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.