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.
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.
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.
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.
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