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

You Say Iguazu, I Say Iguassu...

So far the superiour South American snack to date has been the juicy and flakey saltenas pastries in La Paz. However, Argentina has produced some close competition with its parilla (sizzling hot plate of an assortment of meats, sausages, ribs, chicken, steaks and organs), the lunch menu and dazzling starter buffet at the luminous brick wall bohemian Cafe Clasico y Moderno with its accompanying piano has also been a joy. The multitudes of ice-creams have been sourced and destroyed with consumate skill. At Dylan´s ice-cream parlour we treated ourselved to a 1/4 kilo (the third largest portion available out of nine) vats of creamy dulce-de-leche and patagonico chocolate scoops. Suffice to say that the horror beach body of 2007 is returning.

Same outfit but different helados

Tuesday night brought us to our first tango experience after a day strolling around the NYC SoHo-lite Palermo area, and visiting Eva Peron´s grave at the Recoleta Cemetery. Le Catedral, tucked conspiciously in a darkened corner of Palermo with no neon signs or hints at the activities of the interior, housed what looked like a disused social hall with picture frames of fallen idols (namely that of Carlos Gardel) of the ballroom and a large papier mâché heart by the bar. The only light was emitted by the various candles on the tables and the spotlight on the main wooden floors of the dancing area where lessons in fleet footed assurdness took place in a smokey atmosphere. Matty and I opted not to join in (though if we were to, I would have definitely been the one leading) and instead looked on in sympathy at the rhythmless Westerners with their dragged heels following their graceful partners.

Following a cargo of like minded Japanese and American tourists we visited the historic Cafe Tortoni, which opened its doors in 1873 and seemingly has remained in that glossy evanescent era ever since. Formal waitors with slick side partings and furrowed eye brows ferried us two Submarinos - hot milk with a chocolate bar to dip in.

Some chick in Bueno Aires

Relaxing in the Japanese Gardens

Sinking in a Quilmes at the expat owned and lively pub The Gibraltor, we finally got our calling into the entertainment world after years of promise and heartache. A lady named Ingid, clipboard in hand, spotted the two of us propped up by the bar being ignored in turn by the pretty and slightly gothic waitress and approached us suspiciously. On introducing herself and handing over her business card, she propositioned us to star as models for an international advert promoting Tequila Cueva, which was to be directed by a famous Argentine director at the weekend. Somewhat baffled, we were escorted to the foyer by the lavatories for some headshots and completed details on our vital statistics and acting abilities (we lied). Confoundingly, we got hounded by numerous calls and texts the following day from our agent to confirm our availability but regrettably we were already on route to Puerto Iguassu on the Northern tip of Argentina.

Matty may have taken this picture but we all know he stole the idea from a postcard

Acting like children on the eve of heading over to Disneyland, we were excited to board the 19 hour bus on to our next destination. Like being on a business class international flight our soft cushioned laz-Boy eased us in to watching The Hangover on the private downstairs dvd player as a stewardess of stocky calibre brought us tumblers of Tia Maria on the rocks to send us to sleep to the songs of Marco Antonio Solis, who is fast becoming my favourite sleazy Latina superstar songsmith.

This man is my new hero, and he has a voice of an angel:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-5nEwEjqDEQ

I shamefully booked a hostel in the wrong country (who knew that there was a Foz de Iguacu in Brazil as well as in Argentina) and so had to settle for a shabby hostel in Puerto Iguazu on the Argentine side of the falls. Our emergency ponchos were the order of the day on our first day at the falls and they shone under a constant sweeping attack from both rain and the vapours from the numerous waterfalls. We completed, in a haste, both the Inferior and Superior trail circuits and crept up close to the specatular water displays formed by the passing Rio Iguazu passing over a basalt plateau. Most impressive of which, reached after a short Indiana Jones dirt track train ride, was Gargant a del Diablo - Devil´s Throat. Tonnes of surging water plummeting in torrents towards the ground.

Don´t go chasing waterfalls, please stick to the rivers and the lakes that you´re used to

Another day, another country to explore. This time a twenty minute public bus ride over to Brazil, to the large town of Foz do Iguacu where our initial hostel was provisionally booked. From this side of the national park we encountered a more scenic and wide lensed vista of the site. The park had more of a Jurassic Park feel to the tour with its tropical pine-green bus and rampant racoons darting into the bins and jumping on Matty as condors circled the air with intent. For this occasion we decided to entertain the drones of tourists on a clear day with our enchanting version of TLC´s classic, Waterfalls, to befit the stage.

Buenos Aires Song of the Day: Maria Mendez Grever - What A Difference A Day Makes

From the grande piano of the irresistable Clasica Y Moderna Cafe and Restaurant in central Buenos Aires. It took us a while to realise what the motif was and on realising it we dropped our forks and listened on in appreciation.

Here is the hobbit-like Jamie Cullum´s version on Jools Holland which is excellent

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F1r6GcPqFSo

i-Pod Song of the Day: Johnny Cash - Hurt

The video to this is brilliant. Johnny Cash in his final and poignant ode to the world, wife June Carter alongside him, sings over a narration of his life in black and white. His regrets passing by in scenes from his illustrious past. The Nine Inch Nails original pales in comparison, which is rare. Johnny Cash was apparently a troubled Christian which may be why he wished to bind his life in such a way to preserve it prior to his death.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XIbepKZC7Po

Small Dangers In Uncle Diego's Backyard

From a quickfire overnight stop in Santiago (yes, taking in some more lightly stuffed empanadas, Pisco Sours and a regrettable late night spinach and feta pie to counter the happy hour) we made our way on to the bus over the border to Argentina. We were fortunate in completing the trip as the crossing from Santiago to Mendoza is generally temperamental this time of year in accordance with the severity of the snow disabling the roads. Past winding intersections through the mountains and ski resorts, where the moguls and chair lifts pined for us with their fresh and steep runs, to a rustic venture into farmland and the litter of pale blue and white Argentine flags, a hangover from the World Cup and distant national pride.

At the bus terminal in Mendoza we experienced our first touch of menace from the legendary street thieves of Argentina. A pack of youths, greasy haired and with a fascinating penchant for hoodies, followed Matty and I in the terminal with an eye for the bounty of our rucksacks as we were searching innocently for tour information, rollerpigs in tow, and with no real awareness of the imminent threat. Fortunately for us, two security officers hauled us to the side and chased the four scumbags out of the building with microphones by their mouths and hands on batons to add a little hollywood magic to the scene.

At the Chilean / Argentine border. With newly acquired facial hair

I half expected McBain to find vengence in Mendoza:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-opAM0dRW0g&feature=related

This was not enough to put us off taking a little trip to Maipu, on the outskirts of the city, for an afternoon's bicycle wine tour operated by the charming Senor and Senorita Hugo (they gave us a complimentary beaker of vino tinto when we arrived, enough for us to truly adore them). The Mendoza region is famous for its reds, in particular the Malbecs which, I can assure you, were of vintage signature. The first winery offered an assortment of spirits to toast the day, their famous, garishly toxic green, Absinthe among them. It was a bad idea to throw down the throat a shot of the hallucinatory syrup, and the concoction allowed me to float with such grace on the cycle that we were escorted by a policeman on his motorbike for the final hour of our trip so that we would not fall foul of the rickety roads nor the threat of local opportunists with a thirst for our wallets. This surreal episode made us feel like either state politicians or renegade fugitives.

Mr Hugo`s wine tour, police in close pursuit

Yet another overnight bus, our longest to date at 14 hours in Cama class (this time a 150 degree reclining seat and hot meals including a sweet ham and cheese swiss roll which was all very odd) towards the capital of Tango, Parrillas and Maradona - Buenos Aires. Our first exchange with a porteño - our taxi driver - was memorable as we understood most of what he said and it considered both Argentina and England's dreadful plight at the World Cup:

Cab man - Where are you from?
Us - Londres
Cab Man - Buen, Ingles. Alemania, them sons of beetches!!

We arrived at the aptly named guest house, Chill House, owned by two urbane Frenchman, which was decorated with an awareness of modernity and chic that was inevitable considering the Gallic pairs sense of sophistication and flamboyance on greeting us. Our first outing was to the San Telmo Sunday Market where we were promised vibrant stalls selling almost any handicraft possible, perfect for gifts back home. However, a bout of rain sent a shock of panic through the shop owners' spines and they promptly saved their artifacts from ruin with plastic covers, removing them from public view. We took solice in a door museum (puertos seem to be all the rage out here in Buenos Aires) and peering through the windows on to the square it was hard not to notice the neo-classicial architecture, hinting strongly at a Parisian influence. This was only amplified by the Obelisco centrepiece reminiscent of the Luxor Obelisk in Place de la Concorde, though the Argentinean model commemorates independence rather than being a gift from the Egyptian viceroy Mehemet Ali.


Hanging around in La Boca


Antoine and Kato, the French duo who quickly took the responsibility of our tour guides, urged us to head over to La Boca, a rather famously rough port district of the capital, in order to take in the tourist streets of the Caminito. The cobbled streets with brightly painted houses were accompanied by a rousing accordion and tango artists paraded their strutting dances within their taverns on every corner. The Caminito was laced with a gypsy carnival feel only strengthened by the tarot card and palm readers lurking with their hunched backs within their dens and the exquisitly crafted artistry of the signs of the bars and restaurants as well as the assortment of murals sprayed chaotically on the walls.




In the evening, after further consultation with our tour ambassadors, we stepped into a club called Konex, which was apparently the best Monday night out possible in the district. We were not left disappointed in the derelict warehouse hosting the night out where Brazilian and Argentine artists hypnotised the young and energetic crowd with a crescendo of African influenced drum beats and the under appreciated childlike tones of the wooden glockenspiel. Oh, and the Quilmes beers we had were massive.

Mendoza Song of The Day: Jamie T - Sticks ´N´ Stones
Straight out of the Mendoza Inn hospital radio burst out last years surprisingly good return single from Jamie T. Less cockney and lamentable teenage rebellion then his Streets impersonation of a first album. The further away from that southern nonsense the better. Tune.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Zm9l9f7cNFk