The lonely farmer: Couchsurfing Chronicles Part Ten

Leaving the relative homeliness of a family house in El Pinar we always knew our next couchsurfing experience would be different, but we didn’t expect it to be quite so different…

Arriving in the evening at a rural farmhouse in Western Uruguay, Juan (our host) cheerfully showed us our new home: an abandoned old farmhouse he had moved into a few months ago which had been unoccupied for over 35 years since his grandfather’s mysterious death.

It probably didn’t help that we arrived at night but the flickering lights, irregular buzzing of the electric fence and perpetual huge flittering insects meant that it was not the easiest first night’s sleep. Juan explained that the jail bars on the door were only for when he was alone and afraid of strange walkers in the night, it would at least buy him a few more minutes to call the police he explained… Hmmm, great. I decided not to ask about the red handprints all over the back door.

During the night I barely slept, fearing a bit for my life, but once I finally drifted off the bedroom door was thrown open by a babbling old topless man incoherently asking for Juan. I turned over and hoped it was all a dream. And then the chainsaws and hammers on the roof started…

Christmas, Uruguayan style

Christmas Eve takes a slightly different style here in Uruguay. Rather than starting in a pub or family party at 8pm, or for those better behaved at a mass somewhere around midnight, the celebrations kick off at midday in the street with a bottle of cider. Pour this bottle over your neighbour and in Montevidean terms you have a party!

Hearing about the crazy cider tradition we thought it had to be seen to be believed and so with a few native friends we ventured into the mayhem of Mercado del Puerto.

Crowds of people were hoarded on the street, chanting and clapping along with the claxons and drums as they sprayed, and got soaked in, cider.

We ducked into the covered Mercado to sink a few bottles of media y media, eat an asado containing bits of cow I have never seen before, and headed back to the street to get drenched. A few brave, or drunk, souls climbed up the monument to wave the Uruguayan flag and get bottled by drunken revellers during their two minutes of painful fame. Completely insane.

As evening approached we thought it was time to head back for a shower and to head to our Uruguayan family for Christmas proper.

The evening was spent eating, drinking, watching a thousand fireworks at midnight then opening presents before heading to bed exhausted.

Christmas morning I was awoken by Nacho’s dad stoking the huge outdoor BBQ. We ate breakfast and quickly regretted the fruit and cake as numerous platters of nibbles were presented to us less than 20 minutes later. Deciding that the ‘when in rome’ mentality was better we jumped straight in and joined the men on the whisky and the women eating all the food in the kitchen.

A huge BBQ with a whole lamb and plenty of sausages was next on the list accompanied by an array of salads, followed by desserts, turron and then leftovers. Family came and went replaced by more family and by the end of the day it didn’t feel too distant from an English Christmas. That is of course, apart from the weather.

We finished the evening watching the sunset on the beach toasting a lovely Christmas, Uruguayan style (that is with media y media in hand).

Christmas cook-off

I think Christmas celebrations in Uruguay only really kicked off with a festive cook-off between myself and a Mexican couchsurfer on the 23^rd. The whole nation was clearly waiting with baited breath.

Alejandra, our host, after a few too many beers and a bit of bragging, invited her friends around to try the exquisite cooking of her British couchsurfer (yours truly). All well and good until her friend Santiago, who was hosting a Mexican couchsurfer (Greta), categorically stated that his couchsurfer could cook far better than hers. And so a cooking competition was born.

Without much say in the matter, Greta and I had been cornered into a cook-off the following night. Our only pre-requisite was that each person cook something typical of their nation, moderately priced, able to feed over 12 and better than the other person’s.

Being an avid fan of spicy Mexican and an unpatriotic disapprover of British cuisine I had no idea how mild mannered and quite bluntly crap British cooking could hold a candle to whatever Mexican fireball Greta had up her sleeve. 'Bubble and sqeak' compared to kickass guacamole?!

My chef hand Jim and I set off to the supermarket the following day nervously discussing the merits (and pitfalls) of typical British dishes: bangers and mash, Yorkshire pods and gravy, shepherds pie… All of them seemed vaguely obscure and inappropriate on a warm summer’s day.

Then when a sprightly bunch of coriander caught my eye in the supermarket, inspiration hit. The most typical British dish of them all… curry! Hopefully the holy trio of ginger, chilli and lime could give the Mexican dish a run for its money.

Setting off to work in the kitchen we had, with apparently typical British punctuality (I don’t know where this reputation came from), everything prepared on time before the guests arrived. 1 point to Blighty.

Greta, in apparently typical Mexican form, arrived an hour late with her Mexican helper and raw ingredients in hand. Minus 1 point to the Mexicans. So they set off cooking and the race was on. While we kicked back and waited for the beans to cook we, in typical British fashion, got our eyes taken off the game by a few persuasive bottles of media y media (half wine, half cider and surprisingly not half as dirty as it sounds). Britains back to zero. In typical Mexican fashion, they joined in with plenty of ‘cerveza’. Mexicans minus two.

By the time anyone got to eat anything, at least three hours later, it was all delicious… Brits and Mexicans love all.

Our first family: Couchsurfing Chronicles Part Nine

Arriving in rural El Pinar we didn't know what to expect from our first couchsurfing family. An hour's bus journey from Montevideo landed us outside Rosanna and Nacho's house in the quiet suburb and we stood eye-ing up the tiger stiped boxer guard dog determining whether it was better to go in or wait outside.

Backpacks pulled around the front to cover Jim's groin we walked in with trepidation. The dog bounded up to us in a playful manner, dropping a cone at our feet to play catch with it. Clearly no need to be worried then...
The house was mysteriously empty so we waited on the porch played cards and catch with the world-s worst guard dog. A couple hours later, Rosanna skipped through the gate greeting us in Spanish with two other couchsurfers in tow.
Chatting in Portanolish with the brazilians we all became acquainted over a few cups of mate as we waited for Uruguay's youngest couchsurfers to come home from kindergarden.
Sante, aged 4, and Lara, aged 2, clung to their mother's legs on arrival and continued to cling as she hauled them from room to room showing us around. Heading to the beach for the evening it only took the kids a couple minutes and a few sandcastles to warmup to us. After which they never calmed down and spent the next three days demanding to be thrown in the air 'otra vez' (another time).
Rosanna and Nacho were an inspirational couchsurfing couple inviting all nationalities into their home to learn about Uruguay in a cultural exchange. We discussed Uruguayan politics, went walking along the river, shared travellers tales, posed for a thousand photos and more, and learnt how to sandboard.
A truely welcoming family who open up their lives and home to new people without condition. We have even been invited back for Christmas!

Uruguay

After a few mad last weeks and a couple leaving parties of sorts, we headed across the river on a boat. Landing in peaceful Colonia del Sacrimento we settled into the new a dramatically different pace of life from Buenos Aires (ie. cars actually stopped for you and people gave you more than a few words of greeting at the bakery).
We spent a few days wandering amidst the colourful houses on the uneven cobbled streets, whiling away time at the riverside and on the harbour, clambering over sea flattened rocks and chatting up local fishermen to take home a nice big river fish.
The old town was charming with its colonial architecture and laid back feel while maintaining a bohemian modernism through its beautiful art galleries, trendy boutique restaurants and chill out beach bars.
Apart from the dreaded mosquitos which left me foaming at the mouth with itcheness like a rabid dog, Colonia was a charm.

No room at the Inn...

At first I figured being homeless in Uruguay with sweaty santas and fake snow by the beach was possibly the least Christmas-sy way to spend Christmas but with accomodation all booked up and only a vague plan to head towards the beach, snow and sligh bells feel pretty far from sight.
But after a few glasses of Tannat and a little bit of reflection I have decided Christmas in a hotter climate, travelling on the road, with no home, hostel, or inn to go to is actually not that far from the true Christmas story.
There are no donkeys here but I have seen a plump Shetland pony and the stars do look awefully big at night...
With no prospects yet and only six days to go, it really will be a case of asking for any room at the inn...

Lunch at the Alfreddo mansion...

Everyday I get presented with a huge hunk of meat either to cook for the family unit, or if Beatrix (member no. 4) is there, I get presented with a huge hunk of cooked meat which I am expected to devour along with everyone else at midday.
There is little variation from the theme really – roast meat, potatoes and the odd salad only thrown in for my benefit – and I got positively frowned upon when I added some oregano to our chicken. Cooking pasta one day was completely out of everyone’s comfort zone and they politely moved the pasta to one side and just ate the obligatory meat.
Most lunch times follow the same pattern but each with their own ‘charm’ – whether it be Franco getting out his war wounds, Franco showing us texts from his five wives, or Franco telling us about his days as the village pin-up.
It is our last week but over the last month we have fit quite comfortably into the family unit which comprises of … (circus style drum roll please)…

1) Alfreddo. The boss, homeowner and wine shop owner. Looks Italian, talks Spanish and acts French. Moody in the mornings, typical male incapacity to put anything away but a generous heart and gleeful glint in his eye when he catches onto something playful.
2) Colin. Alfreddo’s Russian girlfriend’s well-groomed (but slightly dusty from all the building work) poodle. Gets so excited to see people sometimes that his legs shake and he has to sit down.
3) Franco. Alfreddo’s handyman and head b*tch for 10 years. Still considers himself a player despite his 62 years of age, wife and 5 children. Slightly loco and has a tendency to tell very tall tales, especially after a few beers at lunch time and even taller tales after 6 or 7 beers by 4pm.
4) Beatrix. The cheeky housemaid. Plays secret practical jokes on all the men which provide endless entertainment for her and for myself as a female.
5) Jim (Jimmy so everyone else calls him, I think there is a problem with names ending in consonants). Tends to smile at everything as he has no idea what is being said most of the time but throws back the odd word in Spanish just to play along. Likes to participate in practical jokes with Beatrix.
6) The painter. An older chap from the province who has clearly no experience in painting but has been brought in under recommendation from Franco, probably because they are neighbours and it gives Franco someone to talk to on the 3 hour train journeys. Quite quiet and tends to keep to himself but opens up after a beer at lunch (much more light weight than Franco) and can occasionally be audibly heard humming in the afternoon.
7) El chico. An 18 year old from northern Argentina hauled in to help as Franco’s b*tch. Occasionally volunteers the odd endearing question about the other side of the world. When I offered him to open my advent calender from home he took the Christmas sleigh shaped chocolate home to show his two children.
8) Me. Tries to spice up the odd lunch with spices and bread and other crazy worldly ingredients. Mainly enjoys listening to Beatrix making fun of all the men.

It is a pretty bizarre situation at times…

It takes two to tango...

It takes two to tango, along with the instructor, demonstration couple, two men on a guitar, one man with a microphone, the sound assistant, a few onlookers and an angry Mexican. Or so we learnt.
Dragging Jim to tango the other night was a great experience for me, although I think he left rather more damaged than I did.
Tango is not an easy dance. It heavily relies on intuition, rhythm and passion – three qualities which us British folk clearly lack. With no set steps, just a few suggestions and the freedom to elaborate, while everyone else was gracefully gliding and lingering we looked like we were doing the robot sideways.
My moment of salvation came when we had to swap partners and I got to dance with the instructor for a while – much easier to just cling to someone and allow them to pull you around. I have been waiting to do that again ever since I outgrew clinging onto my father’s leg and standing on his foot while he was walking.
Jim on the other hand did not have such a positive experience. Having made a swift exit for an experienced dancer, I left Jim looking around the room for anyone left over. Cue the fat Mexican in the corner that no-one wants to dance with…
She bounced over as Jim was asking if he could sit this one out and plonked herself directly in front of him. The music starts and Jim takes one big robot lurch to the side. The Mexican starts screaming and ranting to him in Spanish that he has no idea what he is doing and should not be here, he apologises profusely in English saying he doesn’t understand her or any of the tango directions which were all in Spanish, she gets even more infuriated at him calling the instructors and her friends to basically out Jim as a hopeless beginner. Even worse then being given the nod to sit down, all her friends (who incidentally did not want to dance with her) demonstrate patronisingly how Jim should be doing it, again in Spanish and to no real help for the poor bewildered, and at this point battered by a hormonally imbalanced Mexican, left-footed Englishman.
Finally the song is over, Jim is crushed and the real tango is just about to begin. We sit down seeking consolation with a welcome hit flask of gin and watch the professionals get to work as the band begins to play.
Some amazing quick-footed couples make it all look so easy and the band is so fantastic that we figure by next week we will have it nailed. And if not, perhaps we can pull off our own robot version convincingly enough to call it a new style…

Living with the Buenos Aires mafia

Fortunately not all Argentine men are cowboys and my boss at the wine shop invited us to stay with him until we found our feet. Gladly accepting the generous offer we arrived at his big apartment, which was buzzing with handymen and maids and hunting trophies (the furry kind) covered in dustsheets.
It was a surreal first couple of moments watching Alfreddo ceremoniously pull out about 50 pairs of men’s leather shoes from his cupboard to give us his room (the whole apartment is being renovated) then heading to the supermarket where he bought a trolley full of cleaning products and took the trolley home – it is still on the balcony – then sitting down to a huge roast lunch together before heading to work.
Jim has found himself a job here as a second handy man and we have an interesting family unit with Alfreddo, Franco (the alcoholic ex-military handyman), Beatrix (the native Indian motherly maid) and Colin (the poodle). We frequently dine out with the mafia (enormous old fat men with their fingers in the kind of pockets that you don't ask about) in old Italian restaurants drinking champagne and orange squash. When we are not out eating at another friend's restaurant the three of us eat an enormous piece of meat at the flat accompanied by fine wines or antique gin.
It is a weird reality here and I am not sure if I am in Naples or Buenos Aires, but I quite like it.

A run of bad luck

I am notorious for my bad travel luck and with only one mugging, a spiking and a few injuries on the trip so far I thought I had almost cheated my curse, however within the first two days of Jim’s arrival the curse had all but engulfed us.
Swindled by an apartment company, homeless, mugged at knifepoint and threatened extradition… all within one week. I think I am going to like BA.
On Monday morning the day started off on the wrong note when the cheap cab I booked to and from the airport turned out to be a fraudulent company pushing my latest host to beg me to shell out double the amount for a reliable company. I did and waving goodbye to my salivatingly well-planned steak dinner that night I caught the expensive, safe option which blew the budget. Fortunately despite the delay, the wrong landing information and no notice on the arrivals board, I found Jim. Or rather he found me as I stood desperately turning my head in exaggerated circles looking for him while he was stood right in front of me.
We got in the taxi and headed to the fancy apartment I had spent a bit extra on hoping for a smooth move in and looking forward to a rooftop swimming pool. When we opened the door I immediately saw it was the wrong one…
The online booking form had reserved the wrong apartment for twice the price it was originally advertised for. After hours of negotiation we left under the impression we were moving into another more suitable one later that week for the same price. Now to find somewhere to stay… We ended up sleeping on the floor in a hostel in San Telmo. Not too bad really though and the thunderstorm made it at least seem romantic for the first two hours of backache.
The next day deciding to take in the touristy sites we headed to colourful La Boca to enjoy the tango and floods of tourists. On our way back we took a wrong turn and quickly found ourselves being mugged at knifepoint by a swarm of young men demanding our money and rummaged through Jim’s pockets making away with his digital camera. As I screamed for help, and to unsuccessfully scare them away, the neighbours just looked on and there was even a faint laugh as they left. Nice.
After a couple hours at the unsympathetic police station we gave up and headed back to the hostel for a bottle of cava on the rooftop.
The following day we battled with the agent again who refused to give us another apartment as agreed and we resolved to move into the booked apartment for a week to at least get our deposit’s worth. That also fell through when they demanded even more money and we walked away. Only to find an email threatening my extradition if I didn’t pay up…

Luciano and the pitbull - Couchsurfing Chronicles, Part Eight

Next up was Luciano, a sensitive musician with a young, enthusiastic pit bull. We spent the evenings together singing, playing the guitar, going to contemporary jazz clubs and discussing our favourite polenta recipes.
Luciano lived in a slightly dodgy area of BA which meant that walking home from the subte was a thrilling if not slightly terrifying experience. You know that when at least five grown men warn you not to walk down that particular street and to take the long way round that it might be something worth listening to…

Fortunately I was spared from any midnight muggings in Chacarita, it wasn’t until broad daylight in touristy La Boca that they caught up with me.

Shopgirl

Within an hour of arriving in Buenos Aires I found work at a wine shop. I wasn’t particularly interested in finding a job, I was just lured in by the promise of a free glass of wine and when I got chatting it turned out they needed an English speaker so I had an impromptu interview with the boss (who speaks no English) and was signed up to start the following week.
My first day started off well with a glass of champagne (rest assured it was 2pm) then took a downward turn of sitting there staring at people walking past for about six hours, but then picked up again with quite a few more glasses of champagne towards the end and some customers to talk to.
It is weird being a shopgirl again… I am trying to remember how you while away the empty hours inbetween customers. So far I have read a couple books about wine, written four poems, two short stories, about 35 ‘to do’ lists – none of which I can fulfil while working – and at least two weeks worth of thinking. Being a shopgirl is quite slow, although the champagne obviously helps and the brothel next door makes for quite interesting people watching.

The entrepeneurial type - Couchsurfing Chronicles, Part Seven

I think it was purely for the fact that he was Irish and is accustomed to keeping drunken promises that Eammon put us up for a couple nights at his flat. He was not a couchsurfer, never had been and is not sure if he ever will be, but nevertheless he stood by his word and offered us his spare room.
We met him at his beautiful bohemian San Telmo apartment and quickly went out for some beers to ease him into the new situation.
Still slightly bemused and confused about how he ended up taking in two English girls, Eammon proved to be a lovely host. Happy to help where needed and good company in the evening, we enjoyed our last couple of nights together at Eammon’s house.
I stayed on for a couple more nights after Rhia left which made it an easy transition into Couchsurfing solo.

The strangest Halloweeen

After a rather large Friday night out prematurely celebrating Halloween, we were not really in the mood for a long night but Rhia, Natalie and I figured we could probably manage to throw a few shapes on the salsa dance floor all the same.
Heading out with a group of Colombians we arrived at the club and swiftly moved to the dancefloor. Latin men don’t really take 'no' as an answer and if you so much as hold your head near their eye-level you are immediately tugged onto the dance floor for a few energetic jaunts where you simply try not to get motion sickness as they spin you around.
When space started to clear in the centre and a man took to the microphone, Rhia pushed me forward into the limelight. Too dizzy from my last dance to be fully aware of what was happening I obliged and found myself stood in front of hundreds at the club volunteering to dance in a competition.
I ended up stood next to a short, bespectacled man watching a complex dance routing that we were supposed to follow. Watching the other, far more experienced but nonetheless still quite terrible, couples I resigned myself to the fact that this would just have to go down as one of those mildly embarrassing anecdotes that I could glamorise for my grandchildren.
Trying to work out how we would compensate for the height difference I attempted to recall the sequence when the camp announcer motioned it was our turn. Fortunately my partner took no notice of my English sensibility and spun me around throwing me over his knee for a dazzling finish before my brain or clumsy-prone conscious self could catch up. Whoops and claps indicated that it had gone well as I stood there waiting for the white lights in my eyes to fade and wandering what had just happened.
A clap-o-metre revealed us as clear favourites and down to my short, athletic, clark-kent type partner we walked away with a bottle of champagne each and our pride firmly intact. Quaffing away with Rhia and Natalie we drank up, danced a bit more and pinched a few Halloween souvenirs before heading back to Natalie’s for some rest.

Before we had a chance to touch the bedsheets a couple men in wigs hauled us up to their flat for a house party which meant more dancing and drinking of fruity vodka with BA’s most affluent transvestite quarter.

Our First Lady - Couchsurfing Chronicles Part Six

Next up was our first lady, Natalie. Natalie had surfed extensively in Spain but we managed to break her couch in as her first experience as a host.

We bonded instantly and spent the first couple of hours wearing out our voiceboxes before moving onto a big night out…

Buenos Aires (Couchsurfing Chronicles - Part Five)

Moments before boarding our bus to Buenos Aires we got offered a couch by computor-programming rocker Agustine.
After a wild goose chase around the city, following a mix-up of directions, we found his place and dutifully waited for him to finish work. Agustine was our third host and, having hosted 25 people previously, he was a convenient middle-point between Paulo (who had taken in over 50 surfers) and Jaime (who had taken three).
We spent the first night together eating, drinking, talking, bunking off French class and experimenting with conversations in the dark. The following night we parted ways – Agustine to a rock concert and me and Rhia to a couchsurfing Halloween party (yes we are groupies already). Dressed in shabbily put together costumes that involved extra pairs of pants and cotton wool, we headed to Palermo not knowing what to expect.
To our delight it was a full-blown club with disco lights and lots of dancing. To our disappointment no-one else was wearing costumes so our interesting garb just made us look pretty simple.
We didn’t actually speak to any couchsurfers that night but somehow my inner couchsurfing entrepeneur kicked in and convinced an unassuming Irish chap to take us in the following week for his first, if slightly unexpected, couchsurfing experience.

Couchsurfing Chronicles - Part Four, Boatsurfing

Couchsurfing in Rosario did not get off to the best start as we had no host for the first couple of days and had to retreat to a hostel. However that did not mean we gave up on couchsurfing completely and if we could not use the network to find a spare sofa, we figured we could at least use it as a rent-a-local-friend site.
It worked. We were invited to a party with a family of couchsurfers (two sisters and a brother) and their surfers (a Belgian couple). Turning up at their house with some booze we all got on very well and headed off to what they described as a Communist party for a due night of mayhem.
In the morning we woke up hungover and, alas, someone had agreed to host us for a few nights! We packed our bags and headed off to Jaime’s house which he shared with his musician cousin and film-directing, circus performer brother. I mention their professions because they played an integral part to our experience as we woke up to classical violen and cello duets alternating with film shootings littered with actors and extras.
Couchsurfing with Jaime took the concept to a whole other level with us not only surfing his couch (or rather his generously donated bed) but surfing his boat too!
We jumped at a polite invitation to go to a neighbouring island on his boat and after a couple hours searching for the keys, we found ourselves peacefully racing across the river in his small speedboat to meet his friends on the island and drink in the sun and cheap wine.
The next day we begged to return and Jaime and his friends came up trumps organising a full-on asado (BBQ) of steak, sausage and tripe.
That night we attempted to attend a Couchsurfing Rosario weekly meeting but found ourselves being particularly South American and arriving four hours late. Usually this would not be a problem in Argentina or apparently most of the continent however we proved this rule wrong and managed to arrive just as everyone was leaving. Fortunately the host of the meeting was keen to show us a good time and we used a mattress and steep staircase to try a literal expression of couchsurfing.
As quite a young host as such, we were only his third, Jaime was keen to show us his city and did a great job. We left Rosario blissfully in love with the city and totally enamoured with the concept of couchsurfing, friendsurfing, familysurfing and particularly boatsurfing.

The Argentine wetlands

We knew Pelligrini was going to be difficult to get to when we had to negociate for the best part of an hour with an entrepeneurial travel agent, her impatient assistant, a couple taxi drivers, the bus driver and his assistant just to catch a bus there.

However when the rickety bus arrived we could see why it was difficult. Four hours of bumpy dirt track driving we arrived in the village of Pelligrini.

Stretching over 80 hectares and with a population of around 500 people, half of which are under the age of 12, Pelligrini was a world away from its closest town.

Shopping for food meant asking neighbours what they had going spare in the shelves or gardens. I must have visited at least 20 houses looking for vegetables and finally arrived at my best purchase, a couple heads of lettuce and spinach, which a woman plucked out of her vegetable patch for me. Finally some vegetables! It made a welcome departure from the standard Argentine diet of meat and potatoes.

We befriended a couple local chaps, Cesar and Fernando, who cooked us dinner in the evenings in return for lunch and both nights we had some sort of variation of meat and potatoes with bread. Although the food was not memorable, the place was.

There is a great sense of community here with everyone sharing everything they have, however little it is, and in a village so small everyone knows each other.

Although the village was a charm, we really came for the wildlife. We took a boat at sunset to watch the nonchalent crocodiles, gracefull birds and entertaining Carpinchos (the largest rodent in the world, basically small child size guinea pigs).

A local gaucho took us out on his horses to wander through the Palmeras and we convinced Cesar and Fernando to take us out on the boat at night to stare at the dense canopy of stars and scare ourselves witless with the sound of crocodiles bumping into the boat and the knowledge of piranas floating beneath us.

It was a beautiful couple of days that made you appreciate the simplicity of life and nature.

Iguazu

You can see how natives would have believed this to be the end of the world. The devil´s throat (Garganta del Diablo) at Iguazu is a large pit of crashing water which creates a cavernous hole in the earth and belches out fountains of water and a billowing fine spray.

Iguazu must be the most impressive of all country borders, seperating Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay with impressive waterfalls and a laden river.

We were lucky with the weather. It had rained for weeks, closing off much of the park, but on the day we went the sun shone (a good omen for Argentina) and we could walk the bridges to view all the falls and the Garganta.

The river was literally bursting its banks with three times the usual amount of water so we could not get to the island in the middle as it was under water. However the excess water made the falls all the more powerful and impressive with red earth tumbling down them highlighting land in motion.

We decided to get a speedboat trip, the only excursion available, and enjoyed getting closer to the falls and getting completely drenched. We enjoyed it so much that we screamed ótra vez´ each time making the driver take us back for another drenching, much to the disappointment of our wet companions.

We spent the afternoon walking around the falls, monkey spotting and drying off.

It is amazing how harmonious everything is here with fragile butterflies flying dangerously close to thunderous waterfalls.

Couchsurfing Chronicles - Part Three

It is turning into a bit of an obsession now. After our first taste of the couchsurfing apple we are desperate for another juicy bite.
We have searched high and low for someone to stay with in Rosario and finally have found a man to take us in, and he has a boat. Or at least his Dad does. We arrive at his flat tomorrow carrying our luggage and wishful thinking with us.
Last night we went out with some couchsurfers who couldn´t fit us in their flat, as they were already hosting a couple, but invited us to a party with them. Awesome. An instant network of friends.
Two sisters and a brother, who regularly take people in, took us out to a slightly insane party. It was a great night and our first encounter with a couchsurfing family.
We eagerly look forward to meeting our new host tomorrow and are looking to voyeur into a new frontier. Boatsurfing.

Buses in Argentina...

We were pretty excited at the prospect of catching the bus in Argentina as we heard you get free food onboard (I guess our excitement indicates how much we have been on buses recently and our poor budget diet). There was clearly a marked difference between Brazilian and Argentine buses however we didn´t expect it to be police checks and complimentary cockroaches.

The journey from Iguazu to Corrientes started out well with a plate of mediocre plane food dutifully delivered to us within twenty minutes of taking our front row seats. However 20 minutes later there was another surprise.

A road blocade and numerous military men dressed in khaki with large guns on their hips stopped the bus and a couple men jumped on board demanded everyone´s passports or ID. Having left mine in my luggage hold I got out of my sleeping bag and went to retrieve it in my pyjamas. As I got outside I could see my bag, and a man rifling through it.

Explaining that it was my bag, that I needed my passport and asking what the hell he was doing, the officer told me that I didn´t need to worry, all they had found in my bag was clothes so they were moving on to the next one.

After ten minutes or so the engine started up again and we set off once more. It only took another twenty minutes though until we stopped for the next military blocade and identity check. We started to fear this would be a long journey...

The slightly bitter and camp trolley dolly didn´t particularly help either with his bad case of OCD, he felt it necessary to mop the floors soon after our arrival and then again half an hour later. He ensured that the floors were clean and wet but somehow failed to notice the cockroach on Rhia´s window. I think he was also expecting an applause when he gave us a little rundown over the tanoy of the Michael Douglas film (I think Douglas is contracted to play on every bus film in South America), casually chatting away and cracking sarcastic jokes.

Another 8 identity checks over a nine hour night journey ensured we didn´t get much sleep before arriving in Corrientes at 6am. Then it was onto the next bus where at least we got free coffee, just enough to keep us awake to watch the increasing crack on the windscreen...

20 hour bus journeys...

I have learned that the best thing to do on long bus journeys in Brazil is try your hardest not to identify that smell...

Spiked in Sao Paulo...

It tends to happen to me in cities that I like. In London I got mugged; in Naples I got punched in the face; in Sao Paulo I got spiked.
Fortunately Rhia immediately recognised that, although my dancing styles clearly evolve during the night, ´slow mo´collapsing on the floor was not my new Brazilian dance style. So her and our friend Paulo dutifully took me home from the Samba club after realising that a plain coke had not done this to me.
It didn´t put me off though. Sao Paulo I still maintain is a great city with good people. It was an interesting weekend altogether, very busy with lots of people, including additional crowds from Formula One, a football match and a tattoo convention happening just down the road. Although I gather this is not unusual for SP.
Saturday was my favourite day with a visit to the Mercado Municipal which was a huge food market buzzing with people and flies, offering some great food such as the ginormous Mortadella Sandwich which was 80% mortadella and only 20% sandwich.
We didn´t have room to try the mortadella though as working our way through the stalls we picked up enough tasters to last us until the early evening including cheese, sausage, dips, marinated vegetables and my favourite of sashimi and prosecco (ah, at last!). There was a great sense of community in the market with people sharing all their food and drinks with fellow stall holders and greeting everyone, colleague and customer alike, with a kiss on the cheek and a big slab of cheese. My kind of place. Especially when my plastic wine tasting thimble got upgraded for a large wine glass - genuinely made my day.
That afternoon we wandered into the mayhem of the day markets and visited a gallery before cooking dinner and going to the aforementioned Samba club.
What most annoyed me about being spiked was that: a) I had paid to get in on the principle of dancing lots and couldn´t even stand; b) We had to go home early and I can´t even remember it; c) I had paid to get in (this is a serious point considering our budget), d) I couldn´t dance (again worth repeating), e) I was unable to take full advantage off all you can eat Sushi the following day for feeling a bit sick; f - z) all you can eat sushi!!!!!!!!!! a massive missed opportunity - heartbroken.
Despite my groaning stomach, we still managed to make an impression. My last Brazilian rodizio, and sushi - how couldn´t you? We worked our way through a couple sushi boats, two plates of gzoyza, tempura, more sashimi, large california wraps, and even more sushi.
And that was it, the end of Sao Paulo, and Brazil. Ciao Brasil! Obrigada!
I hope that Argentina has the same appetite...

The Couchsurfing Chronicles - Part 2

Tiago responded to our nervous first request to surf his couch with a polite and positive yes. I think mainly influenced by our offer to cook him dinner.
We exchanged a few friendly emails and phone numbers and a couple of days later, Rhia and I found ourselves waiting at a bar near his University anxiously guessing what he would be like and how it would all turn out. As we had only seen a picture of his teeth we were also predicting what he may look like and be wearing. I am pleased to say we were only right about his teeth and otherwise completely wrong.
A quick call on Rhia´s mobile, and there he was - our knight in shining armour, ready to let us crash on his couch. But not before a few familiarisation beers...
Lots of beer, a giant pasty and some revealing food conversations later we had basically planned a weekend based around food and booze with a couple of cultural bits inbetween. Perfect.
When we got to his apartment and found a very clean, spacious place with our own small room, we felt we had fallen on our feet.
Together we had a great weekend, Rhia and I entertaining ourselves inbetween Paulo´s classes, and the three of us quickly bonded together. It is amazing how couchsurfing works so well and it was such a rich experience staying with a local and learning more about the city.
Tiago was a great host and we couldn´t have asked for anyone better to break us in for our first time.
From the first couple of minutes there was a clear respect and trust invested in eachother and such a great experience has certainly converted us to this new way of travelling.
We are already perusing the profiles of future hosts and have requested a couch, at rather short notice, in Argentina this week.
We look forward to our next couch, but both shed a tear as we waved goodbye to our first, and most memorable, couch host.

Life´s a beach on Parati

Parati would have been a beautiful old fishing town if it wasn´t being dug up. But despite the bulldozers it still held a certain charm.
Cobbled streets and colourful doorways lead you through the old town past artisan shops, cachaca shops and candle-lit restaurants with live music pouring out.
On arrival on Tuesday afternoon we wandered throught the streets soaking up the atmosphere and cachaca. I took a caipirinha masterclass and can now make a delicious passionfruit caipirinha. We had dinner at a restaurant with some (bad) live music and delicious cheap fish.
In the morning we headed out to Pènha to explore the waterfalls. Taking a jungle path up the hill we arrived at a waterfall which had flattened a large slice of rock with its fast waters. Deciding to use it as a waterslide we sat nervously at the top debating the health and safety issues. We finally took the plunge and pushed off to slide down and splash into the pool of water at the bottom. We then did it six more times. Visit to see: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Umk-7vAuJO4
In the afternoon we went to a neighbouring beach to our hostel and covered ourselves in mud, sliding around and sinking in the deep silt bed. After a couple mud slinging matches and a snail´s pace race we washed off and took a surreal 40 minute swim back to our beach at dusk.
In the evening we feasted on a fruit and fish dinner, having taken full advantage of the cheap fillets at the peixaria that afternoon.
An overcast morning gave us the perfect opportunity to wander around the town again and we were curious to see the town in floods from the high tide. As we headed back to the hostel the prophesy of the crackles of thunder came true and the clouds poured down fat tropical rain. We caught a taxi to the bus for Sao Paulo.

Cristo redentor

Christ the Redeemer - the most iconic image of Rio de Janiero, probaby of Brazil and possibly even South America - completely whited out.

We could barely even make out his toes for all the cloud, unhelped by the scaffolding that covered the entire base of the statue just to add to the experience further.

As for the view... we could make out some of the other disappointed tourists but no luck in seeing any of the spectacular views that were illustrated on helpful stands pointing out what you should see in the distance.

It could have been quite atmospheric, seeing Christ shrouded in mist, but a sound check for a performance that evening put an end to that possibility. The sound technicians played loud pop songs over the tanoy while discussing their weekend plans.

One of the other members of the crew finally piped up and suggested that they weren't creating the best ambiance for this sacred setting and so a debate ensued over the microphone about which songs were more appropriate.

Rhia and I decided to give up though when a tour guide began telling us all the inappropriate English words he knew and the crew started to play the Brazilian national anthem...

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6zwMMiRDpHA

All you can eat Brazilian style

Pizza Rodizio (all you can eat) sounded like a challenge to me. A case of man (or amanda) conquering pizza and fitting in as many slices as you physically can.

After doing the obligatory minute of starjumps to build up an appetite, I sat expectantly with Rhia and Fernando at the restaurant for the pizza to start coming. Waiters bring around large pizzas and you take a slice of whatever you fancy, however many you can handle.
The first to appeal was a rocket and sundried tomato pizza which went down well and fueled me up for the next one. Second I tried the prawn with catupiry (tangy soft cheese) - a real goody. After that I tried the aubergine with egg and bacon, something I quickly regretted. Greek breakfast on a plate wasn't what I really fancied so I quickly grabbed another slice to ease the memory.
Chicken with catupiry was a wise next choice, then another regrettable one with tinned mushrooms, swiftly recovered by a tasty carne seca (jerked beef) slice.

By Slice 7 the pizza honeymoon was just about over and I was in a bit of a daze. Still feeling some room in my gut I powered on and then got my second wind.
Garlic pizza, pepperoni pizza, palm heart pizza and even the odd crepe... I was on good form.

By Slice 14 I was in a league of my own, ordering off the menu and creating crazy combinations. My favourite of which became prawn, chicken, rocket and catupiry. I decided to finish on a good note at Slices 17 and 18 with two slices of my favourite.
No rest for the wicked though, and then it was on to the sweet pizzas. By this point sadly my camera had given up on the food photography but with Rhia and Fernando as my witnesses I was not going to be disheartened and carried on to try the sweet spectrum.
Apple and cinnammon pizza, smartie covered chocolate pizza, banana and white and dark chocolate pizza, and a large strange mozzerella cheese and pastry ball covered in chocolate and cinemmon.
After Slice 22 I threw the towel in. I was more than feeling the bulge, and to be frank I think Rhia and Fernando wanted to go home, so we stood up feeling victorious and bloated and waddled home.
Looking and feeling quite pizza pregnant I retired my round self to bed recapping on the evening. Fond memories of Slice 4, 10 and 17, not so fond of 3, 6 and 21; but all in all a challenge well borne I felt. I just hope the memories are worth it as three days later I am still waiting to deliver my pizza baby...
And I need to make room for the Sushi Rodizio next week.

The Couchsurfing Chronicles - Part 1

In a bid to save money - or rather not spend money we don't have - Rhia and I have decided to try our hand at 'couchsurfing' our way to Buenos Aires. For those not in the know, this is basically staying on strangers couches for free. Sounds dodgy? Yes, it really does, but I guess we will find out.
I have never got into internet dating, but I imagine it is pretty much the same. First you have to create a profile - of course using your most attractive or eccentric picture of yourself - and detailing your interests: long walks on the beach, cold winter nights by a warm fire etc.
I filled in my profile and tried very hard not to be too sacastic in my responses detailing my 'mission', 'personal philosophy' and 'amazing things seen/done'. Profile complete, I started surfing for couches.
Looking first to Sao Paulo I browsed through some potential candidates to host us for a couple nights. Flicking through all the profiles I felt like I should really have a glass of wine and a matchmaker by my side. "Hmmm, he may be tall and enjoy hiking but with those chubby cheeks and your double chin imagine what your kids would look like..."
After flirting my way through about 200 profiles, I drew up a shortlist of three. A Brazilian chap called Patiago who seems very keen on drinking and eating (the fun option); an apparently 99-year-old lady - she looks more like 40 in her photo - who is a buddhist, chocoholic and aspiring vegetarian (the safe option); and a student with some floor space (the last option).
Deciding with Rhia that fun would be our first intention on our travels we emailed Patiago. Sending a message that was hopefully polite and friendly, without giving too much away or the wrong impression, we said we would like to surf his couch. Now we await nervously for a response to find out if he will be the one to pop our couchsurfing cherry...




Brazilians and their bikinis

You know how some cultures steal things and words from other cultures and make it completely their own? Well Brazil has done it to the bikini... Bikini was first of all a French word and phenomonon and then Pammy Anderson and the Baywatch crew clearly made it theirs (even though they mainly wore red swimsuits), but now the bikini trophy is firmly in Brazil's hands. Or cheeks.
Bikinis are in a whole other league here. Every colour, every style, every animal print... they have pretty much sussed every possible combination although the one thing that they seem to have little flexibility on is size. The smaller the better and there's no room for modesty.
Although nude and topless sunbathing in unbelievably illegal here, it is a shameful thing to cover more than 40% of your arse cheeks.
As my dear friend Rhia kindly pointed out on my first beach outing, my bikini was far too British. I needed something smaller and quick. So off we troddled to the shops.
Walking into an unassuming brown building block, of what I thought was flats, I found myself looking up at 12 floors of shops - with about four bikini vendors on each floor.
This was clearly going to be a military task. So whipping out my paper and pen we started from Floor 12 working our way down each level scoring every bikini shop on the way.
After three hours and a sandwich stop we took the lift back up to the top to start trying them on. First of all the bottoms - the nemises of British bikini wearers. A piece of skin that rarely sees the sun and which we are all desperate to keep covered up, even myself as a reasonably daring bikini wearer.
I picked what looked like a very modest black number on the hanger, asked for a large just in case (it is always more flattering to ask for a smaller size later), and took it to the changing room to give it a whirl. A few awkward moments later and I asked in a shy voice to Rhia whether they did it in a bigger size. She translated to the shop attendant who laughed out loud: "Bigger? They don't exist here!"
So that was it, no option.
Despite a builder's bum, I now have a new bikini that is just about acceptable in Brazilian terms but still managing, only just, to cover all my British bits.

bem-vindos ao brasil!

Rain, rain and clouds. Am I in Brazil or Britain? My weather curse sadly seems to have followed me for the time being so having wandered around for the past couple of days and attempting a few museums, I have resigned myself to booze and food for the time being (firmly putting the beach and bikini on hold until the sun shows its modest face).

Right, well, I will start at the beginning - the food. It's been non-stop, to none of your surprise I am sure! Even as you walk through the food markets the sellers are literally throwing it at you to taste for free. A quick gander around the stalls will leave you with an armful of watermelon, strawberries and all sorts of unrecognisable tropical fruits.

First night here I landed on my feet as such and got whisked away by Rhia and her father for some delicious sushi, wine and caipirinhas. Waking up with a pounding headache (the caipirinhas here certainly blow a few brain cells) we headed to the beach (there were a few hours of sun on Friday which believe me is now a distant memory). Sitting on the sand, I quickly learned that cariocas (dwellers of Rio) are lazy. As you sit on the beach everything is brought to you - food, drinks, suncream, bikinis, newspapers... who knew Ipanema beach was the first to master the art of sandy silver service?

The rain followed and since then I have been sitting in restaurants, food stalls and buffet canteens that charge your plate by the kilo. The best thing I have eaten so far is the steak - served sizzling at your table on a hotplate and nice and juicy. If the beef is this good here, I am going to grow black and white spots by the time I reach Argentina.
The cachaca has been keeping me company during the drizzle but I am looking forward to sitting on the beach again being offered freshly cooked prawns by a man with a cooker in his hand and a fridge on his back...

My first blog...

From a man smashing a pineapple against his head to wood pigeon on an Indian BBQ, August Bank Holiday weekend is always different so I thought I should start my 'travel blog' here. 

It was a weekend of travelling literally - with cars, buses, coaches, trains, plenty of walking and even running a few unfortunate times. The weekend really started off with an Indian BBQ Masterclass on Saturday at Vatika in Wickham. A lovely sunny, if not slightly chilly, day to be in a vineyard and, even better, stood by the BBQ with a glass of champagne! 

After a couple hours in the kitchen learning about spices and marinades and tasting different bits (including a regrettably large tablespoon of mustard oil), we stood by the BBQ enjoying a glass or two as our lunch was being cooked. In typical Vatika style a simple BBQ turned into a five course lunch... nothing to complain about! I love going on cooking courses because you can wax lyrical about food and cooking with other amateur chefs without sounding like too much of a ponce.

On Sunday I travelled up to Oxford for a, rather cloudy, boat party with Libby and Mike. House music, a wobbly boat and a couple vodkas certainly lend themselves to some great dancing and Sunday was no exception in my mind. Although it becomes slightly surreal when the music stops for the boat to drop through each lock and suddenly you are brought back to daylight reality facing a bunch of sweaty strangers. How do you strike up a reasonable conversation with someone who was just stamping their feet like a jungle warrior, nodding their head like a Churchill dog and air drumming like Phil Collins on ketamine? No-one really spoke to me during the intervals...

The boat landed back in Oxford and after five hours of dancing we took the very middle-aged decision to go home - at 9.30pm. Very glad we did though as it took hours navigating our way back from Oxford to Bethnal Green via coaches, tube lines, buses and a intoxicated Irish man with a convincing Spanish lisp.

The following day Libby and I headed to Carnival. After an excruciatingly hot tube journey we got off to walk to Noting Hill with plenty of time to dry out before submerging ourselves in the crowds again.

The usual madness ensued: banging drums, ear drum popping whistles, mid-life crisis Bob Marley t-shirts, a couple gang riots, a long search for more cider, a bit of dancing and a man smashing pineapples against his forehead. I love Carnival.