Understanding Brazil: Mosquitoes

I guess it isn‘t a problem exclusive to Brazil, or exclusive to me for that matter, but the fact that most beds in the country don‘t have mosquito nets attached does cause me some problems. Especially as most of the houses that I have stayed in have been somewhat open to the elements. And just like the ladies of the country, the mosquitoes of Brazil prefer the blood of exotic gringos*. I react very nicely to bites - I can wake up in the morning with my back looking like the top of a cake iced in pink and covered in white chocolate buttons. Because of my delicate gringo nature, I need to check the room before I go to sleep. It goes something like this:

I scan the room with hunter‘s eyes and I shake all the dark spots, high and low, that they like to hide. If one appears, I chase him around the room, climbing the bed, moving furniture, slapping, clapping and flapping until I lose him in a dark corner. Half an hour later, I‘m still stalking and apologising to Blondie for being so pathetic.

"There he is!"

A shadow appears. I grab. Got him! Impressed with my reflexes, I open my hand to prove how great I am. Blondie laughs from the bed. He flies happily off my finger, barely stunned. I can‘t give up now, that would be admitting defeat. I waste ten minutes checking the old smears of mosquitoes killed in previous battles. I don‘t like to clean them off the walls. Like leaving the head of your enemy on a pole at the city gates, I believe this should discourage them from entering my room. I can‘t find him. Maybe I did get enough of a blow to kill him. One final look around and I get warily into bed.

Ten minutes later: Zeeeooowm!

Just as I was reaching that lovely dropping off to sleep stage, he comes and sings right in my ear! The most annoying noise on the planet. Somebody I know once grabbed a mosquito, pulled its wings off, then started buzzing in its ear, angrily asking the insect how he liked it. I know how he felt. I‘m getting up again. The light goes on. Blondie gurgles. I find him sat high up on a wall. He flies down. I get ready. He drifts back up. This teasing carries on in a circuit around the room until I lose him and then feel a bite on my shoulder. How did he get there so quickly? Look at him! Still sucking away! I slap him. Oh my god, that is so disgusting. A smear of blood the length and breadth of my little finger is spread across my shoulder. Que horror!

It might be my own - in fact, it‘s definitely my own - but it sickens me. I go to the toilet to wash off blood and legs and wings. I feel contaminated. I return to bed, musing on how there is no such thing as victory in war. Everybody loses blood. I‘ve lost sleep as well. Unlike Blondie. She stays unconscious while I get bitten and irritated. Still, at least now I can sleep. I close my eyes.

Ten more minutes: Zeeeooowm!

I don‘t believe this. I‘m not getting out of bed now. I‘ll turn the lamp on. Look at me! I‘m a cake! How did he do all that without me noticing! That‘s just greedy. Lamp off. I lie listening. Hear nothing more. But within seconds, I feel him! On my nose! I shake my head to get him off and shake it in resignation. I put my head on the pillow. I almost feel like crying. I just hope he gets so full that he gives up and lets me sleep. I finally drift off after imagining waking up in the morning looking and feeling like one of Dracula‘s victims, while a mosquito the size of a cat clings onto the wall.

Mosquitoes 1-0 Burro.

*Just joking everybody!

Around Brazil: São Luis

São Luis is a city that I‘d never heard about before arriving in Brazil. Now it is probably my favourite one (after Rio obviously) and I‘m not 100% sure why. While travelling around a new country, every experience you have of a place will be subjective - it all depends on when you arrive, who you meet, the mood you‘re in, and many other factors including luck and what went wrong.

As well as being only three hours drive from Barreirinhas, the gateway to the most beautiful place in Brazil, Lençois Maranhenses, the city has a charm that reminds me of Salvador. Or at least reminds me of what I expected Salvador to be like, but with its roots taking a detour via the Caribbean on the way back to Africa. Every city has a slogan to sell itself and make itself feel important. São Luis is the ‘Reggae Capital of Brazil‘, which isn‘t the worst for me as I love reggae far more than the axé and MPB prevalent in other cities of the North-East. It‘s a very similar city to Salvador, in that it is a big port (but for ores, not slaves) and has higher and lower parts to the centre. The lower part is slightly rundown too, but colourful colonial buildings have been refurbished in places. The people are usually friendly, helpful and relaxed! Which helped us when traipsing around town looking for an emergency dentist for me and a yellow fever jab for Blondie. I witnessed the shaky hands of somebody administering their first injection, and got a temporary filling done all in one afternoon at a dentist factory near the university. Pronto. Now to add to those anaesthetics and vaccines while celebrating my birthday the day before. Lucky too because the day after was Tiradentes day and a holiday Friday, meaning nothing would be open until Monday, delaying our journey north. This also meant that everybody in town was partying that night. It was the perfect night to be in São Luis! The streets and staircases of the old town were packed with people and drums and dancing and colour! The squares had rhythms that I‘d never heard before and dancers swirling in long, bright Caribbean dresses, first one way and the pleated material continuing as the dancer changed direction, a hypnotic effect while the drums were pounding, pounding, pounding and getting right under my skin.

I loved the city for that and also because it is the home of the Cheapest Caipirinha in Brazil. One Real! One Real from a cart in the street. Oh dear. We‘d met a few people there that we‘d played with in Jeri, people who hadn‘t braved the journey to Lençois Maranhenses, the fools, and all went out together. A bunch of alcoholic gringoes and cheap caipirinha is a potent cocktail, and I can hardly begin to describe the carnage that ensued. All the ingredients of a famous night out: fun, fall-outs, dancing, drunken behaviour, illegal behaviour, highly immoral behaviour, highly memorable. Except for my contribution to the festivities. It drew applause at breakfast the next day but I remember nothing. Some time before dawn, I had staggered to the toilet naked. The sun returned before I did. Blondie tried to find me. The porteiro hadn‘t let me out of the locked gates and she couldn‘t find me anywhere. Questioning her own sanity, she woke up others to join in the increasingly frantic search. They looked under beds, in cupboards, in the kitchen and the lounge, everywhere. The porteiro then unlocked an empty room two floors up from ours. I‘d magicked myself into it and was on top of the bed, still naked, curled up and sleeping like I was still in the womb. They found a towel for me and led my back downstairs. I was only 35.

Teaching English in Brazil

Like many gringoes who come to Brazil, I was hoping to find an exotic job in an exotic place and improve my language skills (or develop some) along the way by working with exotic Brazilians. The latter was the only one to come true, but not in the way that I'd expected. Teaching English was always the backup plan, and so it came to pass. No surprise to anybody who has tried to find other work in Brazil. I taught (I use the past tense, but I may not be finished with it yet) in a couple of places, with São Paulo being the main one. And what a frustrating experience it was, and not only because I wasn't very good at it. That wasn't down to my students, hell no. I generally genuinely liked them: lawyers, doctors, psychologists, journalists, film-makers, and students of all these and more. I was proud of their English because they taught me everything I know about my language. Everyday was a school day. And they paid me for it. Not much though. As well as the usual traipsing around the hot streets of Sampa for very little money, the same experience that everybody has, the biggest problem for me were the cancellations. The Paulistas I met are loveable people (all conspicuously fair-skinned, sadly), but they have a work ethic that I really struggle to identify with. 14 hour days, 6 days a week! Perhaps they prefer to stay long hours at the office to avoid the reality that they live in São Paulo and there is no beach to go to after work. Admittedly I worked long hours too, or should I say that I was out of the house for 14 hours a day but working for three of four of them as my busy students would ring up to cancel while I travelled for hours between classes. They usually had too much work on. Three or four per day was the average, and then the weekly Bank Holiday on a Thursday meant that I could forget Friday and Saturday too, and only worked a three day week! No wonder I had no money. Not even enough for the Metrô fare one day, so I had to cancel one of my own classes. Oh the irony. The emergency credit card wasn't working either. Bad day.Still, better than the day one of my students had. She was my best canceller because she always gave me days of notice. I was walking to her house one night thinking that at least I could rely on her. I arrived there to find she'd been car-jacked at gunpoint outside the house 15 minutes before. We had to cancel. And bleeding heart that I'm not, I couldn't charge her. It is impossible to have a class when somebody is shaking with fear! She took it all in her stride though, it had happened to her before, and made me a hot drink to calm me down, telling me not to be scared.

So I think we'll put it all down to experience and move on. And my Portuguese? I never spoke a word of it. Just English. All day. Every day. It didn't improve at all.

Around Brazil: Lençois Maranhenses

Parque Nacional Lençois Maranhenses is a huge expanse of white wind-blown dunes with fresh water pools in the hollows between them. There is no more photogenic place in Brazil, and possibly on the planet. If you can catch the right day, with clear blue sky and a golden sun reflecting off the sand and the surfaces, the effect is mesmerising. The journey to the nearest corner of the huge park from Barreirinhas is much like the last part of the crazy overlander from Paulino Neves to Barreirinhas. Having been through it all before, we were now experienced North-East travellers, and the people who came on the real road from São Luis were juniors, amazed at how bouncy and wet the sandy road was. They knew nothing.

You arrive at a little clearing by a shallow river, with a dune looming over it. People come down from above with their eyes shining, shining like the tiny fish in the clear river catching the rays of the sun. One steep climb later and Ooooooohhhhh would you look at that! I felt like a kid on Christmas morning, waking up to find the presents he wanted in the distance! I wanted to run, run, down the powdery sand and throw myself into the aquamarine pools, one after the other. They stretch out ahead for miles and miles, smooth curves, defined lines, sculpted dunes, angled shadows and ornamental pools, sometimes with sand bridges between them (I‘m the dot in the photo above). You can be very creative with your photos: virgin sand with one set of footprints leading all around a pool to a figure in the distance; jumping down dunes silhouetted against the blue sky; endless, endless beautiful mother-shots. Lençois Maranhenses could make anybody photogenic, just look at my photo! Of course, you also have to try some classic model poses too - lying on the sand looking at the camera; walking away while looking over one shoulder; half in, half out of the pools. Oscar Niemeyer said that he found his inspiration for the curved designs of Brasilia in the hills of Brazil and the body of a loved one. He should have come here for his muse, it has both in one place. Every Brazilian model should have their calendar shoot done here, but none of them could match it for beauty. The sand is pure and white, and softer than any skin could be. The smooth curves of the dunes are sensuous and sultry, and the shadows they create alluring and mysterious. The pools are curved and shaped like the bluest eyes you could ever look into, and the water in them as clear and refreshing as a new-found love.

All poetic nonsense, but Lençois Maranhenses will have that effect on you too, and I only saw a tiny corner of it. What a place to spend my birthday! Think how stunning and romantic it would be to fly over. In fact, if I was offered the chance to fly over any place of my choosing in the world, I may well choose Lençois Maranhenses. I said, if I was offered... Just for an hour? Okay, half an hour then. Anybody?

Around Brazil: Barreirinhas

It was definitely memorable. Places you visit are always much better if you have a story to tell about them. Barreirinhas is a small town which is the gateway to Parque Nacional Lençois Maranhenses. It sits on the wide Rio Preguiça with weeping trees dipping their branches into the drifting water. It has a nice riverfront, which was being refurbished as we arrived, and a river beach in the form of a huge dune. We saw all this as we hung around by the river, four 'gringoes' (one Brasileira who was always getting confused for a gringo), all survivors of the adventure from Tutóia. First up we were approached by a pretty Brazilian woman with a bright smile who told us about her jewellery in the main square. She was one of those people who you instantly warm to, sweet, friendly and the thought of her makes me smile. Of course we would see her later on. She should give classes in sales techniques to every single seller in Salvador.

As she left, a dune buggy with 'Policia Militar' stencilled on the side and three big policemen squashed into it came bouncing down the track from the main road. They looked like they were driving a kiddies pedal car, but they didn't act like it. They stepped down, looked at us and pointed to our American friend who was sitting on the steps. They walked over as menacingly as they could. Now, our friend was in the habit of smoking roll-up cigarettes. Large ones. I can only speculate as to what was in them, but they didn't look too subtle, especially to the woman in the tourist office. As we'd alighted from our four hour, 30km marathon, he'd rolled a cigarette and gone to ask questions. She became suspicious and called in the squad pedal-car. They meant business. He knew it. He was trembling and looking totally guilty. (I don't know whether he was, but wouldn't we all look like that when confronted by moody armed policemen?). Our Basque friend also smoked roll-ups and between her showing her papers and tobacco, and Blondie pacifying the mean dude who wanted to perform a search on our friend (I would have, given his guilty expression!) by telling him that it was no surprise that his target was scared, the Policia Militar calmed down slightly and eventually pedalled away down the beira rio. I guess our friend had the next 6-8 years to thank the girls for, but was too scared to realise just how much. He disappeared to Caburé, the disappearing dune village down river, as soon as he could find a boat out of town, but not before checking out what our girl and her crazy husband had to sell: 10m rolls of anaconda skins, jaguar and ocelot pelts, and baby jaguar pelts! All kinds of crazy skins and furs of endangered creatures. He bought them from the Amazon Indians, who hunt them and eat them, then sell the skins. Which is fair enough as they've been doing it for thousands of years, and those animals only became endangered after the arrival of Europeans. I think our American friend, feeling magnanimous because he wasn't going to stay in Barreirinhas for 6-8 years, agreed to buy the lot.

If anyone asks why I like travelling, that was one of the days I can use as an explanation.

Around Brazil: Jericoacoara to Barreirinhas

This was possibly the most amazing 'road' journey that I've ever had, mostly because it was so normal for the locals. We left Jeri at stupid o'clock in the morning with me thinking that we'd head along the beach, but no, we went inland. We didn't miss any scenery though, because as well as it being dark, it was pouring down, and the surprisingly cold rain down my back kept me from sleep. It only looked like 200km on the map, but a whole day of travelling and waiting got us through Camocim, Parnaiba and Tutóia, where we had to break the journey with only 30km or so to go. There were no late evening buses for some reason. No problem, we could set off early morning, get to Barreirinhas and get a trip out to Lençois Maranhenses before celebrating my impending birthday. Little did we know.

We caught another 4WD bus-truck combo down the sand roads, waving at the kids, reading the signs prohibiting motorcyclists to wear helmets (due to robberies in the area!) and dangling our legs over the back, enjoying the ride. Elevenish, we stopped in Paulino Neves and watched the big Rio Novo drifting slowly by as a woman washed her clothes in the river. It was such a tranquil scene, and she looked so relaxed as she scrubbed, sitting half-in half-out of the water while singing softly. We ate freshly picked starfruit as we waited for our next ride. That was when the fun really started. The 10km Paulino Neves to Barreirinhas (check it out on a map) journey is incredible. It is a complete cultural experience as to how other people live. Mainly because there is no road! Not even a sandy one! Straight out of town, we headed between two fences down an 'area' of grass, hillocks, ruts, puddles, sand, holes and streams. The open truck, full of 20 or so people, wobbled slowly and precariously down the non-road. The fence then disappeared and the whole place opened up. Where the hell do we go now? The driver and his assistant knew vaguely. Poor assistant had to walk ahead and check the depth of every ditch, every puddle, every river. It appeared that the road changed every day because they also had to exchange info with the few vehicles making the opposite journey across the sandy moor. The burrow owls stood and watched in bemusement as we shook our way through the bog. A man walking to the side overtook and left us way behind.

We drove down ruts so deep, making us travel at such an angle, with screams and slides from the passengers on the wooden benches that, sitting on the outside, if I had put my arm out straight from my shoulder, I would have touched the floor. Easily. So many times, I prepared to jump ship as we reached tipping point. So many times everybody had to jump out to push, to lighten the load for bridges, or to help dig us out of the bog. Or was it a flood plain? Passengers were going swimming in the water as we waited for the truck-bus to negotiate an inland sea! We made it to the dryer dunes without much more than wet feet. No tipping, no crashing, nada. A real feat of off-road driving and navigating. Those two should take up rally-driving. We rolled up and down and around the dunes until we reached more sand roads. The last hour of bouncing along while getting whipped by thorny branches became a little wearing, and I was glad to finally make it into Barreirinhas four hours after setting off. I loved the journey though. Like nothing else in India, Africa, Cambodia, Bolivia, anywhere. And some people probably do it every day! Twice! Maybe it's the school run! Perhaps mums drop their kids off at school, go home, then turn around immediately and go back to pick them up. Probably not though.

Understanding Brazil: Shopping Centres

Possibly the most baffling aspect of Brazil for me is the incredibly high regard that every man, woman, child and dog has for shopping centres. Wow! Shopping! It‘s as if they are some kind of mythical, magical place like Oz, the Disney castle or The Hanging Gardens of Babylon. People always ask with eyes wide and shining ‘Quer ir ao Shopping?'

Now I thought a shopping centre was somewhere you went if you needed to buy clothes, shoes, something for the house, or a present, but it seems that I was wrong. Some serious marketing work has been done on this one. They have managed to convince people that a trip to a huge square building with exactly the same shops as every other Shopping, with piped chemical fragrances, playing piped chemical music, and all the happy atmosphere of a fog-bound airport departure lounge is a social occasion! Just by having air conditioning! Genius! Add a few twinkling lights, don‘t allow people in with holes in their shoes (even if they have enough money to buy new ones) and all of a sudden the place takes on a glamorous mystique akin to Paris in the 20‘s or Hollywood in the 40‘s.

Until you get inside. Perhaps I‘m not the ideal person to judge. Shopping might not be my favourite leisure time activity, but it‘s in the bottom one. And if you go there on Saturdays, generally with a hangover, they have all the things that you need least, all under one roof! The strong perfumes, the kids screaming, the irritating music, the people getting under your feet, and so many members of the public that you really don‘t want to deal with. I don‘t mind drinking a beer while waiting for somebody (for ten minutes), but the view of plastic signs, plastic ball-pools and plastic seating, all in the same primary colours, doesn‘t quite compare to watching the girls from Ipanema (or any other beach) walk by in bikinis, does it. And no amount of cooled air is going to change that.Shopping centres are the most sterile, classless places ever built for humans to pass the time. They lack anything and everything that can be called ‘culture‘ yet still Brazilians flock to them like moths heading for a lightbulb. The only difference is that I know exactly why moths head for the light.So I‘m going to put on my shades, let the ocean breeze and the ice in my caipirinha cool me down, and let the sound of the breaking waves massage my brain. Pick me up when you‘ve finished shopping, ok?

Around Brazil: Jericoacoara

Ahh Jeri. One of those places. The bus ride from Fortaleza is fun, but only for the last hour or so as you transfer to a strange 4WD open bus-truck with high wheels, and eight people across to bounce down the sandy roads through fazendas to the beach. Wow. What a letdown. Grey. I'd never seen a grey beach before. But back inland, and around the headland to the rear of the town, and you're walking down sandy roads lined with bars and trees, and the grey has gone or doesn't matter any more, I can't remember which.

Jeri faces north, hiding amongst the dunes that make the place so difficult to drive to. The wide strips of beach with dunes behind make it one of the best activity beaches in Brazil for horse-riding and buggy rides. Because to make sand dunes, you need wind to blow the sand over some stationary object. Amazingly, huge dunes can start from something as small as a shoe having sand repeatedly blown over it, for years. I didn't dig deep enough to find out what was underneath in Jeri, the dunes are too big. So big, that as well as the high Atlantic winds making the place ideal for surfing, windsurfing, kitesurfing and more, and you can also sandboard down the dunes. I've been snowboarding before but my one chance to sandboard in Namibia was ruined by a stupid fall on a gravel road in the middle of absolutely nowhere. We'd stopped for a toilet break, and with nothing to do, we decided to have a race. I fell and put a hole in my knee through which I could see the bone, all white and dry. So in Jeri, I was determined to finally make up for that. Didn't happen.

The main dune in Jeri is called Por do Sol. It sits a few minutes along the beach and up the slope. The name comes because everybody watches sunset at the top. The dune slopes very steeply down to the flat of the beach and a little lagoa (more of a puddle) when the tide is out. Now it might look from the photo like it isn't that steep, but the thing about sand dunes is that they change shape in the wind! It was much steeper when I was standing at the top! So I needed to practise on a shallower slope first, but the sand was wet and I never moved. I couldn't bring myself to try Por do Sol with hundreds of people watching me. It would have been a public execution.

There was a very public execution though - on Easter Friday, we were besieged by hundreds of be-robed people walking towards the beach as we were leaving it. We were pushed backwards with the tide, and washed up on the beach for the Easter re-enactment. Jesus was tried, whipped, covered in ketchup and made to carry his cross to the top of Por do Sol. There, in a scene reminiscent of a hybrid of two of the best British films ever - Life of Brian and The Wicker Man - he and his two friends were crucified as the sun dropped into the sea. Bravo!The crowd of hundreds played their part too, including the person I spotted with. count them 1 2 3... 5... 7... Seven fingers! On one hand! It's a small town. But a special one, especially if you happen to be on top of Por do Sol at full moon. The tropical sun drips into the sea while a huge red moon rises over the dunes. And if you do your Jeri experience properly, you can leave the dune for a caipirinha, have a few more caipirinhas, party through until almost dawn, then head back up to Por do Sol. The silver moon shimmers across the black sea as it sets, and the sky over the dunes turns lilac, azure, pink and then gold as the sun rises at the same time. Like I said, Jeri's a special place.

Around Brazil: Chapada da Diamantina/Lençois

There are two amazing places in Brazil called Lençois. The first one is the old diamond mining town in the Parque Nacional da Chapada Diamantina, and what an oasis it is after Salvador! The chapadas are flat-topped mountains, similar in shape to Table Mountain in Cape Town or Monument Valley in the USA. But the chapadas are covered in trees, all lush and dark. They hide thousands of waterfalls of all shapes and sizes, taking the purest tea-coloured water to the bottom of the valleys.

There are some places where you can find yourself alone at an unnamed waterfall. I climbed up one with layers reaching further up than I could manage, all the time thinking 'Nature doesn't get any better than this and I've got it all to myself!'. That never happens back home. There are also plenty of incredibly photogenic caves in the area, with water as blue or as transparent (depending if the sun can hit it) as anything you can find. Those photos on postcards that you see in Lençois haven't been doctored. They really do look like that.

The largest of the waterfalls is Cachoeira de Fumaça (Waterfall of Smoke) which, at 400m, is the highest in Brazil. It is so high that the water doesn't reach the ground. I found it hard to work that one out too, but it is true. The small river of water separates into a fine spray somewhere near the bottom of a stunning vertical horseshoe cliff. The spray gets blown by the wind, making it possibly the only waterfall in the world where the water doesn't land below the spot that it falls from. It's a two day trek to get to the bottom, which involves rock-hopping up dried riverbeds, walking on the roots of monkey-forests, and sleeping on the rocky floor of 'caves' (overhanging rocks) next to rivers. It is quite difficult to have a shower there, as the water that comes from the tops is somehow so cold that it is difficult to get in. But once you do, that little waterfall dropping on your head is amazingly refreshing (for at least five seconds) and helps to wake you up properly after not-sleeping on rocks.

The top of Fumaça is as stunning as anywhere. The green valleys wind into the distance below, 420m down from the observation platform (a flat rock a little above the river) to the place where the water doesn't land. It is a perfect photo opp if you can look relaxed on the edge of a quarter mile sheer drop. I took one look at the bottom (with somebody holding my ankles) and I got so dizzy that I had to become official photographer. I spent longer in the waterfall shower that morning than on the edge.The Vale do Pati on the other side of the chapada is just as beautiful, and you can kick back for a few days in Capão if you want, or trek more days up the valley. But there was a caipirinha with my name on it waiting on a table on the cobblestones, under the stars in Lençois.

Brazil vs. Argentina: Statues of Christ

I don't really need to say anything about Cristo in Rio, do I? Good. What people don't realise is that Buenos Aires has its own statue of Jesus, which is probably almost as big as the one towering over Rio (I've only seen his feet close up, so I can't tell for sure but the feet were quite big, and you know what they say...). But unlike the well lit, well prominent Rio version, the Christ in BA is quite well hidden. In fact very well hidden most of the time. I couldn't even see him at first.

I was trying to find a huge swimming pool complex to spend a hung-over Saturday afternoon, and the bus driver helpfully told me to get off about 16 miles too early. After an hour of melting like chocolate in the burning early afternoon sun, and with no shade around, I came across buses at a gateway, and a queue of adults and children queuing to get in. I saw something that looked like the tubes of waterslides above the fence. At last. But the sign said 'Terra Santa'. What? Through the gates I could see three plastic crosses on a hillside with figures attached to them, and plastic figures and plastic palm trees around. Why plastic when you can have real ones? Even with my Spanish, I could work out that it was a theme park based on the Bible story. Possibly the tackiest thing I have ever seen, but I couldn't see right inside to judge properly.

An hour later, and I'd found my way around the fence to the pool complex. After getting my feet checked for verrucas, I made it to water. Sometime towards the afternoon, as the pool aerobics were beginning, I was sitting on the edge of the pool, enjoying the setting sun and splashing my legs, when I caught something moving out of the corner of my eye. Over the fence in the Holy Land, a figure was rising out of the plastic dirt. My mouth dropped open as a huge statue of Jesus came sneaking out of his hole, like a meerkat coming out of its burrow. We pointed and laughed incredulously as he made it to his full height, complete with lighted halo, and began to spin slowly. First to one side. Then the other. Then he looked up at the heavens. Then down at the people. The hands at the end of his outstretched arms swivelled slightly too, like he was trying to feed the pigeons in Trafalgar Square and nobody had told him that it was now illegal. Unfortunately, I wasn't close enough to hear if he spoke to his flock in a mechanical voice, like The Terminator with a beard and a pastel-blue robe. Sadly, his eyes didn't flash red. Something startled him and he began to disappear back into his burrow, taking his red sash with him. We had almost stopped laughing when it happened again half an hour later. Without doubt the tackiest thing that I or anyone else has ever seen.

Brazil 1-1 Argentina

Around Brazil: Salvador

I was looking forward to my trip to Salvador. I couldn't wait to get to the heart of Brazil's African culture, and sample food and music that were different to the more European-influenced areas of the south. I enjoyed the journey there, bouncing along at the front of the boat as the city slowly appeared on the horizon. Most other people didn't though. Todo mundo were seasick. Maybe it was because of the sky and the sea being the same colour that rough day, but at first sight, Salvador appeared to me to be totally grey. This wasn't what I'd expected! From everything I'd read about the city, I thought I was going to find bright swirls of African colour on every corner! The buildings of the lower part of town seemed run-down and empty, even if there were shops on the ground floor. The ride in the lift to the high part and the old slave market gave me a good view of the bay and the islands in it. I think that was the last time I felt relaxed in Salvador.

Out of the doors, it was time to run the gauntlet of hawkers and beggars that is Pelourinho. The people you encounter most are those that sell fitas - the bands of different colours that are tied around your wrist with three knots. The three wishes that you make while tying the knots are supposed to come true before the band falls off. Plainly this is nonsense, in the same way that 'lucky' heather doesn't appear to be lucky at all for the lady who has huge bunches of it but is still selling twigs on the streets of London. That is, of course, unless the fita sellers all wished to be selling bands on the streets of Salvador. I should have proved the truth of it by wishing for ridiculous things: to grow an extra leg; to become President of Haiti; and to write a good article. My band didn't have enough time to work anyway. Somebody had tied one onto my wrist as I walked through the square. I snapped it off angrily and checked for my wallet. I didn't have a problem with the band, it was the sales tactics - way too aggressive. And it happens all the time, eating food outside, drinking, talking, looking at maps, people always arrive at your side asking for something and seeming like they won't take no for an answer. I spent a whole night without even talking to my friends. 'Não, obrigado' was all I said. Every two minutes. Minimum. Even to the Capoeira boys.

I had to walk away from the scenes every time. I don't mind watching people somersault down the middle of the road to vault over a friend holding a stick full of sharp facãos pointing at the sky. I'll pay to watch that, every day if possible, especially as it involves that element of danger (for somebody else). But I get a bit bored after a few minutes of watching people rolling around the floor. I just want them to hit each other!

I'd like to say what my favourite thing was about Salvador, but nothing springs to mind, sadly. The whole city was dirty and rundown, including the beaches I saw. The only clean parts were the sterile Shoppings, which needn't be a big problem. But I'd been so excited about going to 'the city where the music never stops'. It might not stop, but somebody had definitely turned it down when I was there. The only live music I heard was from people playing guitars in one of the squares, and they looked like gringoes. What happened to the crazy rhythms of those African drums? I think I should wait for Carnival next time.

Brazil vs. Argentina: The Buses

My first long bus journey in Argentina, from Puerto Iguazu to Buenos Aires, was a revelation, especially after seeing some of the local buses, and after having travelled through much of Brazil by bus. Brazilian buses are a plain old long distance coach ride - four seats across, a toilet, stops every few hours, and things stolen (but only with São Geraldo). I've also had plenty of experience of Bolivian buses which is (and perhaps will be) a tale in every journey.

The first shock is the size - double deckers! With only 3 seats across! Despite booking last minute tickets, we bagged the pair of seats at the front upstairs. Fantastic. Settle down, spread out, enjoy the view with your feet up, watch a couple of dodgy films, ah, very civilised. As well as the films, they provide coffee, cold & hot water, sweets, blankets and a pillow. At the pit-stop, there was a three-course meal and 'champagne' laid on, all ready immediately we sat down. The best surprise was yet to come though. A tray of glasses with ice and a bottle of 'whisky' appeared in front of my face. A nice nightcap to help you nod off to sleep delivered to your doorstep, these people know how to treat their passengers! They even had a dog coming on board to pet for those who needed to de-stress. Admittedly, petting a sniffer dog isn't always the best idea. A friend of mine did it once at an Italian airport and before he knew it, he was being frogmarched away for a strip-search and interrogation. He was just being friendly and thought that the dog was doing the same as it sniffed him. Our dog seemed friendly, unlike the moody police who followed close behind him, checking documents. An old woman in the seat behind us awoke with a start when the dog put his nose next to hers and hoovered around her face. She only complained about it for a few hours. I wasn't complaining at all. I'd never been treated so well. There were no pot-holes for the whole journey to bounce you awake every few minutes, and to slow you down for hours. We were about to arrive an hour and a half early! This couldn't possibly be happening. I started to panic. I didn't know what to do with myself. I'd never had an early arrival in South America before. We'd only just finished the breakfast that was served up to us on little trays with arches to fit nicely over your thighs (as long as those thighs aren't the size of a hippos). Then we could settle back and watch the cityscape appear right before our eyes. In widescreen.

Brazil and Argentina are very competitive, both vying to be the number one nation of their continent. They compete at football, at financial growth, beef, anything short of war. But as far as the buses go, Brazil - your boys took a hell of a beating! Travelling around Argentina was going to be a doddle if all the journeys were like this. Wasn't it?

Brazil 0-1 Argentina

Around Brazil: Morro de São Paulo (& Itabuna)

Itabuna is one of those towns that everybody who travels finds themselves staying in occasionally. When the journey doesn't go as planned due to missed connections, you can't do as many miles as you'd hoped and end up arriving late in a small town that you've never heard of before, and neither has your guide book. You want to leave first thing in the morning, so find the 'hotel' nearest to the station. These hotels are the same the world over - Brazil, Guatemala, India, Sweden even: quiet, empty, probably looked dilapidated when they were opened, and a sad-looking man with a moustache wearing an off-white vest serves you if he can tear himself away from his black and white portable TV for long enough. The walls are grey and have bullet holes, the bathroom is a mosquito graveyard, the cockroaches roam free, and you have second thoughts about lying on that mattress. Still, it's only for five hours.

Some places you like immediately, solely because of your journey there. The boat ride to Morro de São Paulo, leaving the mainland and a huge black cloud behind us and driving through the reflection of the morning sun, was just one of these journeys. The channels to Ilha de Tinharé are tree-lined until you see the coloured cliffs of the island. We were handed flyers for a full moon party on the beach of the first village. Sometimes it comes together for you without any effort.The boat lands at the old fort gateway, and island taxis can take your bags up the hill to the village. There are only sandy roads on the island and very few vehicles, so the locals paint their wheelbarrows black and yellow and have 'Taxi' on the side. They may even take you too if you pay enough.

Morro de São Paulo has a certain barefoot charm about it. You can stay in a pousada right on one of the beaches, which are helpfully numbered so you don't get lost at night. The beaches increase in size, and decrease in population density as you count upwards. Great for walking miles alone along the edge of the sea. You can surf on One or sit and watch fish without even a snorkel on Two. The water can be like glass. Tours take you around the islands to deserted beaches, and to rock pools where you can see fish, crabs, turtles, and a Brazilian tourist breaking off coral for souvenirs. I wish I'd drowned him. It would have been easier than trying to say 'It never grows back you know!' in indignant Portuguese.

The strangest sight of the island though was on our first day there as the sun went down. We saw a huge red thing climbing out of the sea.

"What´s that?"

"Dunno. Oh! It's the moon!"

She rose slowly, leaving a v-shaped reflection pointing to my toes, becoming less red and shining more brightly as she went. I never knew a lady of that age, that big, and with huge craters all over her face could look so beautiful. It put us in a perfect mood for the boat ride to Gamboa for the party in her honour.

But it wasn't how a full moon party should be. We had to pay to listen to the DJ with the worst name in the world - DJ Pornstar Deluxe - without even a view of the sea. I´ve never seen anything so ridiculous as a beach party with a fence all around it.We plagued him all night to change the music, but the only change was in the colour of Barnoldinho's shoulder. A huge wooden totem pole fell on top of him as he was complaining to Pornstar. Some sort of devine retribution probably.

Understanding Brazil: The Workmen

Much as you can tell a British workman by his hands (they're always in his pockets), so you can always spot Brazilian workmen: they're always watching somebody else work. Whether it has been working on home improvements, roadworks, building houses or huge construction sites, I have only ever seen one man working at any one time. He saws the wood while anywhere between one and ten other men stand by staring intently. They don't seem to help or advise in any way which makes me wonder if that is what they are paid to do. Watch.

I have a rubbish theory that two gringoes arrived at a Brazilian house long long ago to do a job. The owner asked why the second man had come:

"He's my assistant. We always work with an assistant in England." - came the reply.

"What does he do?" - asked the Brazilian.

"He assists." - was the logical response.

The owner thought "He assists" and translated literally into the falso amigo "Ele assiste". This then grew to become part of the working culture in Brazil. Rubbish maybe, but it explains why you can have a whole day of work on a house from four men that results in just three new floorboards laid, or one wall painted. Nothing else does. Admittedly bad choice of materials doesn't help speed things up. Witness the obras in Rua Augusta in São Paulo that have closed the pavements for months. The surface is being relaid, no pipes, no tunnels, no cables underground, nada. But when you see four men watching their friend put down coin-sized blocks in a mosaical grid, you'll understand why.

Obviously the heat could be one way to explain the slow progress but I don't buy that because the pace of those type of workmen is in complete contrast to that of the binmen. I love watching them work, and it's the same all over Brazil. No matter how hot it is, they are always running, picking up binbags, throwing them in the back of the truck, shouting 'Vai!' and climbing on while the truck sets off again. Maybe they're on piecework and so get paid per kilo of rubbish, which is why they zigzag down the street faster than I can walk. I sweat just doing that, but they never stop moving, bending, carrying, throwing, and I've never seen anybody leave bags behind out of laziness. They pick up everything worthless. Including me. I got too close in my admiration once, and got thrown in the back of the truck too. They never stopped dropping things on my head long enough for me to get out. We eventually stopped at some roadworks. One man was painting a white line in the middle of the road with a tiny brush. He wasn't blocking the road, but the six men watching him were. I climbed out and crawled home to shock myself in the shower.