Tranquility

Day 17-19: Reserva Provincial Esteros Del Iberá, Argentina. “I wish I'd have packed a couple more memory cards”, I whispered to Karen as we watched the 10ft black caiman basking in the early morning sunshine. The low battery light flickered on the Canon and I fumbled around in my pocket for a replacement. There was no mistaking it, this was a wildlife lovers and photographers paradise.

It's funny how things happen isn't it? Take our trip to the Esteros Del Iberá. This all started back in November of last year at our village school Christmas fête. A friend of ours was looking after the second-hand book stall and knowing of our travel plans, had ear-marked a copy of BBC book Andes to Amazon: A Guide to Wild South America. Delighted with the find Karen and I, promptly paid the £2 for the well read hardback and made our way home to review our new purchase in front of the log fire. With amazing images from across the continent the book provided a great reference source for our upcoming trip and, of all places, called out a remote area in North East Argentina as being amongst the best pace in the whole of South America to watch wildlife. And from that moment, both Karen and I knew we would be visiting Reserva Provincial Esteros Del Iberá to see for ourselves.

Not the easiest place in the world to get to - that's for sure; Lonely Planet advise against attempting this journey using public transport alone, so clearly Karen and I just had to get to this remote area using only local service buses. But after 3 days of hard travelling in our ultimate quest for “nowhere”, we ended up slap, bang in the middle of it! Arriving at the sleepy village of Colonia Carlos Pellegrini, we immediately felt at home; dirt roads, very few vehicles and some of the friendliest people we had met so far on our journey just added to this quaint little place's natural charm.

Covering an area of some 5,000 square miles, the National Park is immense with shallow lakes fed only by rainwater and marshland thick with vegetation. Water plants have accumulated to form dense floating islands across these wetlands that provide a fertile habitat and home to a stunning array of life: Beautiful orange-coloured marsh deer, the rare maned wolf, troops of howler monkeys (officially the world's noisiest animal), busy capybaras (giant 10 stone guinea pigs), copyu, otters, several types of bat and well over 350 species of bird-life.

In this glorious climate, those deep blue lakes and rivers looked so inviting – but we daren't even think even think about it! For these meandering waterways were home to shoals of deadly piranha fish and sinister caimen - South America's man eating crocodiles that in this protected environment grow to a length of 20 feet or more.

And not wanting to be selfish, Karen and I have contributed back to this fragile ecosystem by providing the billion or so mosquito population with gourmet dining for the last three days. Our tender white flesh now is now fit for a good game of dot-to-dot; last night we managed to make an elephant in a tutu on Karen's back!!

On the subject of food, we've had our challenges there too! With restaurants not opening here until around 9 or 10 o'clock at night it's taken a while to get our biological clocks in to Argentinian time. And then there's the variety: If you love steak you should get yourself here. If your a vegetarian then don't even think about travelling in Argentina: Save your money; go and buy yourself a new car or something! In our quest for something other that huge chunks of meat (which by the way are simply delicious – so succulent, so tender), Karen decided to order herself a salad sandwich. The locals, fearing that Karen must have made a mistake, or chosen the wrong Spanish phrase, decided to pop a couple of quarter pounders in there just for good measure. Which suited me just fine!

Back Roads

Day 14-16: Corrientes Province, Argentina. Bang! Clatter! Vroom!, Bang! Clatter! Vroom! One of the consistent themes since our arrival in South America has been the sound track. Whether we have visited a bar, a shopping centre or a funeral parlour, there always seemed to be music playing and never quietly. And so it seemed quite apt, as we drove along the remote unsealed dirt track, that our journey should be given a percussive backing formed from a combination of the bus's failing suspension, my shattered spinal vertebrae and a diesel engine with far too many miles on the clock!

The experiences at Iguaçu had been unforgettable for Karen and me but, as with any major attraction, it can be hard to find peace and solitude with so many people trying to share the same experience as we were. And so, taking the learnings from our previous expedition, we knew exactly what to do: Find a couple of obscure towns in the middle of nowhere, well off the tourist trail and head straight for them: Let's see the real country.

Entering Argentina had already proved to be an interesting experience: A little rawer, a little poorer and a little more chaotic than it's northern neighbour. Catching the bus from Foz do Iguaçu to the Brazilian side of the border, the departure proceedings were as efficient as we had come to expect from our Brazilian hosts. On leaving the administration of Brazil though, things started to become a little bit more 'Latin'. Requiring a vehicle to transport us the 2 miles across 'no-mans' land to the Argentine border we suddenly found that the bus service had dried up and adopted the feeling of mañana: Not something we had had to contend with with Brazil's excellent transport system. And when we did finally make it to immigration; the patient, orderly queues that we were used to in Brazil turned into a free-for-all more reminiscent of the rugby field than a government building. Loaded with full backpack, Karen took the strategic high ground wedged in the entrance. Not to be outdone though, a couple of local crones who must have been 70 if they were a day, toothless and 5ft in high heels managed to wrestle Karen to the ground with a barrage of Spanish expletives that probably didn't include “Welcome to Argentina”. This was more like it. Fabulous entertainment!

Travelling through the remote expanses of North East Argentina we couldn't help feeling that that we'd been transported directly on the set of some high budget spaghetti western. My throat was parched from the red dust cloud that our ancient service bus was kicking up as it clattered across the dirt roads. High above us, vultures circled on the strong morning thermals; tracking the bus's progress as if they knew something that I did not. The vast savannah stretched as far as our eyes could see, only occasionally broken by low level trees, shaped over time by the strong prevailing winds. Here and there the bright sunshine glinted on the spinning sails of the creaking wind pumps that provided drinking water for the immense herds of beef cattle that roamed freely across these isolated plains, and occasionally flocks of hungry rhea (South American ostriches) would come in to sight to complete this unforgettable scene.

And then of course there were the cowboys. But Argentina's gauchos aren’t here to entertain the tourists. In this part of South America, this is their way of life. Men and boys live hard lives here, travelling for days across these huge rural estancias to tend their valuable herds. On our journey eastwards as we travelled from Corrientes to Mercedes, we watched in admiration as these skilled horsemen thundered across the plains in a cloud of dust, spurs on boots and lasso in hand.

From time to time we would break our journey in small, uninspiring backwaters where old timers would occupy the park benches drinking maté from a silver bombilla, dressed in full western regalia: 10 gallon hat, that little leather thing around their necks, chaps and snakeskin boots. Take Mercedes: A crumbling, one-eyed town where our hotel reflected the rest of the towns infrastructure: If the shower worked then the toilet wouldn't flush. If the toilet flushed then the lights wouldn't work. If the lights worked then the sockets would fail... you get the kind of thing!! Here nothing much happened before 10, the townsfolk broke for siesta at about midday only to return at around 5 to work for a couple more hours work before shutting shop from the day's exertion!

The Spanish is coming on though. From a shaky start back in Puerto Iguazú where conversations took on a decidedly Fawlty Towers feel – I would say something in Spanish and a whole raft of Argentinians would stand around looking at me blankly and responding ¿Qué? we've been making some progress. Forced by necessity, as nobody in this very untouristy area speaks any English, we are on the whole making ourselves understood and getting pretty much what we ask for (thanks to Vicky for her patience during those painful Spanish lessons!). I have mistakenly asked a couple of people whether they have an anus when I meant to ask them their age but so far the Argentinians are taking it all quite light heartedly. Nobody's punched me. Yet!

Sensory Overload

Day 11-13: Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil. “I won, I won. I'm sure I did!”, I shouted over the deafening roar that surrounded us. Karen and I peered into the swirling mist below us, but the truth was, neither of us could see anything that had entered the awesome abyss that thundered below us. “Perhaps this isn't the best place to play Pooh Sticks”, I concluded as we stood and absorbed the stunning natural beauty of this, one of the world's most spectacular waterfalls.

We had left São Paulo late on Saturday evening taking the overnight bus down to the little Brazilian border town of Foz do Iguaçu. Our driver completed the 600 mile trip solo, apparently surviving the monotony and fatigue through a intravenous cocktail of caffeine and nicotine. With the breaking of dawn, as we continued our westerly pursuit, we gazed out onto a very different landscape; for the area south-east of the Pantanal represents Brazil's bread basket: Fields of wheat, corn and maize were blowing gently in the morning breeze whilst dairy cattle grazed the rolling green hills giving an impression much closer to Ampthill than the Amazon. Although, in this quintessentially English scene, the early morning temperature had already breached 30 degrees centigrade under the rays of this blistering sub-tropical sun.

Whilst Foz do Iguaçu itself is about 15 miles away from the main attraction, arriving at this pretty little border post that sits on the boundary between Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay we could already sense the feeling of excitement and anticipation driven by this, one of the new Seven Wonders of the World.

Located where the Rio Iguaçu tumbles over the edge of the Paraná Plateau, the river governs the border between Brazil and Argentina with the right bank representing Brazilian territory, the left bank Argentinian and so the only real way for Karen and I to truly appreciate the majesty of these tremendous waterfalls was to view the spectacle from both sides of the border: Brazil providing us with the the 'overview' and Argentina allowing us to get 'close up'.

The plateau itself is about 2 miles long (4 times the size of Niagara) which, depending on the seasonal flow of the river, generates up to 300 separate waterfalls and cataracts, varying in height from between 200 and 300ft. Although about half of the river's flow falls into a single long and narrow chasm called Garganta do Diablo (Devil's Throat) which accounts for the majority of the 60,000 cubic feet of water that cascades from the upper river to the lower river every single second and prompted First Lady Eleanor Roosevelt to exclaim on her first visit to these remarkable falls, “Poor Niagara”.

Whether viewing the falls from the Brazilian or Argentinian side of the border, I can't hope to do justice to the magnificence that was laid out before us in either words or pictures: The expanse, the power and the natural beauty of one of mother nature's greatest shows on earth far outweighs my elementary grammatical or photographic capabilities. But the sensation of actually being there will remain with Karen and me for the rest of our lives. The sight of unbelievable volumes of water disappearing at such speed into the precipice of Devil's Throat, the roar of the cascades that echoed for miles around the Iguaçu National Park, the spray from the falls that soaked us to the skin, the smell of the rain-forest: Stunningly beautiful and infinitely memorable.

...and I still think my stick made it to the bottom first!

Pizza

Day 8-10: São Paulo, Brazil. There's no getting away from the fact: São Paulo is a monster. The largest city in the southern hemisphere and the third largest metropolis on planet earth. With a population two and a half times that of Greater London, twenty million people have decided to make this place their home, and to plagiarise Paul Hogan's words from the film Crocodile Dundee, this should make Sampa (as locals affectionately know it) the friendliest city on earth!

And you know, despite Brazil's rampant crime rate, São Paulo does actually feel like a safe and friendly place to live due, in the main, to it's unparalleled racial and ethnic diversity. Ask me to point out a typical 'Paulistano' to you and I wouldn't be able to. The city has been multiracial since its foundation in the 16^th Century, bringing together Portuguese, African and indigenous people. Since then, wave after wave of immigration has given the city a truly global face. Italian and Spanish migrants poured in during the 18^th Century to pick coffee after Brazil emancipated slaves in 1888 and they now number about 5 million and 3 million respectively. Add to this the highest number of Japanese descendants outside of Japan (1.5 million), the highest number of Lebanese descendants outside of the Lebanon (850,000), the 1 million or so Germans, the 130,000 strong Jewish community, the Chinese, the Armenians, the Lithuanians, the Greeks, the Syrians, the Koreans, the Polish and the Hungarians and you'll see what I mean.

And for 'foodies' like Karen and me, this made for one of the most interesting and diverse culinary melting pots in the world. A trip to the Mercado Municipal provided a great insight: This daily food market of gargantuan proportion is housed inside a neoclassical building dating back to 1928 bringing together the best of produce from around the globe: Dried fish from Norway, Serrano hams from Italy, olives from Spain, beers from Denmark, whisky from Scotland and Vegemite from Australia (well done Australia)!

But despite all of this diversity and choice, the city's signature dish is actually pizza. With such a huge Italian influence the locals maintain that Paulistano Pizza is better than anything you'll try in New York, Chicago or even Naples! And from our experience of the little Pizzeria in the chic Vila Madelena region of the city I wouldn't disagree with them (although had my Portuguese been a little better, I may not have ordered the corned beef, cream cheese and olive concoction that I ended up with)!

Walking around this intriguing, albeit slightly tired city, the enormity of the place really hit us. The presence and magnificence of the art-deco architecture, the views from the top of the Banespa building, the 110 museums, the 402 cinemas, the 12,500 restaurants and the 15,000 bars (that made for one hell of a pub crawl)!

But of all that Sampa had to offer, one of my personal favourites was the Museu de Futebol, located under the terraces of Corinthians' pseudo home stadium, Estádio do Pacaembu. This modern, R$33 million investment, celebrates the history and successes of the the 'Beautiful Game' throughout Brazil in an interactive, informative and engaging experience (and let's face it, as the only team to have qualified for all Copa Mundial and to have brought the prized trophy home no less than five times, Brazil has an awful lot to celebrate)! And yes, we had to endure countless replays of Ronaldinho’s free kick, much to the delight of the gathered Brazilian crowd, but this was about Brazil's triumphs rather than England's failures.

One of the exhibits also provided a great example of why Karen and I love travelling so much: To appreciate different cultures views on our own ingrained British perspectives. The particular display charted the history of all of the World Cups going back to the 1930's and through pictures, video and audio described not only what happened on the pitch, but the social, economic and cultural background that set the tone for each of the four yearly competitions. So in 1966, as Bobby Moore lifted the the Jules Rimet trophy on the steps of Wembley Stadium we saw how the Beetles were setting the global music trend (you can't argue with that). In 1978, as Daniel Passarella lifted the trophy in his beloved home land of Argentina it was against the back-drop of the Sex Pistols and punk-rock (again, a good call: Sid Viscous and Jonny Rotten were the certainly setting the music agenda for a whole generation of teenagers brought up in the late 70's). And by 1998, as Brazil lifted the trophy in the United States for the umpteenth time it was apparently the Spice Girls that were at the forefront of style and music vogue. Now, I know that I spent most of my 1990's in a drunken stupor, but did I miss something here?!

Beauty (...and the Beast?)

Day 5-7: Paraty, Brazil. One minute the left side of my face was pressed firmly against the window pane, the next my right shoulder was leaning hard into Karen, nearly pushing her into the central aisle of the little service bus that was taking us the 200 miles or so from Rio de Janeiro to the old colonial town of Paraty.

Over the years, Karen and I have been fortunate enough to travel some of the most stunning coastal roads in the world: America's 'Big Sur', Ireland's Ring of Kerry, South Africa's Garden Route and Vietnam's Highway Number 1 to name but a few. But this trip along Brazil's Costa Verde (Green Coast) was definitely up there with the best of them.

Leaving the metropolis of Rio, we were soon in the heart of the 'real' Brazil. Following the coastline for the duration of the route, the bus would lurch left and right and then left again as it hugged the rugged South Atlantic terrain. Down to our left, every turn afforded a tantalising glimpse of a new secluded bay with pristine white sands running into a perfect azure sea. In the middle distance countless deeply forested islands rose sharply from the seas, each surrounded with their own narrow strip of deserted beach that just invited you to take a closer look. To our right, the Atlantic Rainforest ascended steeply and clung perilously to the Serra do Mar mountain ranges that disappeared out of view into the misty cloud cover that constantly shrouds this Unesco biosphere reserve.

And in between, a scattering of small towns and villages provided us with an insight into the Brazilian way of life: In Angra Dos Reis, luxury waterfront villas adorned the fjordlike coastline whilst a multi-story boat park housed a £100m worth of Sunseekers for the week-end amusement of the rich kids. Clinging to the hillside, the makeshift shanty-towns of the favelas overlooked this extravagance; the kids here don't even have the propensity to dream of the wealth of their near neighbours in this, the country with the greatest disparity of income between rich and poor of anywhere in the world. Oh Brazil, you are so very beautiful and now, so very very rich – be sure to spend your new found prosperity wisely and considerately.

Our destination for the next few days was to be Paraty, a picturesque fishing village preserved pretty much 'as is' with colourful colonial buildings and uneven cobbled streets, since it heyday in the late 18^th Century when it became a principle trading port for the gold-rush of the Minas Gerais. Now it is a sleepy holiday destination and with 55 islands and over 100 beaches you can always find your own bit of paradise for that afternoon siesta.

It wasn't the beaches that attracted Karen and I though, it was our first opportunity to get up-front and personal with the Atlantic Rainforest. Hiring a couple of bicycles we headed north, deep into this remarkable ecosystem, where the jungle resounded to the crescendo of the cicadas and electric blue butterflies the size of your hand criss-crossed our path as we rode the steep mountain tracks of the Estrada Real (the original gold prospectors trail). Here and there we would stumble on mountain waterfalls where the local kids would use the elevation and slippery rocks as a water-slide, as effective as anything you'd find in a Disney theme park.

By the end of the day, fuelled with a couple of cachaças from the mountain distillery and chased by the oncoming afternoon deluge we descended those mountain roads in a way that would have made Lance Armstrong proud! Despite all of our efforts though, the storm still got the better of us; turning the morning's mountain tracks into fast flowing rivers of thick red mud and leaving us filthy and drenched through to the skin – in fact we couldn't have ended up any wetter if we had ridden the kid's 'Disney slide' fully clothed. Terrific fun!

The strange things is though, after all of that cycling across the rough mountain tracks and through Paraty's cobbles all of my 'bits' are now swollen to the size of grapefruits. Karen suggested I hire the bike again tomorrow!  

Acclimatisation

Day 2-4: Rio de Janeiro, Brazil. I won't try and sugar coat it; the last couple of days in Rio have been difficult. But it's not Rio, it's us.

Air travel is a wonderful thing; it can transport you from one continent to another, from one culture to another and from one set of agreed norms to another in the relative blink of an eye. And whilst that is fabulous for a business or a holiday trip, it can be kind of unnerving when you're travelling. Travelling enjoyably and safely requires you to tune that 6^th sense that we all posses for making split second judgements on whether something feels right or wrong into the culture and psyche of the people that you meet. On our previous travels this was quite easy; slow, overland travel meant that we could easily assess subtle changes of culture day by day giving us time to hone our “cultural radar” so that, on the whole, we could make the right value judgements. But this time, transported almost instantaneously into a hot, humid, vibrant and relatively volatile environment our 6^th sense was taking some time to engage.

We knew we needed to be careful in Rio; all of our pre-reading had told us so. But to tell the truth, I was under the impression that it was the usual guide-book 'molly-codling'. I was convinced that when we got here the locals would tell us, “Just be careful and enjoy yourself”. But this wasn't to be. Indeed it was the locals that fuelled our paranoia to bursting point. They insisted on doing a full clothes inspection before we left the safety of our hostel: No branded clothing (Karen take of your North Face sandals), no backpacks (David), no cameras (David), no hippy-beads (David) no water bottles (both)... the list went on and on.

And so with a great deal of trepidation our adventure began. We found ourselves travelling by taxi rather than walking or getting the local bus; we found ourselves mistrusting the kids on the corner, just because they looked different to us; we found ourselves hanging out in the tourist areas and dismissing the people of Rio – all of the things that were so very contrary to what we wanted from our travelling experience. But slowly, day be day, our cultural radar has been getting stronger.

Whilst we appreciate all of the advice we have been given since we arrived, our 6^th sense is stating to refocus itself to the South American culture; we are now starting to make our own assessments about the situations we encounter and the people we meet. Karen has her sandals back on, and I have my beads and my backpack. Today, we left the comfort blanket of the taxi behind and retuned to public transport, navigating the city from affluent suburbs to run down favelas. Today, we left the restaurants inhabited by gringos and retuned to the local side-walk bars where nobody can speak a word of English; the locals put the world to right and the old man in the corner entertains a small crowd of people with with a couple of samba numbers plucked from a guitar that looks older than he is, whilst the omnipresent TV replays the goals of this afternoon's Santos game and a few people remain fixated on the Brazilian equivalent of Who Wants to be a Millionaire (which, in my opinion, is a much better show: Firstly, it is to the exclusion of Chris Tarrant and secondly all of the female contestants seem to be clad in only the tiniest of bikinis!). Small steps maybe, but we are getting ourselves back into that zone again!

And don't get me wrong, it hasn’t been a horrible experience. Rio de Janeiro is a truly amazing city and, between the bursts of paranoia, we have managed to get out there: Mixing with the beautiful bronzed Cariocas on Ipanema beach (Karen and I fitted in well there with our pasty British complexions and hob nailed walking boots!), partying in the Samba bars of Lapa, and admiring the breathtaking cityscape from the top of Pão de Açúcar (Sugarloaf) and Corcovado Mountains; the later being home to Cristo Redentor, the massive statue of Christ the Redeemer that keeps his watchful eye over the partying city below (and believe me, whilst this is probably the most iconic symbol of Rio for everyone, nothing actually prepares you for how big this amazing monument really is).

We've also had our share of fun and excitement along the way too. Like our cable car excursion to the top of Sugarloaf Mountain. We decided to make the trip late afternoon on the first day so that the light would be better for the photographs. Naively though, I forgot that one of the inevitable consequences of being in the tropics in the wet season is that every day, late afternoon we get treated to a thunderstorm of gargantuan proportion. Boarding the first cable car to take us to the intermediate station at Morra da Urca we left the city in beautiful sunshine with searing 35 degree temperatures. But by the time we had reached the 1,300ft summit, we were in the middle of a ferocious tropical storm with strong winds and driving rain battering our little cabin as we transversed the void between the two mountains. Lighting flashed and thunder crashed all around us and then, we watched in amazement as with a deafening crack, a lightning bolt made a direct hit on the very same cables that we were about to cross. From our last travelling adventure, some of you may remember that shortly into the trip I lost a pair of underpants. On this trip, believe me, after the same period of time I needed a clean pair!

Don’t Cry for Me...

Day 1: Travelling. “We do have a week in Cancun. It’s all inclusive”, the assistant from Lunn Poly said enthusiastically, but from the look on my face, she could see that it wasn’t quite what I was looking for. 


South America has always had a special attraction to me since Ally MacLeod took the Tartan Army to "The Argentine" in 1978. A dreadful showing by England during the qualifying stages of that competition had meant that my first real memorable World Cup as a 12 year old boy would be spent supporting the Home Nation’s only representative. A disappointing campaign though saw defeats by Peru, a shock draw with Iran and the disgraceful expulsion of Willie Johnson from the competition after a failed dope test. But despite the results, my own fire for this far off continent had been well and truly lit. The passion, the people, the music, the scenery – this was a place that I had just had to go and see for myself. 


And over the ensuing decades my fire continued to burn: Maradona’s Hand of God in ’86, Beckham’s red card kick against Simeone in ’98, Ronaldinho’s speculative fee kick that caught David Seaman so flat footed and broke a million English hearts back in 2002. 


And it wasn’t just the football: The Falklands conflict of ’82, the 1996 release of the film adaptation of Tim Rice and Andrew Lloyd Webber's musical Evita based on the life of Eva Perón, the destruction of the rain forests, the rise of Brazil as one of the foremost trading nations of the world, the drugs cartels, the carnivals… the list goes on and on. 


My first failed attempt to visit the world’s 4th largest continent was back in 1994. Karen and I had just got our first place together in South Yorkshire and having graduated from Birmingham Polytechnic a couple of years previously, we were making the first steps to getting our finances in order which meant we might just be able to afford our first holiday together. And so, as an incredibly naïve twenty something traveller, I walking into a high street travel agent in Doncaster and enquired as to the availability of an all-inclusive package tour that would allow us to travel from Rio de Janeiro in Brazil to Lima in Peru. The bemused shop assistant could only offer me Mexican beach option (which we politely declined!) and my dream was to be put on hold for a further 18 years. 


This year though my dreams of South America will come true. In this year that has such special meaning to the ancient religions of South America Karen and I will travel from Rio to Lima; but this time there will be no package tours, no travel agents and no tour guides. Building on from our epic trip three years ago travelling overland from the sleepy village of Steeple Morden in Cambridgeshire to the metropolis of Bangkok (http://roadtobangkok.blogspot.com/) we will use these learning’s and experiences to facilitate our navigation of this vast southern continent. 


What lies ahead, neither of us really know: We dream of lost cities, pristine lakes and rivers, glaciers, waterfalls, high mountain passes, pan pipes, tropical beaches, samba, rain forests, wildlife, tango, gauchos and succulent steaks slowly sizzling on the asado under the infinitive star lit heavens that envelop the Patagonian Steppes. But of the reality? We will just have to wait and see. For the next three to four months it’s just Karen and me; a whole new adventure in an unexplored world.

For the next 12 hours though, our destination will be a cooped up steel tube, seven miles high as we wing ourselves to the start of our fantastic journey:  We’re On the Road Again! 


Oh, and by the way Diego, I haven’t forgotten: That definitely was hand ball!