questionably large sacks of luggage on our trip to Sao Paolo. Behind us were two shadowy figures, one with a striking resemblance to Sachin Tendulkar - had the Little Master eaten one too many bakewell tarts as a child - and the other accompanied our 19 hour journey with a continuous chorus of throat hacking and shifty looks towards our rucksacks. The Brazilian buses paled in comparison to the Argentine equivalent - no three course meals, snacks, videos of Marco Antonio Solis or even a Tia Maria to drown the excesses of the day.

Shrimps on Paraty beach

A revelation that we had not entertained prior to arrival was the stark differences between Spanish and Portuguese. Naiveley we assumed that they would be too similar to worry about and opted not to purchase a pocket sized phrasebook and instead bought another bag of fruit candies. Having only just mastered key conversation in Argentina we were now in a completely alien environment, dabbling limply at the haphazard slippery soap of common exchanges as the ricocheting diphthongs completely wrong footed us. In written form, the language is not even phonetic, which compresses the pressure of the quandary. The best I could manage at Sao Paulo bus terminal, when attempting to order lunch, was to point fervently at a glass counter of danish pastries and shout ’Two Creams’ at the disconcerted staff members.

The Brazilians themselves delivered the festival of colour and shade that I had envisioned. From light skinned through rich caramel and on further still to darker tones and from tall to curvy (and by curvy I mean very Queen Latifah) a mix akin only to the melting pot of people found in London and New York. An accessory shared by huge hand fulls of the public are the train track braces that I also sported as a sulking teenager - underlining the smiling necessity shared by all individuals.

From the bus terminal via Bob’s Burgers (as much of a McDonald’s rip off as Cleo McDowell’s restaurant in Coming to America), we finally halted at midnight at the colonial town of Paraty where the entire historic quarter is listed as a UNESCO heritage site. A town full of violet allure with its uneven cobbles streets running through peacock feather painted boutique shops housing wooden toy boat models and galleries for affluent tourists as easy keepsakes.

Couldn´t even befriend a Wilson

By the idyllic beach surrounded by lush forests I ordered two coconut waters to quench our thirst. The waiter nodded approvingly and returned with one single cerveza. Being unable to speak the language or conquer the inflections of the vowels is like being an insect trapped in a hot car.

The cobbled streets of Paraty

On board the oddly Oriental themed boat ’Banzay’ for a day’s cruise soaring serenely through sweeping islands and hidden blue lagoons. The real highlight was not the emerald bays nor the swarms of green and black striped tropical fish following the boat, but the exquisite guitarist / commentator and his sweet acoustic lilts as well as the fruit platter which was an eden for the senses after the packed lunch we made of one crusty plain bread roll with water.

Bike rides on lady cycles are not fun

We ventured beyond the town on our second day and explored the waterfalls and laid back farm lands by bicycle. We were handed two luminous lime green and maroon coloured girl’s bikes, complete with large baskets and absolutely no gears. This meant that the majority of up hill trails had to be navigated by foot as the local children laughed at our feminine transportation as we trudged on under an angry mist of sweat.

To reward the exercise the sun went down alongside streams of icy Caipirinhas (which we still can’t pronounce) - a blend of clear cachaça, crushed ice, brown sugar and heaps of lime. We were joined by a Brazilian man named Carlos by the stools of a bar who was on vacation and amused us with his stories of oil rigging in Abu Dhabi as well as his churlish response to an Argentine man who mocked him for Brazil’s loss to The Netherlands in the World Cup Quarter Finals: Better to suck on an orange than a big German sausage.

Paraty Song of the Day: Crowded House - Don’t Dream It’s Over
I probably should have included a Crowded House song whilst in New Zealand, but they were rarely on the radios or television, which was strange, along with the lack of any repeats of Flight of the Conchords. The rotund but kind faced guitarist on the Banzay strummed along with a hushed tranquility. He got some of the words wrong though, which is pretty unforgivable.

You’ll never see the end of the road while you’re travelling with me

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dZZfuCJ970w

i-Pod Song of the Day: Scott Matthews - Elusive
They call Mr. Matthews Wolverhampton’s answer to Jeff Buckley, which is high praise indeed (and not really that accurate). A whispered lullaby of a song that I ripped free off the i-Tunes single of the week a year or so ago.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NAcP-HT_wM0