Another morning in Rio arrived complete with blue skies and sun – well at least from what I could discern from the limited patch of blue that was peaking at us from several stories above. A good night’s rest had given us renewed optimism in the quest; albeit unorthodox one for an upgrade to our room. As far as things to do on this day, the room upgrade and making the most of the risqué antics of our neighbours were on top of the list. Well, not quite on top of the list – a fantastic breakfast spread awaited us first.

It is fair to say that the breakfast buffet put on by the Excelsior Hotel was the best breakfast we had on tour by a long way. This was despite me once again mistaking the pineapple juice for some other foul tasting Brazilian concoction. Yes, I took a mouthful of the stuff and almost spat it back in Margaret’s face. What the hell was this? Caipirinhas I can understand! Despite the mouth retching and gut pummelling cachasa that makes up a caipirinha – the sugar laced lime within it at least makes this drink acceptable. Whatever I had drunk, which clearly I had mistakenly taken for pineapple juice, was an abomination to taste. Searching for that elusive pineapple juice, I returned to the buffet on another breakfast beverage sortie. On closer inspection of the drink dispensers it seemed that someone else had noted the similarity in colouring and texture that this dodgy drink had with the pineapple juice. I was in no doubt that this other poor sod having experienced this Rio sensation themselves had elected to swap the labels on the jugs around in order that normal, God fearing gringos, like myself, had the opportunity to sample it. Well I was annoyed at this revelation – as far as I was concerned this amounted to taste bud terrorism. I found my pineapple juice and returned to the table. After tasting the more familiar juice, my sense of humour returned and so I decided that I would not rectify the labelling. If I had to cop it, then so would everyone else.

With breakfast finished it was time to make an enquiry with reception regarding our new room. I asked when the upgrade would take place, given the circumstances of the previous day. The guy on duty said that he had not had any messages from the night staff, but he would follow it up and come back to us later in the day. We were annoyed at this point and a little shy to regale the antics of the nudist troupe in front of loads of tourists checking in at the front desk. We decided that we would wait and so without further ado, we ascended to the roof-top pool.

The morning and early afternoon was spent watching the world of Copacabana go by from the roof of the Excelsior, followed by much lazing by the pool, swimming in the pool, reading by the pool, and eating and drinking from the scrumptious pool-side menu. It was hard work, but we did manage to extricate ourselves from our exertions when we heard a series of blasts from police sirens emanating from the Copacabana strip. What greeted both Margaret and I was another unique sight. It was G-rated this time. I estimated at least one hundred police cars were parading down the beach front, sirens blaring in some sort of cavalcade. We weren’t quite sure what the reason for the display was, but if anything it certainly was a show of force.

In some ways this was a reminder about the not so savoury side of Rio and other large cities of Brazil. Drugs: and more to the point drug-gangs and street crime. We had read several stories during the course of our trip about the raging drug war that had evolved over many years between the police and the drug lords. It seemed the drug of choice was cocaine, and there was plenty of demand for it by the more affluent populace of Rio. This demand together with corrupt police and a rampant illegal arms trade resulted in a veritable melting pot for some serious urban warfare. Thankfully though, this kind of trouble is usually reserved for the back streets and wayward suburbs of Rio. If you have your wits about you and don’t go into areas that you shouldn’t (that is, stick to the tourist trail), then you will be fine. This is what we were told, and it was with this in mind that we decided that we would like to tour one of these so-called wayward areas – a Favela.

A Favela is a Brazilian term for a shanty town, which are pervasive throughout Rio and Saõ Paulo. So expensive it is to live in these major cities, and so poor are many of the locals that they have had no option but to build their ramshackle homes literally on top of one another in almost pyramid type fashion, albeit in a haphazard manner. One of the last imparting titbits of advice from our Tucan guide, Dany, was that there was only one guide allowed to escort tourists through Rio’s largest Favela – Rocinho. The reason that only one guide was allowed, was because this particular guide had been given permission from the powers that be within the Favela to undertake the tours. Apparently, it was unthinkable for anybody who does not live in a Favela to take it upon themselves to tour one alone. It really is viewed as an extremely dangerous practice. However, we reasoned that the tours wouldn’t take place if it was overtly dangerous, so with this in mind we briefly left our inviting pool side and visiting reception booked ourselves on a tour of the Rocinho Favela for the following afternoon.

Margaret and I successfully whiled away the afternoon pool side, dining on delicious club sandwiches, sipping soft drinks and reading our books. With the afternoon drawing to a close, it was time to prepare for another evening out on the town, with what remained of the Rio Ring. The night’s entertainment was to be at a small restaurant called Garota de Ipanema – or perhaps more readily known in the English world as the Girl from Ipanema. Yes that applauded tune, which epitomises elevator music was apparently penned by musicians Tom Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes at this very restaurant. Up until this point my only recollection of this famous tune was from the original Blues Brothers movie – towards the end where Jake and Elwood are fleeing the collective law and order of Chicago, and end up in an elevator playing this tune.

The Garota de Ipanema restaurant was, surprisingly enough, in downtown Ipanema. After meeting Maurie and Helen, Margaret and I shared a cab to the restaurant and then met up with Tom and Laura, Joanne, Glenn and Jane. Anne Brosnan (“Bite My Ass”) had apparently left Rio earlier that morning on her way back to New York, so the group had dwindled even further. Still, it was an enjoyable evening. The restaurant was clearly not as famous for its food – which proved to be distinctly average. However, the street entertainment outside the restaurant, which included an acrobatic firebrand wielding Brazilian proved a good distraction from the mediocre menu. Of course the dinner conversation could not be complete with out an update from Margaret and I on our efforts to get that room with a view. We also mentioned that tomorrow would see Margaret and I brave the largest Favela in Rio – Rocinho. At this point Tom and Laura interjected. It turned out that as part of her college degree, Laura had completed a study on the Brazilian Favelas. Laura enlightened us on what we would be in for, and despite the fact that they are dangerous places, we were fairly assured by the fact that we were having a reputable guide. Laura and Tom had been deliberating over whether to visit Rocinho – given these inherent dangers – but seeing that the less informed Margaret and I were going – decided there and then to bite the bullet so-to-speak and book the trip the following day.

With the meal aside we decided to try one of the local Ipanema bars. These seemed to be few and far between, and so we opted to go to the local Irish bar – Shenanigans. Jane had arranged to meet some of her newly found hostel friends at this bar, and this proved to be the source of the evening’s entertainment. The bar was your atypical Irish bar – full of gringo backpackers, party hungry locals and Guinness on tap. After managing to find a nook to settle in, our group squeezed in and were introduced to Jane’s newly found companions. Alas, I’m not very good with names, but I do remember that there was a rather affable Dutch couple and a couple of English travellers who had some interesting travel stories to regale. One of Jane’s new cohorts though – (“FHM!” Jane what were you thinking?) was a Brazilian girl who had the mouth of a trooper, the demeanour of a psychopath, and apparently had seen more Brazilian mattresses than Rio’s answer to Captain Snooze.

Our evening concluded with yet more goodbyes. Two of our Rio Ring compatriots, Glenn (“Bite My Legs”) and Joanne (“Quick Draw Macaw”) were both heading off the following day. Glenn was flying back to Saõ Paulo to catch up with a friend and Joanne was leaving for travels a new in Spain. And so, after some more shenanigans with the farcical Brazilian bar tab, we left the bar hotel bound. The only members left of the Rio Ring were Maurie (“Benny Hill”) and Helen (“Cilla”), Tom (“Show Me My Money”) and Laura (“Laundrette Fret”) and of course Margaret (“Jeezus Christ”) and I (“Forrest Gump”). For a while, our campaign to get a room with a view was slightly overshadowed by the portent of visiting Rocinho – home to the less affluent, home to cocaine gangs, and home to large caches of high tech weaponry.

Our visit to Rocinho Favela was not until the afternoon, so we had an entire morning to kill. Breakfast proved exceptional again, and this time saw me successfully dodge the foul tasting pineapple-disguised drink. After a short stint pool side we ventured back to the room – not so much to prepare for our trip to the Favela, but more to recollect our strategy for getting this room with a view. After some deliberation I rang reception and asked what the status of the room upgrade was. The response was less than promising. The full weight of our lewd corridor encounter had obviously fallen short of the managers ears, and the dutiful response from the front desk was that there was no availability of executive rooms.

Well, didn’t Margaret hit the roof. “Right Kennedy, that’s it, I’m going down to reception myself and I’m going to sort this out with the manager”. Seeing Margaret’s anger, I left her off to it and waited patiently for the verdict. After about ten or fifteen minutes she returned to the room, and delivered the news that we had been waiting so long to hear. “We are getting upgraded this afternoon.” It turned out that the discrete approach which I had taken in delivering our case for an upgrade was misinterpreted. Margaret spelt it out to the manager and the entire front desk, the shenanigans of two days ago. Margaret basically said that we were subjected to a naked man running rampant around the corridors. She continued with saying, that this was meant to be a relaxing holiday for herself and I, and was quickly turning into a big disappointment. Finishing with a demand for an upgrade and strategically opening the sluice gates to her tear dams, Margaret delivered the final knock out blow to the wavering Excelsior management.

I congratulated Margaret on her performance, and shortly after I had a phone call from reception asking me to confirm the story Margaret had so passionately articulated. After confirming that yes, a nude man had unashamedly exposed himself in front of my very naked eyes, the front desk confirmed that we would be moved into an Executive room, with a full view of Copacabana beach in the early afternoon. We mentioned that we were heading out on an excursion, so we would arrange for the move on our return. Yes, Margaret and I were quite beside ourselves.

Our tour guide, Marga, a local woman in her late forties met Margaret and I in the foyer of the Excelsior right on time for about 1:30pm. The tall bronzed Marga led us out to our tour transportation and driver. A rather funky looking open top black jeep Cherokee. We were pleasantly surprised to learn that Margaret and I were to be the only people on this tour, well that was our initial reaction. We then quietly thought, maybe we were the only ones taking the tour, because others were valuing their lives more. Still, Marga’s relaxed and friendly demeanour was reassuring. Marga was hardly going to be relaxed if we were about to be confronted by a bunch of Kalishnikov wielding cocaine runners. The trip out to Rocinho proved as relaxing as Marga’s demeanour and our local guide proved to be quite informative.

One thing I picked up on from Marga speaking was that the letter “R” is pronounced a little differently by a Rio local. In fact words starting with an “R” are pronounced as the letter “H”. So “Rocinho” was pronounced as “Hocinho”, and Rio to the locals is pronounced as Hio. Personally, I thought that this didn’t quite have the same hing – oops I meant ring – to it as Rio. That got me thinking. That would mean that Rio folk would pronounce the names Ronaldo as Honaldo, Rivaldo as Hivaldo and Romario as Homario. I found it mildly amusing, and couldn’t quite appreciate why the Rio folk didn’t just pronounce their “R”s as “R”s. If they wanted their names to start with the letter “H” then why not spell it that way. In any case, I suppose it was a good way for the locals to determine an outsider from one of their own.

Rocinho Favela sprawls down a hillside and spills over into the coastal valley which is home to the picturesque coastal borough of Saõ Conrado. Our approach to Rocinho was from the western side, and so the full scope of the Rocinho community was not immediately apparent as our jeep began to climb the hillside into the town. We stopped at the entrance to the Favela, and it was at this point that we bore witness to the stark contrast between rich and poor. Adjacent to the road we were on was a fenced off area to an affluent school, with well kept grounds and fine looking buildings. Behind the school and sweeping up the slopes of a green hillside were some plush looking houses. Immediately to our left though, the proliferation of tiered ramshackle dwellings began, ascending the hillside in a colourful and chaotic cascade.

Marga pointed out the occasional blue tanks, some of which sat precariously on the top of people’s houses. Apparently, houses in the Favela did not have access to running water, so the water tanks are used and are filled on a weekly basis. Before leaving the jeep Marga gave us a little more information about the Favela and a warning. Apparently, provided that we stayed with Marga, we were fine to take photographs. However, there maybe a couple of places where we would not be allowed such liberties. She also gave us an insight into how the Favelas are run. The Favela generally contains mostly honest and poor families. However, the drug lords provide services to the family, whether it be basic amenities like water or medical assistance. In return they ask that the families keep their eyes peeled for strangers or anything that may affect the business of the barons. Marga said that you will often see some children flying kites on the rooftops of some buildings. She said they are actually lookouts. On occasion firecrackers are let off, and this is a signal to the drug traffickers that something maybe awry.

Margaret and I digested this information as we left the jeep to take a short stroll to a market stall. It was here that we met Douglas, a ten year old Rocinho local. A really friendly kid, and he was offering to help us carry our packs. We declined the help, but that didn’t prevent Douglas from tagging along. The stall proved to be local artwork and so Margaret and I bought a painting of the Favela. Shortly after, Marga and Douglas lead us back to the jeep and we began driving further up the hillside and into the Favela proper.

A short way up the hill we stopped again, and this time Marga motioned us to leave the jeep as we were going to enter the home of a Rocinho local. Leaving the car we followed Marga up four of five flights of stairs, each flight depicting another layered concrete dwelling. Once at the top, Marga knocked on the door of one of the houses and it was shortly answered by the owner. He was really friendly and invited us in, motioning us towards the back of the house. We soon saw why. The purpose of the visit was not to meet this man and see inside his house – which incidently was surprisingly modern and immaculate. The purpose of the visit was to check out his rooftop. We piled out onto the rooftop, which at the first glance gave us a view of the brow of the hill we had just ascended, and then as we swung around the full expanse of the Favela enveloped us.

Rocinho Favela, Rio de Janeiro

From our vantage point we could follow the cascading Favela into the valley where it began to meet the high rise holiday apartments of the affluent Saõ Conrado. Beyond Saõ Conrado was the Atlantic once again and to the south was the towering escarpment of Gavea mountain. Even at this distance, hang-gliders could still be made out as small silhouettes just below the Gavea peak. It was one of the finest views we had seen since being in Rio. Despite the haphazard construction of the Favela, it still had a charm to it particularly with such an incredible view. The view, the friendliness of the people belied the invisible but apparent sinister drug trade which Rocinho had built its reputation.

After taking in the fine view, we thanked our host and then Marga lead us back down to the jeep. Marga instructed her driver to carry on and meet us at the bottom. We would be on foot for the next part of the tour. Marga lead us through some narrow winding alleys which descended Rocinho. As we journeyed through the alleys, we were able to view inside many of the house windows. Looking inside the windows revealed modern and clean décor. It was amazing. These people weren’t living in squalor. It was quite unlike I imagined a shanty town to be. When I thought of Shanty towns, I conjured news images from Soweto in South Africa which showed dirty, corrugated dwellings full of disease and the rank of human waste. Not here though. Sure the buildings were not architecturally great, but they were sturdy and for the most part seemed to be good clean homes.

At this point we said our goodbyes to Douglas, who had decided he was bored tailing these gringos. Shortly afterwards we began descending further into the Favela. Marga lead us to the bottom of the Favela valley and into what I can only describe as the central business district. It was full of locals selling their wares. Perhaps the most interesting feature of the streets though was the wiring. The electric and telephone cables festooned the walls like a sporadic spider web. Indeed, I would have hated to have been the electrician should there have been a blackout. Identifying the correct wire would have been an absolute night mare. Our walking tour continued and then Marga asked us to put the camera away. We had left the bustling street into a quieter side street which was leading out to Via Apia. This street was notorious for drug trafficking, Marga explained. Tourists taking photos here would be construed as spying for the police. So it was with caution that we walked out onto Via Apia. We saw nothing untoward. In fact it looked like any other street in the Favela. Marga was quick to point out that we shouldn’t be fooled by how quiet the street was. She suggested that to get a better (and safe) insight into the seedier side of Favela life, we should watch the Brazilian movie “City of God”. While this film is not set in the Rocinho Favela, Marga highly recommended we view it – as it is based on a true story and it accurately depicts the violence and corruption that comes with drug trafficking in the Favelas.

Strolling down Via Apia lead us out of the Favela proper and we then crossed a bridge which saw us arrive into the outskirts of Saõ Conrado. It was here that our driver met us once again with the jeep. Shortly before piling back into the jeep we glanced back up the hill side from where we had come. It was an incredible sight, and something quite surreal to watch; this sprawling makeshift city sweeping upwards only stopping at the sheer faced peaks of the Rio escarpment where it is impossible to build no more.

Our tour concluded and the trip back to Copacabana proved truly relaxing. Our driver took the coast road from Sao Conrado, and we just sat back and took in the ample views of the Atlantic and the beautiful beaches of Leblon, Ipanema and finally Copacabana. Upon arriving at the Excelsior we thanked Marga (and our maker) for a great tour. It was hard to believe that anybody could have come to grief in Rocinho – (Hocinho even), and certainly I would recommend this tour to anyone.

Entering the Excelsior again and Margaret and I approached the front desk in anticipation of our upgrade. We were greeted by a girl at the desk and asked if we could change rooms. She said that our Executive room was ready and that the Bell Hop would be up shortly to help us with our luggage. I relayed the story yet again purely for the shock factor for the girl at the front desk. Despite the Rio reputation for their decadent carnival this girl was appalled at what had happened outside our room.

Finally, within a few moments of returning to our small room, the Bell Hop arrived to begin helping us with our luggage. It proved to be a pointless exercise. Our Executive room was in fact the same room which the kinky Airline couple had occupied only days earlier. We literally just had to walk a couple of yards across the corridor into our new room. We couldn’t help feel the huge sense of irony in the situation. After initially asking for a room with a view on checking into this establishment, we were given a room with an inadequate view – but with the added bonus of a nude display from the couple with the room with a view. And here we were now, entering the room of this couple. It all looked kosher and clean – but the best bit was not the size of the room – but the almost 180 degree view of Copacabana beach. We had arrived.

Margaret and I just stood at the window, people and beach watching for sometime, before realising that we had to ready ourselves to meet up with the depleted but remaining Rio Ring members. We rang Helen and Maurie and learned that they were going to a Samba bar in Lapa that evening. We agreed to meet up with Helen and Maurie in reception and then take a cab out to this bar which apparently was called Bar Brasil. We had read in the Lonely Planet, that Lapa while having some traditional Brazilian night spots, was a little on the shady side. The book warned to be very wary of your surroundings as petty crime was rife. With this in mind, we asked for the advice of the concierge. He flatly did not recommend that we go to Lapa, as he said it was not safe. This was even a stronger warning than the Lonely Planet. After some deliberation we decided we would brave it anyway, on the grounds there would be a few of us going. Indeed Margaret and I had just survived Rio’s largest Favela, so how dangerous could it possibly be?

We met Helen and Maurie shortly after and took the ten minute cab ride across town, passing through the borough of Flamengo and finally into Lapa. We asked our driver to take us to Bar Brasil, and after he took a turn down a dingy looking alley we became a little concerned. Soon enough though we came back onto the main street and arrived in front of Bar Brasil. It was shut. The only thing for it was to go into the lively bar opposite. We met Tom and Laura on the way in, and soon found a table at the top of the stairs. For a shady looking area, this particularly bar in Lapa had a very respectable looking clientele. (Of course I’m excluding our good selves here). The music was Samba and it was great to be amongst locals just to see how they spend a good night out.

Not only was the entertainment traditionally Brazilian, but so too was the fare. We had a great meal, during which Tom and Laura confirmed that they had booked themselves on a tour of Rocinho Favela the following day. They were anxious to hear our verdict. So for a good while we regaled our trip, and reaffirmed that it really wasn’t dangerous – provided of course you did the trip with the appropriate guide. We concluded our evening by dancing to the rhythmic Samba beat and dulcet tones of the female vocalist. Although we would be the first ones to tell anyone that we couldn’t dance, it didn’t seem to matter. Everyone in the bar was having a good time, and to use a bad cliché it was so-all about the participation.

We left the bar at closing time, and then took a stroll down the main street of Lapa – paying particular attention to the prostitutes who seemed to have come out of the wood work since we had gone inside. Some of the ladies of the night were clearly not ladies, and we took a quick circuit of the block just out of sheer fascination. Eventually we walked back down the street, through an archway which denotes the entrance to Lapa, and through an open-air bar/market area. We weren’t quite sure what it was to be honest – but there were hoards of Brazilians just out drinking and dancing. Some of the characters were shady looking, and so we were mindful of who was around us. But everything proved to be fine. We all hailed a taxi, and said our goodbyes to one another.

Arriving at the Excelsior and being in our Executive room was fantastic. We didn’t want to go to bed as we wanted to savour the floodlit view of Copacabana. We did this for a little while, but the events of the day, the Favela trip, the changing rooms and the Samba dancing in Lapa finally took their toll. If there was a fly on the wall, I’m sure he would have seen collective grins on the faces of Margaret and I as we both let sleep take hold of our beaming faces.

Saturday the 21^st June marked the beginning of our last weekend in Brazil and indeed our last weekend in South America. Given that we only had a little over two days left in Rio, Margaret and I had pretty much finished all of our obligatory sightseeing. All that remained to do now was to have a swim in the Atlantic and indeed Copacabana beach, followed by shopping and more pool side relaxing.

So it was that shortly after another scrumptious Excelsior breakfast Margaret and I lathered ourselves in sunscreen and made our way to the Excelsior Hotel designated area on Copacabana beach. We lazed on a deck chair for a little while, but as I was itching to have a swim in the surf, this proved to be short lived. The surf was extremely refreshing and not too cold, considering it was winter in the Southern Hemisphere. Come to think of it, I doubt very much Rio experiences any kind of cold to warrant it being dubbed winter.

The Copacabana surf while mild in temperature proved to be quite rough. There were a couple of shallow sand banks and on a number of occasions I was caught by surprise and unceremoniously dumped on the low lying sand. Still it was all good fun, but alas not enough to convince Margaret to enter the waters any higher than knee level. After taking a few knocks in the surf, I decided enough was enough and so Margaret and I relaxed on the deck chairs for a little while – people watching and reading. It was a little while, as it dawned on us both pretty quickly that we had a perfectly good pool on the top deck of our hotel, with food service and no sand. It wasn’t long before we were poolside once again lapping up the final days of luxury.

Copacabana Beach, Rio de Janeiro

Our relaxation ended about mid afternoon, when Margaret decided that there weren’t enough shopping days left for us in South America – so it was time to get serious. We had passed the large shopping complex Rio Sol a number of times in our taxi ventures to and fro from Copacabana – so Margaret knew exactly where we were heading. Within twenty minutes we were dressed and hailing a cab on the Copacabana strip to Rio’s answer to retail therapy.

Rio Sol is a huge shopping centre, and I guess it has everything for a woman with or without shopping deprivation. We were there a few hours, and by the time we left at 7pm, I was pining for the good old days of poolside chilling. Ironically, it was I that came away with more purchases than Margaret. What can I say? The jeans were an absolute bargain.

We arrived back at the Excelsior for about 8pm and had a message from Helen and Maurie that they would meet us in reception and then make our way to meet Jane and friends at a bar at the southern end of Copacabana. The bar was called Sobre das Ondes, and I instantly knew where this was given that it was one of the few bars that we had passed on our wild-goose taxi ride when first arriving in Rio. We met Helen and Maurie and proceeded to make our way down the strip via the Copacabana street side market. The market was interesting primarily for some of the paintings. We perused the market for a good while before finally making our way down the strip to Sobre das Ondes.

Sobre das Ondes is immediately recognisable, not for the flashing neon sign which emblazons its name, but more so for the large number of prostitutes that lurk in and around the outside bar area. We met Helen and Maurie just outside and decided to sit in this outdoors harem for the sake of people and prostitute watching. But we were soon bored of watching these Rio ladies of the night trying to lure their equally sleazy men. We were glad to learn that this seedy outdoors bar was not part of Sobre das Ondes, and we discovered this upon heading indoors to meet Jane and the rest of her new found hostel friends. 

The clientele inside were much more respectable than the people outside. In fact aside from our group I would say that most of the people in side were married couples. The music proved to be a mixture of jazz and disco, and was actually very entertaining – well, it had us all up dancing at the very least. I have to say though, that our group decided it was inappropriate to dance to the Brazilian anthem of elevator music – that is the Girl from Ipanema. It was out of pure respect, and we happily watched middle-aged Brazilian couples waltz to this fine melody.

As we left the bar we made arrangements for our final Rio rendezvous. We would all meet at Garota de Ipanema the following night for a drink before saying our goodbyes. So it was then that dodging hookers and sleazy blokes that we left Sobre das Ondes and made our way up the Copacabana strip to our hotels.

Our last full day in Rio de Janeiro had arrived. After breakfast, the first item on the day’s itinerary was shopping. We found ourselves in Rio Sol once more. Thankfully, this time, it was only a short visit though as the pool side at the Excelsior beckoned enticingly. So it was that our last day was largely spent relaxing poolside and by mid afternoon we decided we would have our last Rio venture – a visit to Ipanema beach.

We arrived at Ipanema in late afternoon, and it seemed our arrival heralded overcast and breezy conditions. The warmth of the Rio sun had disappeared, perhaps letting us down gently in preparation for our return to the Northern Hemisphere in a days time and the less than temperate Irish weather. We strolled along the Ipanema promenade for a short while, Margaret taking particular interest in some of the occasional sarong stalls along the way. Success! Margaret bought two sarongs. After this we made our way out onto the beach itself and then sat on the brink of the shoreline taking in the view of Gavea mountain to the south and the occasional beach footballer.

The afternoon darkened prematurely due to the grey skies, so we left the beach after a short while and made our way through the Ipanema streets in search of the Ipanema Sunday market. We found it easily enough, alas, and spent a good hour – much to my boredom – strolling around looking at all the artwork and Brazilian trinkets on display. We purchased nothing.

With the day’s activities concluded, it was time for dinner. Dinner was to be a little more upmarket this time. Margaret and I booked a table at the Copacabana Palace Restaurant. This was part of the very plush looking 5-star Copacabana Palace hotel. For the first time in a good while, Margaret and I dressed up to the nines to look the part for the restaurant. Indeed the Copacabana Palace was a fine establishment. We were not surprised to learn that room prices started at around $400 US dollars per night. To get to the restaurant we had to negotiate the flood lit Olympic size swimming pool. It was very impressive, and we also learnt that Arnold Schwarznegger had once stayed here. Well, weren’t we suitably impressed. Our request to the Maitre D to sit at the restaurant table where Arnie once sat, was met with a haughty decline. Okay, I’m joking I didn’t really ask this. Dinner proved to very appetizing, very plush and had the price to suit. Still, it was a great way to cap off our Rio stay and indeed our entire South America trip.

After a relaxing and memorable dinner, Margaret and I made our way back to Ipanema and once again to the Garota de Ipanema to meet up with Helen and Maurie, Tom, Laura, Jane and friends. They were all there when we arrived and so we had a quick drink before saying cheerio. However, this wasn’t to be our final official farewell, well at least not for Helen and Jane. Helen was on the same Iberian flight as both Margaret and I, well at least on the Rio to Madrid leg, and Jane’s flight was leaving Rio airport at the same time as our flight. Our final farewells then were to Maurie Gartland (“Benny Hill”), who was staying in Rio for a few more days, and also to some of Jane’s hostel friends.

We had a relatively early night. Our minds were now focused on leaving Rio and South America and for that awful eventuality that is reality. Our evening concluded with the usual bustle that comes with packing, and Margaret and I stole a final few moments of people watching from our panoramic hotel window before eventually retiring for the evening. Alas, our South American sojourn was almost at an end.

And so the end has come. There are no more South American stories and bizarre anecdotes to regale. Our taxi collected us at 10am from the Excelsior and we arrived at the International Airport in Rio without incident. We checked in, did some shopping and bade our final farewells to Jane Hill (“FHM!”). Jane was on a flight to Santiago, Chile but coincidentally was sharing the same departure lounge as Margaret and I and as too of course was Helen Wright (“Cilla”) who was indeed on the same flight as us to Madrid.

Our flight was on time, and so we left the shores of a sunny Rio de Janeiro and the South American continent for Madrid. It was in the early hours of a Spanish morning then, that the Rio Ring was finally and truly wrought asunder, when Helen having a connecting flight to London bade farewell to Margaret and I. After Helen left, Margaret and I waited patiently for our Iberian connection to Dublin.

The Iberian airways plane touching down in Dublin marked the end of an incredible journey for Margaret and I. Before leaving Sydney for South America, we had had so many reservations about the continent. Political strife, drug trafficking, kidnappings, diseases, altitude, anacondas, and piranhas. But, despite all this, South America is a continent not to be missed. The land abounds in both awe filling natural beauty and memorable experiences that we will both treasure forever.

Of course our cross continent trip from Lima to Rio would not have been the experience it was, for not the great organisation of our tour leader, Dany Torres from Tucan Travel, and of course for the many friends we made on the way – yes those Rio Ringers. So long all and thanks for all the cachasa.

Saõ Paulo to Rio de Janeiro, Brazil

"When my baby! When my baby smiles at me – I go to Rio"

I GO TO RIO – Peter Allen

The coach journey from Saõ Paulo to Rio was very similar in content to what we had experienced the day earlier when journeying from Curitiba. The major differences this time round, being that the journey was a fraction shorter at six hours, and of course our ultimate destination was the much more inspiring and alluring Rio de Janeiro. The coach left a bustling Saõ Paulo station on the button at 9:00am. Again the journey was fairly non-descript. Trundling up the freeway, we eventually left the city limits of Saõ Paulo, and after a few hours stopped at another road-side service centre for the obligatory Brazilian buffet lunch.

After hitting the road once more, our anticipation began to heighten. Margaret and I had a competition going, to see who could spot the acclaimed Christ the Redeemer statue first. From photographs we had seen of Rio, it seemed that this was a dominant feature of the Rio landscape, and so we had visions that this would eventually loom on the horizon, standing majestically on its mountainous peak. However, our search proved fruitless, for even as the terrain began to change to the more tropical green and undulating landscape that heralds an arrival in Rio, this legendary landmark did not reveal itself.

So it was then, that after finally arriving in Rio and frantically gazing out the coach window at the looming stark peaks that form part of the Rio escarpment, we still could not see Christ the Redeemer. In fact, by the time we had arrived at the bus station, the only telltale sign that we were in Rio was the fact that we had passed a cordoned off stretch off road, that was edged on both sides by stadium seating. This was part of the route for the Rio Carnivale celebrations. Failing that, the only other indication we had arrived in Rio, were the road signs and of course the signage at the coach station.

Bundled into hurtling taxis again and on route to our hotel, we were quickly engulfed by the hustle and bustle of another large Brazilian city. Despite the heavy traffic, it was exhilarating being driven through downtown Rio. The afternoon was glorious, bright, sunny and warm. At one point during the drive, I finally caught a glimpse of at least one Rio landmark. The Paõ de Azucar, or the Sugar Loaf as it is known in English, occasionally loomed its domed countenance – but alas still no Christ the Redeemer statue. The latter I would have to wait for, as our taxi pulled up outside our hotel. The Hotel Regina, on Rua Ferreira Viana is in the Flamengo borough of Rio and this was to be the last accommodation provided by our tour operator – Tucan. Officially, after tonight, we were on our own again as far as travel arrangements were concerned. Margaret and I though, had booked an additional night at the Regina, after which we would then relocate to the more prestigious borough of Copacabana in a mere two days time.

On first inspection the Hotel Regina seemed fine and our room, while plain in décor, was clean and comfortable. The only noticeable flaws was that one of the corridors leading to our room was clearly being refurbished, and in an adjoining corridor were revealed bare concrete walls and beyond tell tale signs of heavy construction work. We thought nothing of it, and our only complaints would have been that the room safe was cumbersome to use, and the room didn’t have a view. As we had arrived at the hotel in the late afternoon, Margaret and I had some time to ourselves before we would be rejoining the Rio Ring later in the evening, for our last supper together.

We ventured to the end of the Rua and then left to explore downtown Flamengo. Despite the late afternoon it was still extremely busy with traffic and people. We were both quite wary of our personal security as we walked along. It proved to be quite safe though. We found a photo shop, and after flirting with Portuguese (that’s the language not the people) we managed to hand over some negatives for one hours developing. The negatives we were using were given to us by Dany. Dany had taken some great photos since acquiring his SLR camera in Ciudad del Este, and he had graciously given Margaret and I the negatives so that we could have some of the prints for ourselves. After successfully submitting the negatives, we found a nearby Internet café to while away the hour or so before the photos would be ready. We were actually under some time pressure to get the photos printed, because after this evening our ever helpful tour guide and South American mentor, Dany Torres would be leaving Rio, to do the same trip – but in reverse, with yet another group of young travellers. With our email checked, and photos acquired, Margaret and I returned to the hotel to freshen up for our last night out as a group.

Relaxed, clean and in anticipation of a big night out in Rio we met up with the rest of the group as planned in the foyer of the hotel for about 7:30pm. All were there as expected, as well as an interloper. Well actually technically he wasn’t. The additional person was Brian, one of the original Hardcore Hoard who had left the group after their Inca Trail trek in Cusco – way back in May. Brian was regaling his post Cusco stories to those few in the Rio Ring who could truly lay claim to being an official Hardcore Hoard member. Prior to leaving, Dany took down names for those who wanted to partake in a tour of the city the following day. Most of the group elected to do this, with the exception of the besotted Kim (“Stand By Your Man”) and Dan (“The Man”), who had opted to do their own sight seeing in view of the fact that they were both leaving for opposite ends of the globe the following day. Ian had also opted not to do the tour on the grounds that he wanted to spend his last day or two soaking up the suns rays on a Rio beach. It seemed Helen Wright (“Cilla”) had won their ongoing tanning competition and Ian was gunning for an appeal. For those taking the tour tomorrow, the itinerary would take in the Corcovado, the name given to the momentous Rio peak that hosts that apparently elusive sight of the Christ the Redeemer statue. After this visit, we would be then heading up to the other lofty height of the Paõ de Azucar – or Sugar Loaf Mountain – and then later in the afternoon our tour would finish with a visit to the mecca of Brazilian football – Maracana stadium. With this feast of an itinerary to look forward to, our group excitedly left the hotel for our Rio finale.

Our final group dinner was to be at the La Meridian Hotel restaurant in Copacabana. The celebrated Rio beach was apparently a short, ten minute taxi ride across town from Flamengo and the Hotel Regina – well, this was the estimate given by Dany. Unfortunately, insufficient taxis arrived at the Regina for the group and so this meant that Maurie, Ian, and I were left waiting for a taxi while the rest of the group including Margaret headed off Copacabana bound. What ensued was nothing short of a debacle. A taxi did eventually arrive for us, and a few minutes after we had piled into the cab, it became apparent that the driver didn’t have a clue. In fact he later claimed it was his first night. The confusion erupted when after arriving at the Copacabana strip we learnt that our driver did not know the name of the restaurant we were going to, and nor in fact had either of us lads had the foresight to pay attention to Dany. Cruising down Copacabana beach we all had our eyes peeled at the several hotels and restaurant in the vain hope of spotting someone from our group. We didn’t spot anyone. In short we were scuppered.

After more aimless meandering through some side streets of Copacabana, the taxi driver returned to the main beach strip again, and after a while veered the cab onto a median strip, where a couple of petrol bowsers were. He implored the owner of the makeshift petrol station to use his phone, but he was declined. Reluctantly, the driver then decided to use his mobile – apparently he didn’t want to pay for a call. I’m not quite sure how we made it, but after some coaxing from Maurie the driver rang the Hotel Regina – who fortunately had since received a message from a concerned Dany. To our relief then our Rio cabbie had finally been given directions, and we eventually arrived at the La Meridian restaurant to join the rest of the group – about half an hour after everyone else. Dany was in the foyer waiting for us, and he ushered us into the lifts to the fourteenth floor where the restaurant was situated. The setting was fantastic. The hotel was clearly more up market than the lowly Hotel Regina, the appointments were plush, and the view was to die for. From our vantage point we had a panoramic view of the flood-lit Copacabana beach. Only if our hotel room had a view like this I contemplated – still we did have the Excelsior hotel to look forward to, which according to Dany was very salubrious and right on Copacabana beach. We rejoined the group and got stuck into dinner and toasts.

Perhaps the best of the toasts came from young Horst. As with his performances on tour the group was not to be disappointed. In his inimitable German style, he alluded to the unprecedented number of amorous couplings on the tour, and apologised to Maurie for his snoring. If truth be told though, I would say that the formerly shy and mild mannered Maurie fell under the influence of Horst’s uncanny ability to lure a woman. Alas, Maurie would be losing a mentor in the next few days. Still, he had got the girl – namely Helen Wright (“Cilla”).

With the evening’s formalities aside, we polished off dessert and some Kir Royals* before making our way to reception for the evening’s entertainment. We were off to a Night Club, entitled Cozumel in the Botannical Gardens borough of Rio. All of the group were in attendance this time given it was our groups swan song. The quality of taxi drivers from the more up-market Hotel La Meridien was noticeable as we arrived at our destination without any fuss. The club looked pretty trendy from the outside, and we had an abundance of time to marvel at it’s exterior, as we queued for fifteen minutes – before eventually being allowed in the crowded bar. Again, the same payment system was in order as that club in Curitba. We paid an entry fee first, and were then issued with a drinks card.

* Kir Royal: That would be Champagne and Crème de Cassis (blackcurrant liqueur)

Our last night out was enjoyable, but for me it was not as memorable as our night out in Uyuni. Still, there were a few notable moments. One in particular was not easy to forget. Ian who no doubt having missed out on some of the clubbing hijinks in Curitiba was in fine form. On one occasion while queuing for the toilet his keen eye had noted that the adjacent lavatory door to the ladies, when swung open, revealed its occupant in all of their glory. So, naturally, Ian having a digital camera handy took a photo of one girl pulling up her skirt in a none too flattering position. Needless to say, she was unimpressed and made a complaint to the bouncer. Somehow Ian managed not to be ejected from the premises. Another highlight of the evening was watching Horst get progressively drunk – and perhaps a little amorous. And of course Alpaca Alan sported the straw for posterity, and again strutted his stuff amongst the young and beautiful clientele of the Cozumel – and it goes without saying the young and beautiful of the Rio Ring. The evening concluded with a few arguments over the bar tab. Some of the bar staff had clearly been over counting with the drinks orders. Much to our relief all of the orders were finally settled, and so Margaret and I found ourselves in a taxi on route back to the Hotel Regina – and I have to say I was a little drunk.

I woke with my head pounding to the excruciating resonance of a jackhammer. What the hell was going on? Hangovers aren’t usually that bad. My head hurt, I was dehydrated and it quickly became apparent that the concrete mess that had passed for a corridor the day before was ripe with the sounds of workman going about their day. It was about 9:30am, and both Margaret and I were astounded at the racket. Yes, it was exacerbated by the fact that I had a pounding hang over – but still it was ridiculous. What was worse was that the cleaning ladies who were doing their morning rounds had to overcompensate for the noise of the machinery, and were overtly vociferous in their morning chatter. It was fortunate for all concerned in the Hotel Regina that morning, that my Berlitz guide to Portuguese did not have the words “Shove that jackhammer where the sun don’t shine, por favor”.

Not being able to sleep, and indeed knowing full well that we had to be up for the start of our 11am Rio excursion, Margaret and I showered and then precariously made our way up a couple of floors to the dining room. There a breakfast spread awaited although I didn’t have much of it. Horst showed himself within a few minutes, and I was encouraged to see that this sprightly 71 year old was human after all. He too was suffering from a hangover, and he conceded that the Panadol was now kicking in. I struggled with drinking some fruit juice, which I had to bin, because what appeared to be pineapple juice actually was some other disgusting Brazilian concoction. I gagged at the taste of it, and flayed for something to cleanse my palate of this noxious liquid. Margaret was fine though – she was clearly not the lightweight that I was and was functioning as normal.

Feeling less than normal I made my way with Margaret to the hotel reception to meet the rest of the group who were taking the tour. As we came out of the lift, we bumped into Dany. Our tour had officially ended at mid-day today, and wasting no time Dany was about to embark on yet another tour; clearly making final arrangements for inducting a new Tucan group. No rest for the wicked. It was a sad farewell; Dany had been a great source of entertainment, and not to mention wealth of knowledge for the entire trip. Farewells dispensed with our local guide arrived on time with his van. As many in the group were feeling the same as I, we all implored the driver to stop outside a 7-11 before going much further to grab a drink. Margaret, being the very supportive girlfriend she is, ventured into the shop and came back with a Mars Bar and can of Coke. Excellent, something I can readily digest. The chocolate bar went down well, and after a few minutes driving through undulating downtown Rio, the coke went down well too – all down my shirt in fact. Double excellent! Margaret just laughed at the foaming brown stain on my white shirt – her sympathy supply clearly having exhausted after she had left the 7-11.

Queasy and with my stomach in a self imposed clench, I dug deeply and embraced the many more undulations of Rio’s streets. I tried to take in some of the surrounds, particularly as we started to climb the remarkable Corcovado mountain. There are two modes of transport for the Corcovado. You can drive or alternatively you can take the cog railway. I would have gladly left the nauseating mini-bus for the much gentler climb of an open air railway but it wasn’t to be. We had quite a tight schedule for the day, so the bus it would have to be. It took just shy of half an hour for the mini-bus to climb the winding pass to the top of the Corcovado. This was not surprising, given that according to the Lonely Planet, the Corcovado – which, incidentally, is Portuguese for Hunchback – towers over Rio at a height of 710 metres. Upon arriving in the car-park, we found ourselves at the tourist centre, which stands at the foot of a huge concrete plinth, atop of which stands that seemingly elusive but nonetheless imposing figure of Christ.

Before climbing the several flights of stairs to the statue, I had another important matter to attend to. I had to go shopping. Thank Christ for souvenir shops I thought. After a quick perusal I found a reasonably stylish T-shirt emblazoned with the Brazilian flag and sporting those ubiquitous words of Brasil across the front. Off came the cola laced top, and on went the clean one! Almost at once I felt a little more human. I made a mental note to thank Christ for my good fortune when I found myself at the base of the statue. With extra vigour in my step, Margaret and I ascended the stairs and then eventually circled the base of the statue to find ourselves on the concrete plateau which seemingly juts out over the very verge of the Corcovado itself. Finally, the glory of Rio was revealed. Despite there being a pall of light brown smog enshrouding the city, the panorama still proved amazing.

The expansive Rio de Janeiro resides on the massive turquoise blue Guanabara bay. It was this bay that is indirectly attributed to the unusual name of the city. Rio de Janeiro means January River in English, and was named as such, given that the explorer at the time discovering the entrance to the bay in the month of January, thought he had found the mouth of a large river. Despite him being wrong about the geography, the name stuck. To our left, one of Rio’s main airports could be seen, and following our line of sight clockwise, the towering Paõ de Azucar was a looming presence above the smog in the distance and then farther around to our right the boroughs of Flamengo, Copacabana and the famous Ipanema. The beaches of all these districts were impressive – the azure Atlantic Ocean and slow crumbling surf looking particularly inviting. We must have spent thirty minutes in total at the Corcovado gazing at the remarkable vista, and also at the impressive towering figure of Christ the Redeemer. It was difficult to believe that we were actually atop one of the most famous sites in the world. We really had to pinch ourselves. It was with my hangover subsiding and on the verge of forgotten that we descended the steps of Christ the Redeemer to out waiting mini-van. Next stop was the other towering Rio landmark – the Paõ de Azucar – aka Sugar Loaf mountain.

It was about an hours journey from the time we left the top of the Corcovado, descending its winding pass, and then negotiating the morning’s heavy traffic through downtown Rio arriving at the Paõ de Azucar. As we approached, the sheer size and shape of this mountain became apparent. Like a monolithic bookend it jutted out of the ground skywards in a colossus of sheer faced rock. The rounded dome of the rock was covered in some greenery, and rumour had it that there was a walking trail which would allow you to scale it. This seemed like an impossible feat, and it became apparent how we were to get to the top shortly after out mini-bus pulled into the car-park of the funicular station.

To ascend the 396 metre height of Paõ de Azucar requires taking two cable cars. The first cable car was a piece of cake. The glass enclosed car slowly takes you

Paõ de Azucar: Sugar Loaf Mountain

Christ the Redeemer: Corcovado

from the tourist centre at the car-park level to the top of a small plateau, Morro da Urca – which stands at 215 metres in height. The plateau contains a good number of restaurants and cafes – which were unusually quiet despite arriving during lunch-time hour. We all opted to grab a bite to eat before taking the next cable-car across the oblivion to the Sugar Loaf. It seemed there were a number of us that needed to feed our hangovers. But after deliberating over what table to sit at in the main restaurant, we all decided that we didn’t have enough time to wait for this clearly short-staffed eatery to ply us with a greasy meal. Instead we wandered outside, and opted to order a burger from a nearby café. This was the business. The sun was bright and warm, and so we sat outside taking in the amazing scenery. To our left downtown Rio and Flamengo were visible, and across the way was the now glistening Guanabara bay. We took great interest in watching several aeroplanes fly over the Corcovado, making their sweeping turns over the Guanabara Bay and then descending to the airport which skirted the blue waters.

While we were eating, who should show up but a few wayward members of the Rio Ring. Dan and Kim, hands interlocked were taking a romantic jaunt along the walkway below us, and were on their way up to the Sugarloaf. Dan was leaving Rio later that evening, so the love-smitten couple were spending their final moments together. They dropped in and had a quick chat with the rest of us, who by this stage were happily gorging burgers and chips. Thereafter, who should join us, but Dany Torres with a few members of his newly inducted Tucan tribe. Dany, despite losing the best travel group he’d ever had, was in fine form, clearly happy to be soaking up the Rio sun.  Shortly after Dany’s arrival we all decided that we best make a move, and get to the top of the Sugar Loaf, given it was ticking on for mid-afternoon and we still had Maracana stadium to visit.

From Morro da Urca we had another short walk via the main restaurant through to the next cable-car stanchion. The journey was a little more frightening this time round, and is probably not for people who are partial to vertigo. Our entire group piled into a cable-car for the second time in the day, and we immediately began glancing downwards as we made the further two hundred metre climb to the top of Sugar Loaf. The view from the cable car was magnificent. Shortly after leaving the cable-car starting point, the view behind us revealed Copacabana beach, and the Corcovado with Christ statue silhouetted in the afternoon soon. I have to ask though, what is it with cable cars, that whenever you are within the final few metres of your destination, there is a completely unnecessary whine from the engine and an equally unnecessary rocking of the car before you’re finally hauled over a seemingly unreachable precipice to the safety of terra firma once more?? Apparently this is a well documented phenomenon and is referred to as Funicular Fright, but is also known in phobia circles as the Cable-car Cataclysm. To the lay-person though, this phenomenon is more readily accepted as simply being Shit Scared. Thankfully our Funicular Fright was short lived and I still live to write this tale.

The views from Paõ de Azucar were as equally spectacular as that from Corcovado. In fact, our experience was slightly better than the higher vantage point of Corcovado, given that some of the smog had lifted, and the burger gristle had appeased my gut clench leaving me feeling human again. Given that most of the Rio Ring were present and accounted for, we decided to take some final group photos. Kim and Dan had left earlier so they were not present, and of course Ian was lazing on a beach somewhere. So, with the assistance of a number of Dany’s new recruits, there was a final flurry of camera shutters and our group, albeit a few heads down, was immortalised for the last time with the glorious back drop of Guanabara bay and the bronzed countenance of Dany – Slut Puppy.

It was with some reluctance that our group left the Sugar Loaf, and making our way to the Cable Car we said farewell again to Dany. The cable car was not as ominous the second time around. After another ten minutes had passed we descended successfully to the tourist plateau that was Morro de Urca. Shortly after, we were descending again, as we took the remaining cable car to the car-park below. Having caught wind of the influx of tourists, a hoard of Rio locals greeted us in the car-park hawking football shirts, flags, and other Brazilian paraphernalia. We spent some time declining profusely these pushy salesman, who even had the gall to stick their wares through the windows of the mini-bus. The key was not to look them in the eye. As soon as you do that, then you can expect to be accosted for the next thirty minutes. Fortunately, we had an escape plan. Our mini-bus driver returned and after some final coaxing with some stragglers in our group, we were hurtling through downtown Rio – this time to the home of Brazilian football – the renowned Maracana stadium.

Maracana stadium lays claim to being the largest football (soccer) stadium in the world. This may well have been the case twenty years ago, when crowd control was not considered, but nowadays I doubt this holds true. In the heyday of Pele, the Maracana could pack in a whopping 120,000 punters, but now due to safety precautions the stadium would be lucky to exceed a capacity of 80,000. Nonetheless the stadium proved to be an impressive sight – its immense concrete façade greeted us as our trusty mini-bus swung into the expansive parking lot. A number of us had a clear agenda for the Maracana visit. Sure, we were going to do a tour of the stadium, but most importantly we would have the opportunity to visit the merchandise shop.

First up though was the tour. Prior to purchasing the tickets we came across the Maracana walk of fame. There was a concrete pavement which had immortalised the footprints of many a Brazilian football hero. The most notable for me were Pele and Romario*. After buying our tickets we spent some time on the first level foyer taking in the many photographs and historical accounts of the many memorable matches that had taken place in the stadium. I took some timeout to enquire of one of the officials about the likelihood of taking in a match. He advised that there was a match between the local Rio team Flamengo, and Cruzeiro the following day, and on the Saturday night there was another match between Fluminense and Guarani. Hmm, I thought that latter name sounds a little Paraguayan. The young Brazilian chap was pretty helpful and advised that there was still availability at these matches, so I took down the details and returned to the rest of the group.

* My knowledge of pre Ronaldo Brazilian football does not go past Pele and Romario I’m afraid.

It was at this point that we were all ushered into an elevator, which was manned by a stern looking local woman – whose demeanour suggested “No fecking around por favor”. Our first stop was the dressing room level. We piled out, and wandered through a subterranean world of concrete tunnels and player dressing rooms. After a few minutes wandering around these rooms we took a few photos and then proceeded back to the elevator to go up another level. – hoping that we may actually get to view the stadium itself. We weren’t to be disappointed. The next level up in the elevator opened up to a short corridor which lead the group out into the open-air of the expansive stadium. It was a huge stadium, not quite as impressive as Stadium Australia I thought – but nonetheless the backdrop of the Rio escarpment was spectacular. Even the Christ the Redeemer status was visible in the distance. We spent a short while here, traversing the multi-coloured tiered terraces vainly attempting to do justice of the stadium size with the camera. Camera angles spent we then descended back to the foyer and the merchandise shop. As with all players merchandise throughout the world, the expensive prices at Maracana were no exception to the rule. Still, that didn’t prevent me from buying the away-kit of the Flamengo team.

As we left Maracana, we were all a buzz with our purchases and for the most part at the prospect of going to a match. We agreed that we would all try and arrange to get tickets for the following days evening match between Flamengo and Cruzeiro. Some in the group had been informed by Dany that the Hotel Regina arranges football match tickets. So it was then, that as the evening descended on Rio, we arrived back at the Hotel Regina to collectively book tickets for the match. It was actually a reasonably good deal. A tour company would pick us up from the hotel, ferry us to the match, and then supply us with concourse tickets. Thankfully, despite the fact that Margaret and I were upgrading our hotel the following day the tour company were not affiliated with the Hotel Regina so they were more than willing to pick us up from our new hotel the following evening.

The evening saw us exchange another set of goodbyes with departing members from our group. Father and son Alpaca Alan and Ian (“Baby Alpaca”) Chamings were leaving Rio the following day, and based upon our itinerary, Margaret and I would not have the opportunity to see them again. Yet another poignant farewell! Both Alan and Ian were entertaining travel companions, and there was a tear or two shed, (not from me though) through a volley of departing embraces. So the Rio Ring was now irrevocably asunder. Gone were our illustrious leader Dany, followed by our romance rediscovering duet of Dan (“The Man”) and Kim (“Stand By Your Man”), and now Alan and Ian. Still, there were still a good number of us to give Rio a mighty good shake.

Maracana Walk of Fame

So then, a busy day of farewells and sightseeing in Rio came to a conclusion. Margaret and I elected to have a lazy night in. We were both extremely exhausted with the day’s gallivanting and the previous evening’s shenanigans. We retired early, both bracing ourselves for the onset of the Hotel Regina’s morning cacophony, and also looking forward to moving to our 4-star hotel on Copacabana beach – and of course the prospect of having a room with that much awaited magnificent view.

Despite the Hotel Regina’s efforts to wake the dead, Margaret and I fought the barrage of noise – tossing, turning and groaning like zombies possessed. Eventually we did succumb to the symphony – the echoing high pitched voices from the chamber-maids rose steadily in competition with the bellowing from the workman, the latter of which having at least the decency to lose his jackhammer up his back passage, given the anguish within my telepathic message from the morning before. So at 10:30am, we could stand it no longer – it was a case of let’s get up, stuff the breakfast and get across town to the more aspiring residence of the Hotel Excelsior on Copacabana beach.

Within half an hour we were packed and checking out of this acoustically challenged hotel. Hailing a taxi our farewell to the Hotel Regina was barely perfunctory and we thought no more of the Regina as we hurtled through the bustling streets of Flamengo in the direction of that much sought after beach – Copacabana. Arriving in the foyer of the Excelsior was almost as good as arriving home. It was clearly a very up-market hotel judging by the décor of the foyer, and too the professionalism of the staff. After checking in, we had the additional luxury of having our packs attended to by the Bell Hop. We had not seen this kind of service – since – well actually we could not recall having this service from any hotel we had stayed in – in all of our time in South America.

We were buoyant at this point but there was a dampener. We were informed at the desk, that our room unfortunately would not have a view. However, the girl on reception did value our custom, and kindly suggested that there would be an excellent opportunity for an upgrade to an executive room – with view of Copacabana beach in the next two days. We had five nights at the Excelsior so this seemed good enough for us. All we need do was check in with the manager over the next day or so regarding the prospects of an upgrade.

Our room was on the twelfth floor, and tucked away in a seemingly forgotten corner of the hotel. It was small, but very plush and thankfully very quiet. We rationalised the disappointment in view – which incidentally was the white-washed inner concrete wall of the hotel – by reminding ourselves we would not be spending that much time in the room. Within a short while then we had settled ourselves, and it was time to explore the various amenities of the hotel. For one, the roof-top swimming pool was high on the agenda. We were not disappointed.

Sun drenched, with blue water rippled by a soft Atlantic breeze the pool was surprisingly empty. Only a handful of hotel guests were on the roof-top and most electing to make the most of the Brazilian sun while catching up on their reading. Margaret and I quickly joined them – not before checking out the magnificent view though. At the edge of the roof the panorama was brilliant. Azure Atlantic for almost 180 degrees and then like an exquisite picture frame the ocean panorama was edged by a people pocked golden beach, a line of Palm trees and then bordered further by the wave patterned sidewalk – which is distinctly Copacabana. It just reaffirmed we had arrived in Rio.

From the grand height of the Excelsior roof-top I must have sat people watching for almost an hour before finally giving in to the still empty but inviting pool. So the afternoon proved to be a relaxing one – interrupted only by the turning of a page in a good book, and the receiving of food and drinks from the exceptional pool side bar service. It was extremely tough. By mid afternoon we returned to the room. I wanted to avail of the free Internet on the bottom floor of the hotel, and Margaret just wanted to chill in the room for a bit. While I was busy having my long awaited cyber injection in the hotel conference room, Margaret did her pottering thing, and her only interruption was hearing a knock on the door. On opening to see who it could be, she noticed that it was actually a guy knocking on the door to the room opposite. The door was opened by a girl, and so Margaret gave a polite hello to the couple and then returned to do whatever it is girls do when they have fallen in the lap of near luxury for the first time in almost three months.

This may seem like an unnecessary event to mention – but it does bear relevance when taking into context what happened later in the afternoon. I returned to the room about half an hour later to freshen up, as the evening was approaching, and we were due to be going to our planned football match later on. After I had been in the room about ten minutes or so, there was a knock on the door. I opened the door, expecting perhaps a hotel staff member to offer us some information on the hotel’s other services, or even better that there was an Executive room available for us to move into – but instead what faced me was a blonde woman, circa mid thirties wearing a pink dress and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Definitely not hotel staff I thought, while I returned the smile and gave a questioning “yes”. Bizarrely, the girl did not respond. She just stood there and grinned, and I just smiled awkwardly. The grinning stand off was interrupted by what I thought was the sound of a photo being taken, and it was then that I turned towards my right, looking down the corridor in the direction of the noise. I was not prepared for what I saw. It would seem that our room did come with a view after all. A fully naked, bronzed Latino man was standing to attention in a dimly lit alcove. When I say standing to attention, I mean he was standing erect. Like the Statue of David on heat, this man stood as brazen as, well, I guess as brazen as a Brazilian at Rio Carnival with his phallus fully primed. There was a stifled giggle from the man, and I saw no more. No I didn’t faint. Like a stunned mullet, I said “cheers for that” and re-entered our room, calmly shutting the door behind me. And all during this, that girl didn’t utter a word. She just kept grinning. Was that what Peter Allen meant, when he sang “When my baby smiles at me… I go to Rio”?

In hindsight I should have delivered a wittier comment than “cheers for that”. That was the best I could come up with at the time. Clearly I could not perform as well under pressure, as the big dick standing in the corridor. If I had my time again, I would have had raised my little pinky to the corner of my mouth, Dr Evil style, and quipped “I guess you would be the Door Knob”. Sensing something was up, so-to-speak, Margaret enquired who was at the door. I said “you’re not gonna believe what I just saw. It’s just as well you didn’t answer the door”. I then regaled to Margaret what I saw. She was as stunned as I, and then this resolved itself into hysterical laughter. We began putting two and two together. Margaret told me that she had seen the couple enter their room earlier in the afternoon, after mistakenly taking the noise opposite the room for a knock on our door. So, we reasoned that this couple had probably thought “why not play a prank on the girl in the room opposite”. They probably were a little disappointed that I answered – but I could assure them that they lost nothing in shock factor. After some further thought about the situation, we began to reason that we actually had some lewd leverage for upgrading our room. We would need to clarify this with Excelsior management though: when we wanted a room with a view, we actually were after an ocean view and not one that required parental guidance.

Leaving the Excelsior porn-star suite we decided to grab a bite to eat in a café on the Copacabana strip, before our 7pm pick up from the Maracana coach. As we passed through the foyer of the hotel, I pointed out to Margaret that the happy couple were actually sitting in a sofa a few yards from the front desk. Graciously they were both fully clothed, but what was most interesting was that they were wearing the same thing – airline uniforms. I wasn’t sure what airline it was although I pondered whether it was RLAA, otherwise known as Risque Latin American Airways. Not quite certain how to pitch our upgrade argument to the hotel management, we quickly left the foyer into the open street in search of a quick bite to eat.

A full stomach and an hour or so did nothing for our courage to approach management over our mental trauma. We decided we would discuss it with some members of the Rio Ring, who we would be meeting later when the coach came to collect us. The coach arrived a little later than expected – and no doubt we felt the wait given that we were both bursting at the seams to get our exciting story off our chests. We boarded the coach and quickly spotted the familiar faces of our travelling companions. Helen (“Cilla”) and Maurie (“Benny Hill”), having moved into the honeymoon suite of a hotel that was a few notches further up the acceptable level than the Regina were both beaming. Yet, another thriving Tucan relationship it would seem! Accompanying them were Helen (“Hot Lips”), and Glenn (“Bite My Legs”). Alas though it appeared their fling had come to an end as they were seated separately. Also attending the football were Joanne (“Quick Draw Macaw”), Jane (“FHM”), and Anne (“Bite My Ass”), and of course the ever present Incredible Horst .

After exchanging our hellos I quickly enlightened Helen and Maurie about the afternoon’s events. They were all in hysterics, and Helen quickly reinforced that this was definitely room upgrade material. In fact, she said, that if we didn’t want to argue the point, then she would happily do it for us. The conviction of Margaret and I were steeled by Helen’s apparent expertise in the situation, and so we both agreed that we would approach the hotel management later that night after returning from the football.

Out attention then was diverted for a little while. We were off to watch a truly Brazilian and indeed South American religious event. Football! In fact the local Rio club, Flamengo was taking on Cruzeiro –a club from Saõ Paulo. To make the stakes for the night a little more interesting, our tour guide and host for the evening decided to have a pool going. The person who picked the correct score would win a Brazilian national football shirt. I opted for the conservative 2-1 to the home team Flamengo. I had no info on the form of the two teams, but alas it was a home game for Flamengo. The journey to Maracana passed quickly as the remainder of the Rio Ring, having only been parted for twenty-four hours seemed to have endless tales to tell. The most notable point about tonight though, would be that we would have to say goodbye to yet another tour member. Yes, the “HHHB” man himself, Horst would be leaving Rio the next day for Sydney, via a short jaunt to Buenos Aires. The football was excellent. The standard was very high quality. I would say that my judgement in quality football is not widely recognised amongst people who know me. I’m not quite sure why – although rumour has it that it may have something to do with me supporting the perpetually mid-placed, middle of the road, Midlands team, Aston Villa. Nonetheless, I thought the standard was high, and the players seemed to be lightning quick and sharp on the ball. The only player who I had heard of was Romario, who despite no longer being in the Brazilian national team, was still playing for Flamengo. The atmosphere of the half-filled Maracana was electric, and the half-time entertainment while still containing the obligatory under-8s football relays, also saw an aging Brazilian man bounce a football on the tip of his boot for the entire length of halftime – without once miscuing the ball with a wayward boot. The halftime entertainment was not just reserved for the pitch though, a few Brazilian lads were practising their ball-skills on the concourse. One typically athletic and bronzed Brazilian lad looked like he was mimicking a scene from Sea World, by balancing the ball on his nose and head in seal-like fashion.

Half time entertainment – Maracana Stadium

The match concluded in a 3-0 result to Flamengo. Excellent, the home team had won, and I had bought their shirt. Perhaps I do have an appreciation of football quality after all. Actually, no, I may have bought the shirt, but fearing how the rival fans in the crowd may take to my Flamengo colours, I opted to leave the shirt in the hotel. Glenn, however, had the guts to put his money where his mouth was and sported his Flamengo strip proudly.

With our Maracana football match over, we returned to the coach, and in doing so sadly bade goodbye to Horst. HHHB was staying at another hotel, and was returning on another coach. My last recollections of the magnificent Horst were the remaining of our group waving from the coach as he queued for his ride home. Another Rio Ringer bites the dust. Sadly our time in South America was drawing to a close.

Margaret and I returned to the Excelsior for about 11pm, and after a volley of supportive comments from Helen regarding the upgrade of our room, Margaret and I entered the foyer with the steely resolve to collect our dues. The staff on reception had changed since the early evening, and so there were no familiar faces on the desk. We walked up to the desk, and I asked to speak to the manager. The smartly dressed Brazilian man behind the counter said he was the acting manager, and so I said that I had a complaint to make. I beat about the bush a little bit, as I didn’t want to be too colourful with my language, but the gist of what I said was

“Um, we had a man expose himself in the corridor outside the room this afternoon. This is not acceptable. We would like to take the room upgrade that the girl we saw this morning mentioned would be on offer shortly. Can you tell us, when we’ll be upgraded because we’re concerned about the people opposite?”

I found it quite awkward trying to convey the situation to this guy, especially when he didn’t flinch after I said that a man had exposed himself. In hindsight though, the word exposed was probably not an expression that a Brazilian would hear on a daily basis, and so my plea did not deliver immediate results. All the assistant manager could offer would be to raise this with the manager in the morning. He suggested that we revisit the reception in the morning to determine when we could have the room upgraded. We were semi-satisfied with this, and realised that there was probably not a lot that could be done this evening – so we returned to our room, eyes and ears peeled for the tell-tale signs of Latino hijinks.

Shortly after arriving back in our room, we both decided that it was a tad early to go to bed – particularly when we were in Rio, and the night life was buzzing. Venturing back down stairs and out again, we opted to have a drink in the open-air bar of Maxims Good Beer. This bar was high on the gringo hit list, and this was confirmed by the remainder of our tour group – who having left the football coach had made a bee-line for this establishment. A few drinks were then had, and after updating Helen on our upgrade progress it was soon time to farewell another of the Rio Ring. One of the original Hardcore Hoard, Helen Shelton (“Hot Lips”) was to be leaving Rio the following day, on route to San Francisco. So it was then, all that remained were Helen and Maurie, Glenn, Joanne, Jane, Anne and of course Margaret and I.

An eventful day did come to an end, and Margaret and I eventually returned to our room to grab some sleep. It was with thoughts of our much anticipated room with a view that we dozed. The following day would tell. The night came and went without any further unwelcome knockers or indeed surprising turns of the Door-Knob.

Curitiba, Brazil – Altitude: 908 metres

"When she walks, she’s like a samba, that swings so cool and sways so gentle

That when she passes, each one she passes goes – ooh"

THE GIRL FROM IPANEMA – Tom Jobim and Vinicius de Moraes

Curitiba came quickly. The night bus was exceptionally comfortable, and so Margaret and I slept throughout the entire journey. We arrived pretty damn early once again. 5:30am saw our bus arrive at the already bustling Curitiba bus station. Within fifteen minutes of disembarking Dany had us marching out onto the taxi concourse and shortly thereafter began barking directions to a series of taxi drivers. Soon after, bleary eyed and zombie like we were hurtling through early morning Curitiba traffic on our way to the hotel.

We didn’t have far to go, which was a little unfortunate really. Being such an early hour in the morning meant that the hotel wouldn’t allow us to check in. So it was then, that at about 6:30am we and our luggage all piled into the reception of the Hotel Ibis. Thankfully, the hotel staff at least took our weighty packs off our hands, and stowed them for us. We didn’t quite have a room yet, but at least our bags were gone, and there was an offer of breakfast. This killed at least another hour, but alas, we weren’t able to check in until at least half-past nine.

So, what is there to do in Curitiba for a bunch of first-time visitors with thoughts only of the nearest bed? Well, not a great deal. It seemed that Curitiba’s main claim to fame was that it was the highest city in Brazil. A whopping 908 metres in fact! This was the highest altitude we had experienced since leaving Sucre in Bolivia. But this seemingly high altitude for Brazilians wasn’t all that lofty though at least compared with that of our Andean experience in Peru and Bolivia. Yes, we could breathe easy. Another interesting point I noted about the geography of Curitiba was that in the nearby valleys to the south of the town the start of the Rio Iguassu was to be found. It then collects the waters of a multitude of tributaries as it flows south east inexorably to the roaring falls of Iguassu. Despite these interesting vital stats of Curitiba there didn’t seem to be too much else to titillate us. Dany gave us a quick run-down of the town centre. It turned out that there was quite a huge shopping centre a few blocks down the road from the hotel. Margaret’s eyes lit up at this prospect. Margaret, no doubt buoyed by her shopping successes on the Paraguayan border, thought she could easily carry her fine spending form through to the hallowed halls of a major Brazilian shopping mall. Unfortunately, 7:45am on a Saturday is a little too early for Curitiban’s. We discovered this shortly after leaving the hotel. Alas, much to the disappointment of both Margaret and I, the mall was closed. For the record, I was only disappointed because I had visions of quaffing a strawberry smoothie.

The closed shops added to our Curitiban conundrum – what could we possibly do to kill a couple of hours? After a few glances at our local guide map, we decided to head back in the direction we came from, past the hotel, and towards one of the cities main squares, which soon revealed itself after negotiating one of Curitiba’s many cobbled streets. The square was simple enough. A few bars, a church and some shops – none of which were opened at this awkward hour. More aimless wandering in the vain hope that perhaps something would distract us sufficiently to take our mind off the time. After coming across one of the town’s main thoroughfares, we decided to make our way back to the hotel, and wait it out there. As we were heading back into the square, I noticed a Barbeiro– which surprisingly is Portuguese for barber.

Perfect! I actually needed a haircut and what better way to kill time. Successfully identifying the barber was not so much from my good grasp of Portuguese, but more so from the traditional red and white striped poles out the front. Margaret graciously waited, flicking through the obligatory glossy mags that seem to be the staple reading material of hairdressers worldwide, while I somehow managed to impart to the barber, a middle aged Curitiban that I needed a haircut. We didn’t so much speak, it was more a flurry of hand gestures, and I eventually worked out he wanted me to take a seat. In hindsight this shouldn’t have been as difficult as it was. I was in a barber shop, the chances of me wanting a haircut was always going to be pretty high.

My confidence in Portuguese increased, when I successfully communicated that I wanted a Number Two (doish) blade up the back and sides. Where we did strike trouble though, was when I was trying to explain how I liked my fringe. I’m not a fan of the cow-lick and side-parting Mr Barbeiro – thank you very much. Can you just give me a little spike or something, por favour? Well, neither the barber nor his assistant (who incidentally looked like his wife) had any idea of what I was talking about, let alone what gestures I was making with my hands. I had resorted to the Berlitz Portuguese phrase book. Unfortunately I had the compact version, and the authors had quite annoyingly not thought to put in a phrase like “hide the cowlick” or “please don’t make me look like Richie Cunningham”. To my dismay I hadn’t thought to bring my passport with me, yes the one that the Brazilian immigration folk had probably ridiculed as far back as Ponta Pora. If I had had it with me, I could have pointed at the photo and just said “No!”

Seeing my look of concern, and no doubt feeling a little frustrated with the whole affair, Mr Portuguese Barber seemed to have an epiphany. Well, how do you know when a Curitiban has an epiphany? The Berlitz guide didn’t exactly have this question in its useless pages either – but I judged by the sudden exclamation of “Aha!!!” which I believe is Portuguese for “Eureka!” that he had a solution. The barber darted off, past a slightly bemused Margaret, and went out into the street. He stopped a couple of young girls and seemed to be explaining the predicament. So within moments, a couple of Curitiban girls entered the barber shop – circa late teens, early twenties – with grinning Curitiban hair-dresser in tow.

One of the girls took the lead. She was pretty amused by the situation. Apparently, she didn’t know the barber at all and was just passing by. It seemed the barber was hedging his bets that the younger population of Curitiba are a little more up to speed on English, and meaningless Australian hand gestures. She began asking me exactly what I wanted. I would like to say that the problem was resolved. However, despite the girl’s good English, words like ‘spike’ had not made it into her vocabulary. After a while, the girl seemed to get the idea, and so the barber began again. After a minute or two I gave the girls an “obrigado”*, and they left, no doubt feeling very well entertained. After much heartache and concern, the barber finished his work, and it turned out fine in the end. Well, at least I thought it had as I hadn’t detected any stifled laughter – well, no more than usual anyway.

* Obrigado is Portuguese for thank you. However, depending on who you’re saying it to determines the inflexion of the verb. Obrigada is used to thank a man, and Obrigado a woman – or vice versa. I never quite worked it out.

Fortunately, the morning’s episode took up a good deal of time, such that by the time we made it back to the hotel, we only had another quarter hour or so to wait with the rest of the group before we could check in. Dany took the opportunity to outline the optional tour for the day. A three hour tour of the town was on offer, which took in the Botannical Gardens and a Polish settlement. That was too much for us. Margaret and I opted out of this. The thought of a comfortable bed, and lets face it the thought of a major shopping centre up the road was enough to convince the both of us that we were going to have a chill-out day.

Eventually we were checked in and were greeted by a very comfortable room, complete with electronic safe. I would have to say that the Hotel Ibis was about the only chain-hotel we had stayed in up until this point on the tour. So it was nice to be greeted by such modern appointments. Within moments, we were unpacked, showered and welcoming that ever addictive South American traveller’s drug – sleep.

We woke at about 3pm, and before long Margaret was up and at them. It was a Saturday after all, and if Curitiba was to be like most shopping towns throughout the world, she could still expect to have a few hours shopping. She wasn’t to be disappointed! Arriving back at the huge shopping mall, within metres from the hotel, it revealed a variety of mainstream shops. I’d say we spent a good deal of that time in Zara – and it seemed at one point that I actually purchased more than Margaret. How did that happen? Was I turning into a shopaholic? Far from it actually, after thirty minutes, my usual body’s reaction to such retail trauma kicked in. Looking bored, and dragging my feet through what appeared to be an endless meandering mall, we called it a day.

“Well, I s’pose we should head back Kennedy!”

“….errrr what? Um Yes, I think we should.”

Heading back to the hotel, the blood began to reclaim my headspace and the pins and needles in my skull slowly subsided. Margaret seemed to be pleased by her little shopping escapade, and so the pressure was off for another couple of days at least. We returned to the hotel to freshen up, in order to meet up with the rest of the group – the majority of which who had elected to do the Curitiban day tour. It was getting on for about 7pm and dinner was once again on the cards. Dinner was at a nearby Italian restaurant. It was nice enough, with fairly decent Italian fare, although admittedly it was difficult to tell, as we hadn’t had Italian in so long. All of the group were at dinner, bar two people. It seemed our newly closet escaping couple Helen (“Hot Lips”) and Glenn (“Bite My Legs”) had managed to swing a couple of tickets to a football match. They did arrive at the restaurant later on, and by all accounts the football match was a vast improvement on the debacle that we had witnessed back in Sucre in Bolivia.

After dinner most of the group, no doubt sensing the impending closing of the tour were up for a few beverages. So our taxis ferried us back to the hotel, and we then made our way up to the square, which had been witness to my haircut earlier in the day. There were actually two bars in the square. One was too busy, and the other busier. We managed to swindle some seats outside the bar in the open street. The evening passed without much incident – just happily sinking a few beers and caipirinha’s, watching the street life and the local clowns. No, I’m not being disrespectful to the Curitiban’s. They clearly had already given me a smashing haircut, and I had the utmost respect for them. There were literally a couple of guys in clown outfits, who were offering to make balloon shapes.

Several declines from our table appeared to go unnoticed. The Curitiban clown began making all sorts of balloon animals and shapes. Eventually, he livened up the atmosphere on the table, as everyone was anticipating who he would make a balloon for next. After some love hearts and the obligatory poodle, we pulled together a tip and he was on his merry way. With the clown gone, our group was looking for another source of entertainment, and when it was found it was a welcome surprise. It would seem that no night out in South America, well certainly with the Rio Ring anyway, would be complete without an impromptu Beatles tune.

I was in the toilet when I heard it. The band in the bar began playing “Ticket to ride!”, the anthem of the Rio Ring. Who could forget Alpaca Alan’s “Ticket to ride!” antics way back on the Uyuni Salt Lake. Venturing up the stairs into the bar, I was none too surprised to see our group already crammed into the bar and dancing to the tune. Leading from the front, with drinking straw hooked into the ear, Alan was ready to go. Curious looks from Curitiban’s when Alan belted out a couple of exceptionally strident lines “My baby don’t care!” This song had certainly set the group going. It was soon after this, that the call to go clubbing went up from Dany. A particularly vocal Helen Wright (“Cilla”) was all for going clubbing as well, and soon swayed the less than enthusiastic in the group. So it was then, that after much deliberation and indecision, a handful of us piled into a couple of taxis and headed for a club that Dany had suggested. All in all, there were nine of us: Alpaca Alan, Ian (“Baby Alpaca”), Jane (“FHM”), Helen (“Cilla”), Maurie (“Benny Hill”), Anne (“Bite My Ass”), Dany, and of course, Margaret and yours truly.

Shortly after, we arrived at the sought out club. However, we noticed that there was a bit of a commotion going on outside. There were a number of police cars out front, and the bouncers weren’t allowing anyone in. When Dany queried a burly Brazilian bouncer on the door, he enlightened that there had been a drug-raid and the club was closing. The fact that there had been a drug bust did not deter some in our group though. We waited outside for at least ten minutes, in the vain hope that the club would re-open. Some of the girls in our group managed to get in on the grounds of using the loo, and their reconnaissance proved that the music was good. Unfortunately, it wasn’t to be for us. But, as luck would have it, Dany was aware of another club nearby, and so we set off back down the road in search of it.

Unfortunately though, after walking for a good while with no sign of this Curitiban night club, some in our group became disillusioned with the whole expedition. Ian and Jane decided to bail out, and so grabbing a taxi, left the remaining seven of us wandering the back streets of Curitiba for this elusive bar. We did find it eventually, what ostensibly appeared to be a mere car-park, actually backed onto a sizeable night club. Being our first experience of a club in Brazil, we had to quickly learn the etiquette. Most clubs in Brazil, including this one charge you an entry fee and a drinks fee. You are then required to hand your receipt over to the bar-staff when ordering drinks who in turn then stamp it. The receipt is then presented to a cashier on exiting the club. This is where you pay the entry and drinks fee, along with any booze overspent. It was a bit bizarre – but good value, considering that four or five drinks is usually enough to see me through to oblivious stupor and beyond.

So after digesting this information we entered the club. It was massive and teeming with young Brazilian folk. After braving the jostling hoards, finding the bar, and then acquiring our drinks we began to shake the old groove thing – that would be dancing. The music was good, but was soon spoilt by the half-time entertainment. A group of strapping semi-naked men sauntered on stage flaunting their pecks in sync. The girls seemed to be appreciative of it. What was perhaps more concerning was that Curitiba’s answer to the Chippendales, were miming to songs that clearly resonated with the female contingent of the crowd. The girls were following the actions in unison. It was both very amusing and slightly worrying. It didn’t bother Alpaca Alan though. I’m not quite sure if he had kept his straw from the mid-town Curitiban bar, or whether he had requisitioned one from this club – but again there was a makeshift head-microphone resting on his ear. First comes the straw, and then comes the shapes. What was particularly entertaining was the air-guitar. I doubt such dexterity and rhythmic genius will ever see the likes of Curitiba dance halls ever again. Even a balloon moulding Curitiban clown or a Brazilian Barbeiro had none of the finesse that Alpaca Alan delivered. So it was that despite the appearance of this Brazilian Peter Andre tribute band, Alan once again raised the bar in terms of entertainment. Dany, Helen, Maurie, Ann, Margaret and I were once again suitably entertained.

The Brazilian musical muscle flex was not to be the only surprising experience in this club though. I ventured to the bar to grab a couple of drinks, which was fine. On the return through the writhing crowd though, two young Brazilian girls –circa early twenties, ran into me. One turned around and imparted a volley of Portuguese, which I assumed meant that she was sorry. I shrugged my shoulders and said “No falo Portuguese” – which means surprisingly enough “I don’t speak Portuguese”. The girls moved on ahead, and then one turned around and said something else to me in Portuguese. Again, I gave an apologetic look and said “No falo Portuguese – err Australian”. What then ensued was a little surprising. The girl said something else to her friend, and then turned around, hooked one arm round my neck and planted a kiss on my smackers. I pulled away – eventually – well that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. When I did pull back, like a limpet to a rock, she pulled me back with renewed vigour. Both shocked and at the same time chuffed, I did manage to extricate myself. The old male ego had kicked in. It was nice to know that a young Brazilian girl had taken an interest – it must have been the haircut. When I returned to our group, I said to Margaret “I’ve just been molested by a Curitiban girl”. After I explained what had happened, she chuckled, although I suspect she may not have been entirely amused. I also regaled my tall tale to Dany and the rest of the group. Dany was in hysterics.

At about 3am we decided to leave. Dany and Anne were going to kick on at a local gay club and the rest of us had had enough. So we paid the entry and drinks fee. For the record, we didn’t use up our drink quota, so the club made a killing. Venturing outside we said farewell to Dany and Anne, while the rest of us piled into taxis for the return back to the hotel.

A slightly overcast morning in Curitiba saw the Rio Ring filing from a hotel into a set of waiting taxis for the short ride across town to the bus station. We arrived at the bus depot at about 9:30am, in good time for our 10:00am departure to Saõ Paulo. Despite the previous night’s escapade, all of our group were in good form, and there were none that had overindulged all that much. Still, there were many amongst the Rio Ring, including myself who were anxiously awaiting the arrival of the coach, in order to catch up on some lost sleep. Indeed we had ample opportunity ahead.

The bus journey from Curitiba to Saõ Paulo is a seven hour haul northwards, up the Eastern coast of Brazil. The lengthy bus trip wasn’t such an issue for our group any more – given that we were now blessed with modern and well appointed coaches. It’s amazing what a few weeks travelling with local transport through Bolivia can do to your expectations, and we were not to be disappointed when the state-of-the-art coach did finally pull into the parking bay a few minutes before ten. Boarding the modern coach we quickly settled into the reclining and spacious seats, and were reassured when our bus hit the road shortly after 10am.

I would like to say that the journey to Saõ Paulo was enthralling, or that something noteworthy happened. But alas this journey was the most non eventful of the entire tour. Perhaps my sleeping for the most part of it had something to do with it. Our only respite from the coach came a few hours in, when we were all allowed about forty minutes to go and grab a meal at a road side service centre. The service centre stop was extremely modern. Like many of the restaurants we had experienced in Brazil, buffet was the order of the day. There was a huge selection of fresh food available. Despite this though, the allure of the familiar Golden Arches was enough to hook a number in our group. Even Ian who had renounced the burger earlier in the trip after reading the insightful book “Fastfood Nation”, decided it had been too long since his last brush with Ronald McDonald and he, like Margaret and I, took great albeit misguided satisfaction in woofing back burgers, fries and a thick shake.

Back on the Brazilian freeway and we were once again Saõ Paulo bound. I took some time to read a little about Saõ Paulo in the trusty Footprints guide that had become our staple for the duration of our time in South America. Saõ Paulo is the largest city in Brazil, bigger than Rio de Janeiro and bigger than the capital Brasilia, which is geographically speaking the epicentre of Brazil. The size of Saõ Paulo became apparent, when a good 90 minutes from arriving there, our coach began negotiating the outskirts.

Our time in Saõ Paulo was to be only a short one. In fact, Saõ Paulo was purely to be a transit for our group, given that the same time the following day we would be back on a north bound coach this time to achieve our final objective – Rio de Janeiro. Given our short stay, it would be difficult and unfair for me to judge the city. However, based on observations on the drive into the city, the outskirts are indeed a sprawling urban landscape. It was not surprising to learn from our guidebook then, that the population of Saõ Paulo was over 33 million people. This was a staggering statistic – given that this is almost double the entire population of Australia. To host such an immense population the city spans a vast area and it was not surprising then that once we were within the bounds of Saõ Paulo it seemed to take an eternity to get to the centre of town and the central bus station. When it did happen, it was well approaching 6pm. It had been a long day. We were grateful when the coach did finally pull into the crowded bus station, and we began piling into taxis.

Our hotel in Saõ Paulo was the Hotel Itamarati, which is smack bang in the centre of the gay district of Saõ Paulo, namely Republica. The hotel was not as modern as the more mainstream Hotel Ibis in Curitiba, but it was still fine. Margaret and I had a room overlooking the bustling main street of Avenida Dr, Vieria Carvalho. We were clearly in downtown Saõ Paulo, and on closer observation of the street below there were a few shady looking locals amongst the occasional sauntering of embracing male couples.

The Rio Ring were assembled in the foyer of the hotel for about 8pm. It seemed the day had a mini-adventure install for us yet. Dany was taking us, by all accounts to a trendy restaurant in the Central Business District of Saõ Paulo. To get there though, would involve negotiating the openly gay street of our hotel, and then the outskirts of the Republica Plaza (Praça de Republica) which was a large park a few hundred metres down the road. This park was notorious for muggings, so Dany warned us to stay together and be on our guard. Our immediate destination would be the Republica subway station on the far side of the Plaza.

Leaving the hotel we headed towards the Plaza, and on the way we passed a number of interesting couples. Outside one particular building there were both gay and lesbian couples embracing and canoodling, with the odd heavyset transsexual thrown in for good measure.  After traversing the bounds of the plaza (apparently even as a group Dany was not going to risk walking though the park), we made it without further incident to the Republica metro entrance. Descending underground we were soon boarding the very modern Metro, Saõ Paulo’s answer to the London Tube.

On inspection of the Saõ Paulo Metro map, the Republica station is on the Red Line, which is Line No. 3. From here we had a couple of stops to the fairly major junction that was Se station. Here we joined the Blue Line, Line No.1, and then boarded another Metro train for the station Paraiso, which was four stops away. Once at Paraiso, we changed to the Green Line, Line No. 2. Only a couple of stops this time to the station Trianon MASP. All in all, the journey from Republica to Trianon MASP was about fifteen minutes. Upon leaving the station and above ground again the modern hub of Saõ Paulo’s financial district revealed itself. Tall, elegant, glass clad buildings lined the much cleaner streets that were in total contrast to those found in the Republica district. From Trianon station we had a good fifteen minute walk along the almost interminable* Avenida Paulista to our much awaited restaurant, the Spot.

* Avenida Paulista was never ending for those in our group who had elected to wear inappropriate footwear.

The Spot restaurant was very modern, and was typical in décor of a trendy restaurant that you’d find in Paddington or Darlinghurst in Sydney. The meal proved to be nice as too did the caipirinha’s. Clearly, the biggest attraction of the restaurant though was the young and good looking staff. Some of the girls in our group were not shy at all about chatting up one of the male waiters in particular, and indeed began asking questions about the marital status of one of the other waiters who was manning a table a little away from us. It was much to the disappointment of a certain “Bite My Ass” Rio Ringer that this waiter was spoken for. The meal and evening proved to be an enjoyable one, although a little more sedate than the previous night. After finishing dinner, and heading back to the hotel, it took a while for it to hit home that this was our penultimate dinner as a complete group. Tomorrow we were heading to our final destination, Rio, and we would have our final group gathering there before everyone would start to go their separate ways. With this thought in mind, we made our way back to the hotel. We arrived back for about 11pm, and went to bed straight away. We had a reasonably early start the following morning, given our coach was leaving Saõ Paulo station at 9am for our much anticipated destination. Rio de Janeiro at last.

Foz do Iguaçu, Brazil

"Poor Niagara! This makes Niagara look like a kitchen faucet."

Eleanor Roosevelt

I managed to sleep most of the eastward journey from Asuncion to Foz do Iguaçu. The only time I woke, was early on into the journey when an empty television cabinet began to rattle incessantly. Fortunately, Anne was a closet Macgyver fan and lodged her day-pack in the cabinet to stop it rattling. Her triumph in resourcefulness was witnessed by only a few to her disappointment. I was grateful for the five minutes of peace it took me to doze. We did arrive at the border of Paraguay and Brazil at around 4am. This time the border town we had entered was Ciudad del Este. This town, notorious for its duty free shopping is separated from its Brazilian border counterpart of Foz do Iguaçu, by the Rio Parana – Parana river. To leave Paraguay requires crossing the bridge over the Rio Parana to Foz do Iguaçu on the other side.

The traffic was bustling at this unearthly hour in the morning. As we learned many Brazilians work in Ciudad del Este and have duty-free businesses there. As too some Paraguayans work in Foz do Iguaçu, so there was a good stream of traffic on the Rio Parana bridge. We stopped at the Immigration Check point, where we had to leave the bus. First we visited the Paraguayan booth to receive our exit stamps and eventually we moved across the road, dodging traffic to a small cabana which denoted the Brazilian Immigration office. All in all, it took about 30 minutes to have all of our official paper work sorted out, and then we were free to carry on to our hotel in Foz do Iguaçu. The irony of this whole situation was that in a few short hours, we would be walking back through this very Immigration Check Point and back across the Rio Parana to Ciudad del Este, in order to take in some of this much publicised duty free shopping.

Our coach continued the short journey to Foz do Iguaçu coach station, where we were met on arrival by another pair of mini-vans, and yet another guide, Milton. We piled into the vans, and then shortly after began the ten minute drive through the very modern and prosperous looking Foz do Iguaçu. Our hotel, the Hotel Taroba was certainly a sight for sore eyes, when we arrived shortly after 6am. We anxiously all checked in, our eyes glancing fleetingly at our watches, doing the mental arithmetic quite quickly for a group that had travelled during the night. For those who wanted to go Duty Free shopping in Ciudad del Este, then Dany informed, we would need to be ready to depart the hotel for 8:30am sharp. So a mere two hours sleep – if we were lucky. For those that didn’t want to shop, then the vans would collect them at the hotel for about 11am, for the commencement of the day’s sight-seeing activities. If I’d have been travelling by myself, I may have easily given into an extra three hours sleep – but when in Foz do Iguaçu, Ciudad del Este has to be visited.

We were allocated our rooms, and within minutes, Margaret and I were in-bed, not before opening the windows to the stifling rooms, allowing the busy sounds of Foz do Iguaçu to float into the room. We slept nonetheless. Our alarm intruded at about 8:15am. I wasn’t a happy camper. Margaret was none too impressed with my attitude either. To shop or to sleep? Shopping would win on this occasion, despite my body putting up a brave battle. So it was, that we met the majority of the group in reception. Yes, in spite of my sleepiness, I was very quick to note the absent, Horst, Dan & Kim, and Joanne. My “how come they got to stay in bed” eyes, were ignored by Margaret, as we were ushered into our promptly awaiting vans for the short journey back to the border crossing.

The vans dropped us off in a small parking lot, a few hundred yards from the Rio Parana bridge which we had crossed earlier. What had been a steady flow of people at 5am, was now a torrent of workers and tourists both on wheels and foot – heading for the local Mecca of cut-price merchandise – Ciudad del Este. We very quickly played “Frogger” dodging motor scooters and people, and joined the stream of people traffic. I was envisioning that our time in Ciudad del Este would be cut by having to wait for Paraguayan re-entry stamps at the border, but this wasn’t necessary. We were free to go through the immigration turnstiles and then onto the bridge. Apparently a number of Paraguayans and Brazilians alike frequently cross the border to work, without having to bother with immigration. The Rio Parana bridge is quite an impressive arched span – and does so over a good distance of at least 500 metres. The Parana itself is quite an impressive body of water. Even from the lofty height of 100 metres or so, we could make out that the Parana had a reasonably strong current even at the 20km or so distance downstream we were from the mighty Iguassu Falls. According to some reading material we had, it was this murky river that received the waters of the colossal cataracts of Iguassu. But at this point, there were no signs of any waterfalls, so alas I had to contemplate more mundane matters – like dodging people, animals and what would be a reasonable price for a pair of Gucci sunglasses.

We crossed the bridge into the notably poorer – but still quite modern, bustling shopping hub that was Ciudad del Este. The name of this town, in Spanish, actually means “First City”– not sure exactly why. It was something we pondered when we were lead by our guide up a short rise and then veering sharply to the right, found ourselves winding our way past a hoard of small-shop frontages. Our first stop was according to our guide, the business when it came to finding bargain electrical goods. What appeared as the entrance to a small shop, actually turned out to be a mini-shopping mall with a myriad of stores selling electrical-wares. If there is perhaps one time I can actually appreciate shopping then it would be this. Let me loose in a shop, selling every kind of electrical gadgetry then I may not mind the chore so much. Most of the goods that seemed on-sale seemed of good quality, although the latest models, especially of digital cameras were few and far between.

I had one item on my shopping list, and that was a zoom-lens for my digital camera. I entered one shop and asked if he had one in stock suitable enough, and his immediate reply was “Yes – wait one moment”. Shortly thereafter, he asked me whether I would like to sell him my camera. I said No – I would like to buy a zoom lens please. “Yes – wait one moment.” At this point he hurled some kind of request at an assistant in some unidentifiable tongue (doubt it was Spanish, or Portuguese – perhaps Guarani – more likely Arabic as he looked and sounded Lebanese*). His assistant left the shop and was gone about ten minutes. At this point, I was becoming impatient and so too were the rest of the tour group, as they were keen to move onto another set of shops. Just before I was about to walk out, his assistant returned and informed him that he couldn’t find a zoom lens. Profanities and expletives uttered in the same foreign tongue. I was quite annoyed at this point. This bent Lebanese-Paraguayan did not have what I was after, and had sent his lackey around no doubt to all and sundry to go and buy one. After this, the shop owner got on the phone to another shop, and confirmed that there was in fact a zoom lens there. He then commanded his lackey to go and get it, in a “don’t disappoint me if you are partial to your testicles” tone. And so more waiting! I waited another while, with no sign of the shop assistant. He probably had done a runner as he valued his testes and I was contemplating doing a runner, because at this point I was extremely testy. Not to mention that I also was under intense pressure to get going. So, in fear of being left to wander around these shops amidst felonious Paraguayan shop-keepers I followed the rest of the group to another set of shops. I didn’t wait around to see if the shop-assistant delivered his much maligned cargo.

* Indeed, I learnt that there is in fact a large Arabic population in Ciudad del Este. In recent years, there have been several stories in the press of terrorist groups such as the notorious Lebanese movement ”Hezzbollah” establishing themselves here. Apparently, the corruption of the Paraguayan government, and the amount of money in Ciudad del Este are reasons cited for the establishing of such radical groups. So perhaps my lens bereft Lebanese friend was much better at gun-running.

Within moments of returning to the group, we found another electrical goods shop, and on enquiring on whether he had a zoom lens, he also replied, “Yes”. This time though he had an array to choose from. After bargaining as best I could, I had 5% knocked off, and the purchase was made. I was a little chuffed. Margaret though was quick to remind me, who in the group was the most reluctant to go on this shopping expedition this morning. She convinced me for a minute at least that shopping did have its benefits. Many of our group had also made purchases as well. Glenn procured a digital camera, Anne and Jane – Mini-disc players and Dany and Laura purchased a good quality SLR camera. So buoyed by some successful purchases, our group left this bustling arcade, and were lead by our guide back to the main road of Ciudad del Este. Shortly after, as we headed back down the slope towards the Rio Parana we came upon a much more modern shopping centre. Here were more familiar shopping surrounds, with all the trimmings and atmosphere you’d expect to find in a modern department store.

Very soon we came upon the sunglasses section. After more than the usual deliberation that goes into actually making a purchase, Margaret bought a funky pair of pink-shaded sunglasses. It had actually come down to a choice of two, and what better way to get a decision made, than having a gay tour guide on hand. Our sartorially sharp tour leader, Dany, gave the affirming nod. I promptly agreed and so the deal was done. That wasn’t to be the only successful purchase for Margaret though. The sun-glasses were followed by a rather nice (if you’re into that sort of thing) Louis Vuitton hand-bag. So it was that Margaret officially joined the ranks of the successful ring of Tucan shoppers. This pretty much concluded our Paraguayan shopping foray, and so shortly before 11am, our guide lead us back across the Rio Parana bridge, back to Foz do Iguaçu – and onto the days real objective – visiting Iguassu Falls.

We returned to the Hotel Taroba to collect the remainder of our group at about 11:15am. Very quickly we gathered our day-packs for the remainder of the days adventure. Dany suggested we all bring waterproofs and swimwear if possible, for our Iguassu boat excursion later in the day. So it was, that shortly after, the Rio Ring were all anxiously waiting in the Foyer, mindful of the time. We had a lot to get through. According to our Foz do Iguaçu itinerary there was a big agenda install. There was a trip to the Parque das Aves – a native Brazilian bird park, a helicopter ride over Iguassu Falls, that jet-boat ride on the Iguassu River, and then finally a walk along the Brazilian side of the falls. We had a lot to get through, and we were all chomping at the bit to get going. Eventually we did, but shortly after 11:30am.

The Parque das Aves is on the outskirts of Foz do Iguaçu. The short ten minute drive it took to get there, revealed the modern tourist hub that the town is. There were loads of modern looking restaurants and bars. It seemed we had left the poor of Latin-America well behind. We arrived at the park, and quickly negotiated our way through the turnstiles. Just before entering we were greeted with the sight of three macaws, happily grooming one another in the small garden adjacent to the entrance. Cool! For once we could actually get really close to a macaw for that much demanded photo. This proved to be but a morsel of an appetiser though. After purchasing our tickets for the park and being informed we had about three-quarters of an hour to take it all in, we were given our instructions on how to wander through the enclosures. The park for the most part is a collection of walk-through aviaries, and so entering each aviary requires particular care. The door from the exiting aviary must be closed completely before opening the door of another.

In the first aviary, we very quickly came across a much sought after South American animal. The mascot of our Tour Operator was perched on a drooping branch a foot above our heads, peering curiously at us all. This was way cool. I never had seen a tucan in such close proximity. Up until this point, it had only been a few fleeting moments in the Pantanal. The tucan is a beautiful bird: its large crescent shaped beak is a brilliant yellow, scored with golden stripes complementing its pure black and white head and body. We stood fascinated for a few minutes, and then Dany informed that there was plenty more to come so we should move on. Within minutes, we had entered another aviary with even more tucans. There were a couple of them happily hopping from one side of the walkway to the other.

A Tucan – the Parque das Aves

A Macaw- the Parque das Aves

So accommodating were these birds that we were able to manage photos with them. Tucans weren’t the only birds on display though. We came across many a native Brazilian bird, including the crested crane, the brilliantly coloured red ibis, rheas, flamingos, bush turkeys and a multitude of macaws exhibiting such a variety of colour that it would make any DIY buff swoon. The macaws were equally as fascinating to watch as the tucans. Just watching them all banter in their now familiar squawk was a sight to behold. The park did not just limit itself to birds though. There was also an engaging display of other local fauna, including turtles, iguanas, tarantulas and one enclosure in particular was dedicated to butterflies. Again there was a remarkable variety on display, flitting here and there amidst the enclosure’s gardens – it had an almost magical appeal. After a long futile struggle to have one sit on a leaf long enough to get a decent photo, the magic soon wore off.

Towards the end of our self guided tour, we came across even more tucans. But these were a little different to the ones we had seen earlier. I was surprised to learn that there were a number of varieties of tucan. The ones we had seen earlier were called Tucan Grande. But the ones in this latter section of the park were the Ariel Tucan and the Red-breasted Tucan. The ariel tucan is characterised by a stark black beak, whereas the red-breasted Tucan has a greyish beak, yellow collar, and of course a red breast.

This almost concluded our tour, but as we made our way out, we came upon the courtyard and usual tourist facilities. i.e Shop, Bog and Restaurant. As we entered the courtyard, a young Brazilian lad was there sporting a blue and golden macaw on his shoulder, and he was requesting all the punters do the same – to get that great photo shot. Soon enough, I had a macaw on my shoulder – for a few seconds at least. Shortly after, he took delight in ripping the button from the top of my Aston Villa cap (alas the last vestiges of Aston Villa merchandise I had with me on tour), and then proceeded to make his way to the top of my head. Margaret took a volley of photos amidst hysterics, and then shortly after the Brazilian chap moved the bird to Margaret’s shoulder. This macaw seemed to detest standing on anyone’s shoulders, and soon enough it was making the intrepid climb up the slope of Margaret’s neck to that elusive summit – her head. It was great fun, and we both managed to take some truly memorable photos.

At this point we stopped briefly for lunch, during which Dany called us together to work out the “pecking order”, so-to-speak, for those of us electing to do the helicopter flight over the falls. Our tucan and macaw reverie quickly abated, given that to our surprise it was now 1:30pm and we had not even set eyes on the notorious Iguassu Falls yet. Thankfully, in the interest of time and our sanity, the helicopter tour company was a mere five minute stroll across the road from the bird park – we didn’t have far to go at all. The helicopter flight would take about twelve minutes, and could take only four passengers at a time, so we were to take the trip in shifts. Margaret and I were hooked up with Helen and Maurie for the second flight. So it was that the first couple of groups wandered over to the helicopter tourist office, while the remainder of the group waited in the bird park – finishing their lunch.

Iguassu Falls: By air

We paid the expensive 150 Real price tag, and we then began excitedly waiting on the helicopter to arrive to take the first group. We didn’t have to wait long for the chopper soon arrived, and group one were on their way. A quarter of an hour later, we were lead up to the helipad to wait for the arrival of the first group and our helicopter. It arrived, and all we could gather in passing our fellow Rio Ringers was a fit of superlatives, before finally boarding the whining aircraft. Margaret, Helen and Maurie were in the back, and I somehow managed to swing the front.

I have only had a ride in a helicopter twice in my life. The first time was over the Bungle Bungle ranges in the remote Kimberley region of far north Western Australia, and the second time was to be Iguassu Falls. As the chopper began to lift, the sense of freedom was incredible. For a few seconds, the pilot held the chopper hovering just centimetres over the ground, before eventually sending it in a forward motion, and then skywards. We waved below at the diminishing forms of those that had just exited the chopper, and before we knew it the terrain had changed from the open flat grass of the tour operator to the sprawling green canopy of dense rain-forest which seemed to stretch as far as the eye could see. Where were the falls? Iguassu Falls was a good 15km from the helipad. After a minute or two admiring the forest landscape below, we noted the growing ball of mist in the distance. As if we needed to have it pointed out, the pilot gestured in the direction of the mist and confirmed “Iguassu”. After another minute the ball of mist grew increasingly clearer and then opened up into a distinct white rift in the middle of all this green forest. The white rift, a thin line at first, shortly after revealed itself as the Iguassu River, the river so formed from the foaming behemoth that is Iguassu Falls.

As we flew over the Iguassu River the full extent of the falls began to unfold. On either side of the river, dozens of falls spilled over the sides of sheer cliffs, as if in homage to the water God of Iguassu – El Garganta del Diablo – The Devil’s Throat. It is difficult to do justice to the heart of Iguassu Falls – but the Devil’s throat is just an amazing demonstration of nature’s power at its magnificent best. The Devil’s throat is the focal-point of Iguassu Falls, and it is where the bulk of the water from the upper Rio Iguassu descends into the huge cleft that is the Iguassu gorge. Passing over the Devil’s throat gave us an incredible view of the expansive Rio Iguassu, which almost seemed like a calmly flowing flood-plain – that suddenly descends into a chaotic cloud of white oblivion. Our eyes were glued, and what was also impressive about the Falls was that on the Argentinean side the water falls were tiered, appearing as a cascade. That was the other notable part of this trip. We were actually flying over the border of two countries. The Iguassu River forms part of the Brazilian and Argentinean border, and so for a fleeting moment the chopper encroached on Argentinean air-space, but I’d say we remained within Brazil all the time. We must have spent about forty-five minutes flying over the falls, before our pilot, to our disappointment steered for home. Well back to the helipad anyway.

The price was definitely worth it. Seeing the full-wrath of Iguassu Falls from the air was an experience that will remain unforgettable. Our chopper landed safely, and we were greeted by the anxious Group No.3, Dany, Laura and Tom who were raring to go at the verge of the helipad. Cheesy grinned we gave them the thumbs up as we passed them and then ventured back to the rest of the group who at this stage were all waiting in the Tourist Office. Only a couple within the group elected not to do the helicopter ride, preferring instead for the more up-close and personal encounter with the Falls. This was to be our next excursion, and little did we know at this stage, just how up-close and personal we were to get.

With the completion of our Iguassu helicopter experience, we were all engaged in enthralled chatter. Since setting out from La Paz it was difficult to recall if the group had ever been excited as this. After the last group returned from their helicopter flight, Dany quickly ushered us out to the waiting mini-vans. It was now pushing 3pm, and we still had a couple of major activities to do. Our next excursion was the Macuco Safari and jet boat tour. This was a reasonable distance from the Parque das Aves and Helicopter site. Given that this next jaunt involved boating on the Iguassu River, this meant we actually had to officially enter the Iguassu Falls National Park. We did so, quickly admiring the very modern tourist office, and the vans continued on their way on sealed road which wound its way through the dense rain forest of the park. After a good ten minutes drive into the park, we arrived at the Macuco Safari tourist office, and shortly after we were waiting outside for Dany to purchase our tickets. Just before setting out on this excursion, Dany reminded us to bring our water-proof gear, including protective plastic bag for our camera – as there was a very credible chance we would be getting wet. Further to this, the tour operator Macuco, also recommended that we douse ourselves in eucalypt oil to keep the insects away. This natural insect repellent was freely available from a couple of makeshift dispensers outside the tourist office. After smelling the pungent oil, I opted not to. Margaret however, lathered herself in the stuff. No flying feckers were going to get the better of her today.

It must have been a good quarter of an hour before we set out. Our transport was kind of funky. Green, eco-friendly trailers, which resembled mini-trains were to be our means of transport through the rain forest and then eventually to the Iguassu River. While we waited anxiously for our trailer to be readied, I attempted to take some photos of some of the many coloured butterflies which were in great abundance. No success though, well not until our eco-trailer showed up. Shortly after boarding the trailer, a butterfly settled on Ian’s knee. Ian was sitting next to me, so finally I stole a great butterfly photo. One final group photo of the Rio Ring on Macuco Safari trailer, and then we set off down a narrow rain-forest trail.

I have to say that the tour through the rain-forest was quite dull. Our guide, a young Brazilian girl, while informative to a degree had a monotone voice which did nothing for our palpable anticipation in getting down to the Iguassu River. Our guide did reveal many facts about the rain-forest including all kinds of wild fruits and local wild-life, but our adrenalin glands finally kicked in when the trailers suddenly dipped in a steep descent, revealing a glimpse of the much awaited Iguassu River. Our trailer stopped a good 100 metres or so above the river edge, and so we quickly disembarked and made our way down a slippery, very narrow set of make-shift stairs to a small people-ladened pontoon, where a bright-orange jet-boat was pulling in to whisk them up river. As we made our way down the stairs, we passed a number of beaming punters who had just taken the trip. The majority of them were drenched from head to foot, despite the fact that they were wearing water proof ponchos. We all took note of this with interest, and began donning our water proof gear in readiness. We still had a good wait though before it would be our turn. The Brazilian sun was surprisingly potent, even at the late hour in the afternoon and so we became increasingly agitated as the wait continued. Still, there was some entertainment, well at least for Ian and I. We took pleasure in some of the people watching. In particular after a jet-boat returned with water-logged Latinos we saw one particular guy, a huge rolling mass of a man, remove his poncho, revealing a bulging countenance completely clad in a now clinging violet-velvet tracksuit. It was shocking. He then proceeded to remove it, revealing himself in all his pale-assed glory. We were in mild hysterics at this, and this gave way to more laughter, when a woman, in her late sixties passed us, with her haggard wrinkled prune of a face exacerbated further by her running mascara. This was a source of entertainment, and I attempted to capture the resurgence of smiles within our group, by taking a photo of us sitting on the Iguassu River bank from the edge of the pontoon. It was the quickest photo in history, because as if in conspiracy to keep exuberant punters away, Macuco had graciously planted a swarm of wasps under the canopy of the pontoon. So that was what the Eucalypt oil was for! Perhaps it was common knowledge that wasps were deterred by the smell of eucalypt. I should have known better really, having camped within many a Eucalypt forest in Australia, this had never deterred mosquitoes. In any case, I soon rejoined the impatient Tucan throng, as the afternoon drew on, and our boat had not yet arrived.

A boat did arrive eventually. This first boat only had room for a few of the Rio Ringers though. So, it was that the Incredible Horst, Dan & Kim, and Alpaca Alan were the first of the group to embark on the journey up river to greet the wrath of the falls. Thankfully, the rest of us didn’t have to wait too long for the next boat. Given that there we were a good sized group we had the jet-boat to ourselves. Carefully avoiding to upset the local wasps, we were fitted with bright orange life-vests on the pontoon and then made our way into the boat. It seemed I had poll position once again. Jane (“FHM!”), Ian (“Baby Alpaca”) and I (“Forrest Gump”) had the front seat. Immediately behind us sat Dany, Margaret (“Jeesuz Christ”), and Helen Shelton (“Hot Lips”). In the third row were Tom (“Show Me My Money”), Anne (“Bite My Ass”), and Laura (“Laundrette Fret”). Finally, in the back row were Helen Wright (“Cilla”) and Maurie (“Benny Hill”) together with Joanne (“Quick Draw Macaw”) and Glenn (“Bite My Legs”).

Dany was more than excitable as we left the dock. He knew what we were all in store for. He whooped and hollered like a maniac and egged our guide on. Even at the distance we were down river from the falls, the Iguassu River was a tumultuous set of rapids, flowing at a dangerous pace, leaving spiralling eddies in its wake. The boat literally bounced its way up river, as it struck curling wave crests. The adrenalin was pumping very swiftly by now, and we began encouraging our guide to spin the boat. In answer to Dany’s very vocal requests he did a couple of sudden turns, and then we were all greeted with a wall of water. From recollection, I think those in front missed this first barrage of water, but we weren’t dry for long. In another deftly manoeuvred turn, the nose of the boat dipped, bounced, and then a mass of water careered over the bough of the boat drenching those of us in the first two rows. Despite my hardcore water-proof it made no difference, even at this point, I was squelching. After these first couple of thrills the group’s excitement picked up a gear. Shouts of “Bring it On!” and “WOOOOOO!!!!!” rose in unison, particularly as the mighty vista of Iguassu Falls came into view.

A number of more water churning turns, and we were all in hysterics. “More!” “More!” was the cry particularly from Jane who had abandoned her usual catch-cry of “FHM!” Dany as well, seeing the water damage that was being inflicted on his crew, seemed to know when there was an exceptional tide of water about to hit, because as we veered into a turn, Dany would jubilantly cry “YEEESSSSSS!” The boat paused for a minute or two at the entrance to the first set of falls. At this point, the Iguassu gorge appeared almost to split into two. Straight ahead the foaming-curtained cliffs of the Iguassu gorge lead on through to the thick haze that was El Garganta del Diablo, and to our right, revealed a two-tiered deluging cascade, which represented the Argentinean side. We took a good number of photos here, although we were a little hampered by the mist wreaking havoc with the visibility on our lenses. Our Iguassu encounter was not over though. Our Macuco guide quickly implored us to all sit down, and in particular to put our cameras away. We set off again, in the direction of the Brazilian side of the Iguassu Gorge to the entrance of the falls themselves.

Margaret and Stephen: Iguassu by water

We were amazed at how far the boat was taking us. Naturally, it could only go so far, given that to venture all the way down the gorge to El Garganta del Diablo would have been suicide. Nonetheless though, the jet-boat entered the roaring entrance to the Falls proper. It was truly magnificent. This was definitely the best perspective you could possibly hope to have of Iguassu. The boat was literally holding its own in the churning river at the foot of the first set of falls. This wasn’t good enough for our guide though. Amidst screams of approving delight from his passengers, he took the boat under one of the falls itself. If there was any remaining chance, regardless of how remote, of staying dry, it was gone now. The water literally crashed over us, like a perpetually emptying bath tub. It was a deluge like no other that I’ve ever experienced. After about thirty seconds, probably in fear of sinking his boat, our guide withdrew into the swirling river. Everyone was yelling in sheer exhilaration at what had just happened. Jane in particular was speechless, and instead resorted to expressing herself in an uncontrollable fit of laughter. “Breathe Jane! Breathe!” After another thirty seconds respite to allow us all to regain our breath, our guide gave us yet another shot of adrenalin and took us headlong under the drenching veil.

A little more prepared this time, I took it on. I looked up into the crashing water. It stung slightly, but heck I was probably unlikely to experience this ever again. Ian and Jane who sat either side of me were doing the same, screaming in elation as they gazed sky and water wards. You couldn’t really see anything other than water hitting your face, and all you could hear was this implacable roar. A moment later, our boat withdrew into the relative calm of the turbulent river. I recall turning round to see how Margaret was faring, and it was an amusing sight. Margaret, despite having her head down to protect herself from the water, had a stunned grin on her face. This trip had more than exceeded expectations. It was with some disappointment then, when our guide steered the boat down river, back in the direction of the pontoon, and away from the thrilling Iguassu. The return journey was still as entertaining as the initial one into the fray. Our guide weaned us off our adrenalin addiction by forcing engagements with several more swirling walls of water. Everyone was truly abuzz with excitement, and after we did finally arrive back at the pontoon, I don’t recall ever on tour seeing this group so elated. It was without doubt, that this ostensibly sedate Macuco safari had surpassed even the magnificent helicopter tour.

We arrived on the pontoon and exchanged stories with Alan, Dan & Kim and Horst who had been on the first boat. I removed my water proof, which confirmed what I had already guessed. I was drenched from head to toe. I could well have gone for a swim in the river itself. Soon after, Dany ushered us up the stairs towards the waiting Eco-trailers, which were to ferry us back to the tourist office and so the main road. It was now getting quite late in the afternoon, and we still had a walking tour of the Brazilian side of the falls to complete. So it was by about 5:30pm, we were boarding our mini-vans once again, for a short drive to a look-out, and the start of a tourist walkway which traversed the falls. By the time we left the mini-vans at the look-out, the sun had just begun dipping over the horizon. The view here was unsurprisingly stunning, particularly as the sun was disappearing in a sheen of red. We could have stayed for a good while, but we all wanted to get a closer look at the Devil’s Throat, before it got dark so we set out on our way down the tourist trail as dusk began to fall.

Such were the incredible views, that we stopped a number of times on the undulating trail to take some photos of the falls in the failing light. By the time we reached the Devil’s Throat, a full moon had risen above the falls, adding further to the day’s unique experience. Before we could get to the look-out of El Garganta del Diablo though, we had to run yet another water gauntlet. I had just begun to dry a little, but that was all about to be undone. A 200 metre long board-walk jutted out towards the Throat, beneath a massive churning wall of water. The spray from this water, together with the spray from the Throat itself was being hurled across the boardwalk in deluge quantities. Margaret and I braved it again, and ran along the board-walk to the Devil’s Throat vantage point, arriving at the far-end completely water-logged for the second time that day. We stayed long enough for a group photo. But such was the amount of water in the air that any chance of a good shot was dashed by the beads of water on the lens. Added to the photo challenge was the fading light. Those using a flash simply revealed glistening beads of water, amidst a wall of pitch black. Despite this, even in the drawing dark, we were still able to appreciate the mighty power in which the water descended into the Devil’s throat. After a couple of minutes, both wet and cold, but happy, we hurried back across the board-walk and returned to the trail to the promise of dry land.

We weren’t too disappointed that we only managed to see the Devil’s Throat in twilight, as Dany informed us that the best vantage point was actually on the Argentinean side, which we would be visiting the following day. But this was a distant thought, as we made our way back up the trail and to the roadside where the mini-vans were waiting. Once back in the vans, the immensity of the day’s activities began to sink in. We had done so much, and now having the opportunity to sit still, fatigue began to take hold and so too sleep. It was a good half hour drive from the falls back to Foz do Iguaçu and the Hotel Taroba. This was not the end of the day’s activities though. Dany informed us that we had about forty minutes to get cleaned up, because we had a table booked at a traditional Brazilian dinner dance. So proving there was no rest for the wicked, we arrived back at the hotel to the welcome of a shower and dry clothes. Twelve hours after we had set out for our shopping expedition in Ciuaded del Este, we all met in the foyer of the Hotel Taroba, to be ushered into the mini-vans yet again and for the short drive to the restaurant – Rafain.

We arrived at the restaurant for about 8:45pm. It turned out to be a huge hall, packed with people enjoying the spoils of a Brazilian buffet. All the tables were like the spokes of a wheel, the hub and focal point of the restaurant being the stage. As we were shown our table, the entertainment began. A smartly dressed but smarmy Brazilian man was the host for the evening, and while he spouted Portuguese, amidst feigned laughter, we all began helping ourselves to the extensive buffet. The food was fantastic – for a buffet (I’m not usually a fan), but the entertainment proved a little disappointing. We were expecting something traditionally Brazilian. What we got was a bit too much like fast-food tourism. There was music representative of many South American countries, and while some of the acts were impressive, some were decidedly tacky. When it came the turn for the Brazilian music, the band while initially being fairly humorous proved to be quite sleazy, all but groping a German gringo girl when they invited her on stage. Still there was one saving grace. When they brought on a couple of scantily clad Samba dancing-girls, they demanded another volunteer from the audience. I can think of no better way to salvage a night’s entertainment than by offering the services of the one true entertainer. The Incredible, HHHB Horst! Up he went on stage, and began shaking his groove thing in perfect rhythm with the lithe but tacky form of the Brazilian dancer. We all were cheering and roaring, and as usual Horst didn’t disappoint his fans. There was no stopping this man. With our bellies full we left Rafain and spent a few minutes browsing through the market stalls just outside. But after a few moments of this, some of the hardcore elected to carry onto a late bar with Dany, while a few other lightweights, including Margaret and I ventured back to the hotel for some much deserved sleep. Before going to sleep that night though, I managed to convince Margaret that she should accompany me on the optional excursion to Itaipu Dam the following day. Reluctantly Margaret agreed, given it meant we would be leaving the hotel at 8am.

A 7am rising is always tough for me, and this day was no different. I was regretting having opted for taking the Itaipu Dam trip, but I was determined to take in as many sights as possible. Margaret was feeling the same as I about the whole thing, and so like zombies we stumbled downstairs for a rushed breakfast in time to meet our driver for the journey out to Itaipu. It turned out that most of the Rio Ring had elected to stay in bed; Itaipu Dam was not enough of a reason to sacrifice sleep. There were a couple of exceptions though. As well as Margaret and I, Horst, Dan and Kim also decided they wanted to come along. So it was, the five of us took the fifteen minute or so journey from Foz do Iguaçu to Itaipu Dam.

We dozed most of the way, and awoke when the van parked up in the lot outside the Itaipu Dam office. No sign of the dam at this point, which by all reports was a little surprising given that it was meant to be, arguably, the largest dam in the world. After a short wait we purchased our tickets, inside the office, and were then ushered into an auditorium, with about hundred or so other tourists. We learned that we were in for a three-quarter hour video presentation about the dam, after which we would then be ferried by bus to the dam itself. I’d like to say that Margaret and I got a lot out of the video – but we didn’t. Despite being asleep for at least half of it, the video was not a documentary about Itaipu Dam but more of an egotistical ecotourism video. Basically, every few minutes the narrator would say how great the place was, due to its eco-friendly mantra. Yes, the movie was dull. We were grateful when it finished and we were ushered out into the buses.

Within several minutes of driving the dam came into view. It was massive and very impressive, particularly if you’re into dams. Unfortunately, Margaret and I weren’t. Itaipu was actually a joint venture between Paraguay and Brazil and took a few years to build. According to the pre-recorded narration given on the bus, the construction of Itaipu Dam required the equivalent of 380 times the iron used in the construction of the Eiffel tower, and 200 times the concrete used in Brazil’s premier football arena – the Rio de Janeiro based Maracana stadium. The result was an 8km long dam wall, and when the water is allowed to overflow into the spillway, its maximum output is 20 times that of the volume of water descending into Iguassu Falls. Now that was the most impressive statistic. It would have been just the trick to wake us from our dozing stupors to see water being released into the Itaipu spillway. But, unfortunately, that was not to happen. After a couple of short stops at some strategic vantage points, to take in the breadth of the dam wall, and also the spillway, the bus carried our sleep-fighting bodies back to the car-park. All in all, the excursion was dull. Still, I guess it’s not everyday you get to visit the largest dam in the world. As it turned out, it appeared that this was in fact the case for us. There was much speculation in our group that the Yangtzee River dam in China was now in fact larger than Itaipu. Damn! We all agreed to return to the rest of the group in an upbeat mood, and inform them about the amazing experience they had missed out on.

So it was, our van took us back to the Hotel Taroba in Foz do Iguaçu, where we met the rest of the group, who were bright eyed in anticipation of the remainder of the days activities. We were less than convincing in regaling the exciting Itaipu audio-visual experience, and totally unbelievable when we said we got to go white water rafting in the Itaipu spillway. Okay, we admitted that it was dull and we were apologising profusely to our exhausted bodies for putting them through it. Still, we had some exciting stuff ahead for the rest of the day. First up would be a visit to the Three Frontiers – which would give us an opportunity to stand on the borders of Paraguay, Brazil and Argentina. Finally, we would then be taking a drive back into Argentina to taking a walking tour of the Argentinean side of Iguassu falls. This we were all looking forward to, as the walk would take us even closer to the Garganta del Diablo – the Devil’s Throat.

At about 11am our mini-vans left the hotel for the Three Frontiers. Within about twenty minutes we arrived, at what appeared to be no more than a lookout over a river. On closer inspection though, this place was quite significant. Firstly, and perhaps most significantly, this lookout revealed the intersection of the two mighty rivers the Rio Iguassu and the Rio Parana. In actual fact, it was the lower Rio Iguassu we had view of, as this was the very river we were jet boating on the previous day, although granted, 19km away further up stream at the curtain of the falls itself. So it was here, at the Three Frontiers that the Iguassu River met the Parana River, the later of course acting as a partial border between Brazil and Paraguay. And of course, based on our geography lesson from the previous day, we already knew that the Iguassu River acted as a border between Brazil and Argentina. So by way of quick deduction we were not only at the junction of two rivers, but also at the junction of three countries.

We were on the Brazilian side of the Iguassu and Parana Rivers, and this was denoted by a tall green and yellow marker. Across the Iguassu River to the South stood a blue and white marker denoting the Argentinean frontier, and on the other side of the Parana River stood a red, white and blue obelisk, marking the territory of Paraguay. This was very cool, being able to view the borders so clearly of three countries. After taking our obligatory photos, some of our group took some time out to put their heads through a pair of board cut-outs. The cut-outs were of a couple of indigenous people, frolicking in the foreground of Iguassu Falls. Naturally, it was another great opportunity to take a photo of Horst, complete with bronze chest, and washboard stomach. We all knew that this man, did not need the cut-out. But he spared the meek males in our group, by keeping his kit on.

After a hurried foray into the nearby souvenir shop, our driver and Dany ushered us into the vans for the journey into Argentina. It seemed we were on a very tight timeline once again, as Dany was quite vociferous in ushering everybody aboard the vans. After some anxious moments and averted stern looks at some stragglers, we were all on the road, leaving the Three Frontiers for the border crossing from Brazil into Argentina. Immigration proceedings went very smoothly. We had all filled out the required paperwork on route, so within a few minutes, our mini-vans were officially in Argentina and on the way to the Argentinean side of Iguassu Falls. Within about twenty minutes, we arrived at the entrance to the Argentinean Iguassu Falls national park. The facility was quite impressive and very modern. So modern was it, that the park entrance revealed an ice-cream shop. Wahoo! The day was clear and the sun was biting, with virtually not a cloud in the sky. So naturally, ice cream seemed like a good idea. Unfortunately for my gullet though, we didn’t have enough time. We had arrived at the park, within minutes of the next train departure to the Devil’s Throat walk. Sure, you could walk all the way, but given we were on a time budget, it made sense to catch the train. So, with my belly in pain, the group filed aboard the open-air train. Still, I managed to grab a few gob fulls of Margaret’s ice cream as the train set off in the direction of the falls.

The train journey was about ten minutes all up, discounting the two short stops that we had in order to pick up other tourists on the several walking trails, which made up the park. The train stopped at the end of the road, and so we all poured out onto the walking trail, in the direction of the falls. The trail soon left dry ground and became a bridge, which seemed more like an interminable jetty, jutting outwards over the teeming waters of the Rio Iguassu plateau. Amidst the waters were small islets of trees and other flotsam and jetsam, clearly marking our proximity to the falls. Within moments, the roar of the falls could be heard, and every once and a while the plateau rim of the falls could be discerned. Our journey across the Rio Iguassu was made that much more entertaining by the myriad of dazzling butterflies which flitted about us in seemingly chaotic rhythm with the waters below us. On several occasions, the butterflies actually landed on people, which meant of course, photos had to be taken. One butterfly in particular was kind of partial to Margaret and repeatedly landed on her arm, shoulder and head, allowing me to get some quite good close up photos. It was about time my luck changed.

The Power of Iguassu. El Garganta del Diablo

The walk along the jetty seemed to take us tantalisingly close to the Iguassu Falls rim, but always when we appeared to get close, the jetty veered in another direction. But we weren’t to be disappointed, and eventually, the end of the walkway was revealed, from a distance of fifty or so metres. Here, the huge ball of mist that was clearly the Garganta del Diablo could be seen glistening in the sun, and beneath it our Iguassu roadway terminated in a circular pontoon. We quickened our step, and within moments were spellbound at the sight of Iguassu’s power. This was without a doubt, the best vantage point of the Devil’s Throat. The Brazilian lookout where we stood in the previous day’s twilight could be seen across the tumult of the throat, and seemed small and obscure. From here though it would have been possible to jump into the throat, we were that close. Amidst taking several photos, we all stood agape at the sheer volume of water flowing into what literally was foaming white oblivion below us. The ball of mist which floats in the air above the Devil’s Throat is a permanent fixture, and so many rainbows reveal themselves for minutes on end: a scything iridescence through a roaring maelstrom of sheer white.

Eleanor Roosevelt, hubby of former US President Theodore, had, according to literature, when visiting Iguassu Falls been quoted as saying. “Poor Niagara! This makes Niagara look like a kitchen faucet!” Having been to Niagara Falls myself, it was clear that it wasn’t even in the same league as Iguassu. For one, where Niagara has two major sets of falls, Iguassu is made up of 275 waterfalls, is 20 metres higher than Niagara, and the width of Iguassu is more than half that of Niagara. It’s funny, how growing up, you would always hear about Niagara Falls, and never Iguassu. Bloody Yanks! This is without doubt the most beautiful and spectacular water falls I have ever seen, and I doubt there is better in the world. This was clearly an absolute must see for any South American itinerary and Margaret and I were chuffed that we had opted to include it.

Our days venture on the Argentinean side of the falls was not over though. We spent about thirty minutes or so on the Devil’s Throat pontoon, taking it all in and sending our cameras into overdrive. One curious photo combination that Margaret and I (and indeed the rest of the Rio Ring) took in was that of Helen Shelton (“Hot Lips”) and Glenn Thompson (“Bite My Legs”). They were in many a photo together – as a couple. Could it be some Tucan scandal had surpassed us? As we reluctantly left and made our way back across the upper Rio Iguassu towards terra firma, Margaret and I caught up with the oracle of tour gossip, that was Jane Hill (“FHM!”). After very minimal coaxing, Jane revealed that Helen and Glenn had got it on as far back as Sucre, at the not so Grand Hotel. Margaret and I were stunned. Three couples had risen from the Rio Ring since our departure from La Paz. Helen Wright (“Cilla”) and Maurie Gartland (“Benny Hill”) were the first, soon followed of course by Dan Wagner (“The Man”) and Kim (“Stand By Your Man”), and now Helen (“Hot Lips”) and Glenn (“Bite My Legs”). As far as tours were concerned that Margaret and I had undertaken in our lives, this was unprecedented.

But this was not all! Jane, amidst giggles of “Oh no I shouldn’t say anything – but you can guess!” revealed there was yet even more scandal going on within Team Tucan. Margaret, speculated about Ann (“Bite My Ass”) and one of the few remaining single lads Ian (“Baby Alpaca”). Jane concurred with a mischievous nod. Wow, this was amazing. Our mild mannered Tucan adventure had turned into amorous debauchery. What next? Would The Incredible Horst or Alpaca Alan, make a play for Miss Quick Draw Macaw – Joanne, or Jane – or vice versa? Granted Horst and Alan are happily married men, but it seemed at this stage in the tour anything could happen. It was game on!

Shocked, Margaret and I made our way back across the river, and to the train platform. While waiting for the train, I took the opportunity to try and get some photos of some of the large brilliantly blue butterflies that were flitting amongst hoards of smaller coloured varieties. As was to be expected, I had no success though, and so I boarded the train for the journey to the walking trails. Another short journey saw the group alight and head for a nearby café. We were ravenous at this point, and gratefully ate stodgy burgers before setting out on the walking trails for more close encounters with Argentinean Iguassu.

There were two main walking circuits in the Argentinean park. There was what was dubbed an Inferior circuit and a Superior Circuit. It seemed, by judging from the map, that the Inferior circuit took you closer to the falls. In fact it would seem the word Inferior denoted that the walk was the lower section of the falls, rather than it being an inferior, or second-rate, viewing experience. Similarly, Superior denoted the upper circuit. In any case, it seemed to make sense to take-in the lower Inferior circuit first, and then take in the upper Superior circuit on returning to the park entrance. So we set out. The Inferior circuit was certainly the more enjoyable of the two. It was a huge boardwalk, which took us over the verge of several of the waterfalls, and in particular gave us a magnificent view of the lower Rio Iguaçu, where the previous days jet boating excursion had taken. At one look out, we looked on as another set of adrenalin addicted punters ventured towards the mouth of the Iguassu falls proper. We also noted with interest, that on one occasion, the jet boat actually ventured underneath the falls on the Argentinean side, which was a different set that we had been deluged by the previous day. In fact the set of falls, we had been acquainted with were further around to the left of Isla San Martin, which is a densely vegetated outcropping that eventually joins up with the middle tier of the Argentinean side of the falls. This was an excellent vantage point, and gave us a great perspective of the previous day’s adventure.

HHHB: The Incredible Horst

The Inferior circuit culminated in another drenching. The boardwalk literally took you into the spray of one of the many Argentinean falls. The deluge, while nowhere near as powerful as The Devil’s Throat was still powerful enough to blanket the platform and boardwalk in a shroud of mist and spray within a radius of about 20 metres. It was a mandatory photograph. First up was Horst, who having demonstrated his modesty at the Three Frontiers photo shoot earlier in the day, this time pulled out all stops. Off came the kit, and all that remained was a strategically placed pair of Speedos. What a show it was. He flexed, and strutted like a man who knows only too well, the rewards of having such a finely tuned physique in the limelight of a catwalk. It was most humorous. Such was the amount of water on the platform that photos had to be taken a good way away, and even then the lens had to be mopped of the mist. Timing was critical in the taking of the photo. Margaret and I asked one chap to take a photo for us, and so we ran into the fray. It was freezing, but invigorating all the same. As my luck would have it though, there seemed to be a problem with him taking the photo. So Margaret and I both ran out to investigate the problem, and discovered that no photo had been taken. Of course, this meant our photo slot had been taken. Not happy. We had to wait for another ten minutes, before the platform beneath this water curtain was clear of other tourists. Having grabbed a more capable photographer, we eventually had the snap taken. Drenched to the core, we were nonetheless pleased with ourselves.

Noting that we were running out of time, Margaret and I quickened the pace to complete the Inferior circuit and make our way back towards the Superior Circuit. As we were making our way, a group of tourists were stopped on the path listening to their Spanish guide, no doubt waxing lyrically about the vital stats of Iguassu Falls. Listening intently to their guide, they all failed to spot the rather large hairy arachnid, crawling at their feet, which seemed intent on crossing the path. “Umm, excuse me Tarantula” I proclaimed. “Umm Aran-ya!” I said. The latter got the attention of one of them, and they stood back, in time for me to get a close up photo of it. Cool, I had spotted my own tarantula. Margaret, having a healthy fear of spiders seemed unusually interested in watching it, and I literally had to coax her away, so that we could take in the Superior Circuit. Eventually, she followed, and as we made our way past the junction leading to the Superior circuit, Margaret elected to carry on, so that she could have some quality time in the souvenir shops. Me however, elected to embark on taking the many photo opportunities awaiting, so I made haste down the Superior Circuit.

I walked the Superior circuit in probably record time. I literally had a short half hour to walk it and then be on my way back the park entrance for 5:15pm, in order to meet our mini-vans for the journey back to our hotel. The Superior Circuit, although not as impressive as the Inferior Circuit, still revealed excellent perspectives of the Argentinean falls. I was particularly chuffed to see a Tucan flying through the tree tops, when taking in a view of the falls from one of the many lookouts. It really completed the scene. All good things do come to an end though, and so I made my way to the end of the circuit, and then ventured back up to the park entrance, this time, not opting to take the train, but to walk all the way. 5:15pm came quickly enough, and we found ourselves filing aboard the mini-vans again, for the return journey to the hotel. A short delay at the Immigration checkpoint before crossing back into Brazil was the only notable part of this trip.

After arriving back at the Hotel Taroba, Dany ran through the plan of action for the evening. Basically, we had about two hours to get showered, fed and packed, as the evening would see us make up for the final amount short fall in the time we had lost in Santa Cruz. Yes, we were all booked on another night bus, from Foz do Iguaçu to Curitiba. We all agreed to go to a local Churriscura (Brazilian Barbeque restaurant) for dinner. The food as was always our experience in Brazil was second to none. For a fixed fee, the waiters would come out with a huge variety of freshly roasted and barbequed meats. Coupled with a salad and dessert bar – we were all content when we filed back into the lobby of the Hotel Taroba. It was with some reluctance when we eventually were collected by our Iguassu mini-van transport once again, this time to be ferried back to the Foz do Iguaçu bus terminus.

Our night bus to Curitiba was on time, and very comfortable. The seats were spacious and reclined generously. Margaret and I managed to grab poll position in the top deck of the bus, and so we had a good view of the busy motorway as we made our way out of Foz do Iguaçu. In some ways, our leaving Iguassu marked the end of our Tucan trip, as we literally had two, one night stops in Curitiba and Saõ Paulo, before finally making our way to our ultimate destination – Rio de Janeiro.

Still, the night bus trip did no go without incident. And no, there was no scandal to speak of – well none that I saw or heard anyway. But, about an hour into the journey, our bus was stopped by police. Well, not just any police. These police were fully equipped in some pretty serious body armour and firearms. Well in fact they were not just any armed police. These were armed Brazilian police, and according to the female Tucan contingent – oh and Dany too – they were extremely fit. There was much swooning and flirtatious smiles and batting of eyelids as a couple of allegedly hunky Brazilian coppers boarded the bus to inspect its occupants and cargo. Apparently, several buses on this route are used to smuggle contraband, and it was also speculated that many bandits operate on the motorway, and have been known to hijack buses. We weren’t really sure of the reason, and in fact the salivating Tucan girls didn’t really care. There was much disappointment, when the police finally left the bus, and after a ten minute delay we were quickly back on course – Curitiba bound. As the night descended, I suspect the Rio Ring fell asleep as one, some no doubt dreaming of foaming Iguassu waters. One man though, had a restless sleep. Young Horst, dreamt that he was a Brazilian copper, storming a tourist bus laden with young ladies. Sporting only a pair of Speedos he graced the aisle of the bus, as he would have a catwalk, while brandishing an AK-47.

Bonito, Brazil

"Can you see what it is yet?"

Rolf Harris

After having gorged yet another exceptional Brazilian breakfast of fruit, pastries and cakes, we were ready in plenty of time for the day’s adventure. Our guides arrived on time, and before we knew it we were aboard Juca’s box-on-wheels for the hour or so journey to the Rio do Prata. Those in our group who had elected to stay out late the previous night for a few extra caipirinhas were soon let off the bus, so they could go and purchase an underwater camera. Margaret and I, being well organised for once, had already done our bit for the local aquatic photography industry the previous night, so we decided to avail of the opportunity to take some photos of the Bonito main street.

The main-strip of Bonito is not all that exciting really, but it does have some unusual features. Specifically at intervals of about every 100 yards or so, public phones are set in giant statues of some local fauna. The phone nearest to the bus drop off point was that of a tucan, and other phones we had spotted included, the Jaguar and the macaw. I took a shot of Margaret sporting her tucan phone. Our little tourist jaunt finished as quickly as it had began when we were ushered aboard the bus and so started the journey out of town and on to the Rio do Prata.

For one reason or another, the journey seemed to be much more pleasant than the previous day. Perhaps this was care of the milder and overcast weather. Whatever the case it made the journey fly and we were soon enough filing off the bus, to the starting point of our Rio do Prata excursion, which was the office of the local tour company. As we explored the building, which was centred in immaculate grounds, we noticed a set of hammocks, adorning a large paved area towards the rear. For some reason Brazilian tourist companies seem to like hammocks, or perhaps they were for the tour operators when business was at a lull. After a short wait, we were instructed to split into two groups. The first group would set out on their excursion about thirty minutes before the next group. The reason for this was so that we could take in a nature walk before actually making our way into the waters of the Rio do Prata. To minimise the noise and maximise the opportunity for wildlife viewing, the groups were smaller. Only if we had taken that approach in the Peruvian Amazon! Perhaps we would have seen more, I thought to myself. Genius!

Downtown Bonito

Margaret and I were in the first group, and within moments we were fitted for wet-suits, scuba socks, mask and snorkel. There were no flippers issued, as apparently the waters of the Rio do Prata were meant to be quite shallow, and flippers would only stir up the silt on the riverbed and wreak havoc with visibility. While we were all kitted out very quickly it still took thirty excruciating minutes of organising ourselves, the first group, our group, set off on Juca’s bus to the start of the nature walk. During the bus trip, the local guide, handed around a photograph that had been taken by a tourist in the Rio do Prata only a month or so before. The photo revealed a large anaconda, winding its way through the water, approximately 8 to 10 metres in front of the photographer. It seemed my wish to go and see this elusive smothering reptile was potentially going to be answered. Hey, I’ve handled a caiman, and eaten piranha I thought, so I’m sure I could deal with swimming with an anaconda. The bus was a buzz with this news, and so our arrival at the nature trail brought with it great anticipation. Perhaps this little adventure would surpass our hike in the Amazon?

The walk proved to be yet another rewarding Brazilian feast of fauna viewing. Within minutes of setting out along the winding rainforest trail, we came within sight of some brown capuchin monkeys. The first ones we saw were at a distance, climbing the trunk of a large palm tree, which punctured the rainforest canopy into an overcast morning sky. However, a few minutes later we were treated to a couple of them negotiating some low branches, within only a metre or two of our gawping faces. This was an amazing experience, and the small, golden-brown simians went about their business with out too much regard for the ten or so excited gringos in their midst. What followed was a volley of camera shutters, and eventually, with much reluctance, we moved on after our guide. Further along the trail we came across a weasel-like, rat-like creature (in truth its Portuguese name escaped me), who’s large pink ears, and rodent like snout gave it the appearance of a bandicoot. We saw a couple of these critters, but they scarpered pretty quickly once they discovered their intruding onlookers.

Before setting out on the walk through the rainforest, I had little expectations of seeing any wildlife, given our past experiences in the Amazon. But this had proved to be a welcome surprise. We weren’t just filling in time, and so we arrived at the banks of the Rio do Prata, buzzing with excitement. The morning’s anticipation peaked as we approached the verge of the river and realised why this particular tributary was chosen as an excursion option. The azure waters of the river were abundant with brightly coloured fish, and this was clearly visible from our vantage point on the river bank. With a flurry of awkward but excited thumbs our wetsuits were zipped up, and our guide motioned us for all to enter the water, where he subsequently gave us a run-down on snorkelling techniques and how to get the most out of the swim.

There are a number of features of the Rio do Prata, which make it especially unusual. Firstly the gentle current, means that any budding snorkeller need not expend much energy whatsoever. All that was required was to simply lie outstretched, face down, and let the current do the rest. This Brazilian aquarium had its very own conveyor belt. Given this, our guide emphasised that there was no need to stand in the shallow water, as it would only displace the dark silt on the river floor, ruining visibility for anyone behind you. The second notable feature of the Rio do Prata was the temperature. It was surprisingly warm. We were informed that this would be the case for the course of one hour, before eventually rejoining the main river and much colder waters. Finally, and definitely the Rio do Prata’s most outstanding feature is the fish. We were instructed to keep our eyes peeled for black fish, and the large, toothy grinned golden fish. We had previously tasted the latter at our time in the Pantanal. This was a local delicacy of the Mato Grasso do Sul region.

With our instruction finalised we began exploring the waters near the river bank. Well for a minute at least. Margaret’s face-mask proved to be a source of frustration as it kept taking in water. After some negotiation with the guide though, she managed to convince him that it was a faulty pair of goggles and not her. With this Margaret was given a new pair and so we were once again gazing downwards into the few metres of water that was the extent of the depths of this river. It was a great experience, and very similar to that of the Great Barrier Reef, only this was remarkably inland. It was truly effortless work. You merely had to lie there, and a multitude of brightly coloured fish would swim by, within inches of your face seemingly without a care in the world. As we ventured down river, I opted to explore the darker river-banks, in the hopes of catching a glimpse of something a little more spectacular. An anaconda perhaps! I wasn’t quite sure what I would do if I saw one. Take a photo and swim at speeds such as that set previously on tour by Maurie (“Benny Hill”) when in search of a Bolivian bog? To my disappointment and perhaps also to why I live to write this tale, manoeuvring under dead logs near the rivers edge did not reveal an anaconda or any other snake for that matter. But it did reveal something of interest. Where the crystal clear waters of the Rio do Prata revealed an abundance of brightly coloured fish, snorkelling amidst the gnarled roots of trees and bracken adjacent to the river bank gave way to multitudes of black fish. It seemed the amount of light in the water determined the appearance of fish that swam there.

At the half way point in our river journey, the river current became much stronger, and so our guide lead us from the water back on to another rain forest trail. The adrenalin subsiding, I availed of the opportunity for a loo stop before taking the short walk to bypass the rapids and rejoin the rest of the group who at that stage had re-entered the churning waters, and so were chomping at the bit to get going. Despite being far from dangerous the waters still proved extremely turbulent. The group’s eagerness was palpable and it was clear from the outset that we were in for a great ride. Taking time out for a group photo, we allowed ourselves to be one with the current once more, and we were thrust along at great speed, before disappointingly slowing to the pace that we had set out at. With this brief exhilaration over, we finally spotted our first golden fish. These fish were impressively massive, completely gold in colour, with razor sharp teeth adorning an elongated jaw. I fought the current for a while to try and take some photos of these massive beasts, and was successful to a degree.

We eventually came to the end of the warm waters of the Rio do Prata. We waited here for a while for the rest of the group. A point of interest in where we had stopped was the bubbling spring emanating from the river bed, about 3 metres beneath us. The next few minutes saw some of us swim the depths to the river’s bottom to touch the bubbling sands. It seemed there was an underwater spring feeding the warm waters of the Rio do Prata. After the whole group had arrived, we then began swimming towards the mouth of the main river. Entering the waters of the main river was immediately noticeable. Where the waters of the fast moving currents had been pleasant, the temperature had now become very cold. Added to this, was the fact that the current was now not so strong, so it meant we actually had to swim to work our way further down the river. Probably the worst aspect to this new body of water was the visibility – it was now no more than a metre. Indeed the water was now a dark colour, no doubt a filter for the tannin leaching roots of the many trees lining the banks. At least we could see what was lurking in the earlier stretch of the river, now we would just have to hope that there was nothing sinister swimming with us. I decided I didn’t want to see an anaconda after all. But then I thought, it would be just my luck, to be taken by an anaconda, and not actually get to see the darn thing.

We did have the offer of a boat ride though, to take us the last hundred metres through the chilled waters of the Rio do Prata. Only a handful elected to take this option though. So, Margaret and I struggled slowly through the cold, and were relieved when we finally caught sight of the finish line. A small dock marked the end of our Rio do Prata odyssey, and we didn’t hang around too long after we arrived there. Clambering out of the cold dark depths we removed our wet-suits and headed for the warmer climes of the change rooms, which conveniently stood a mere few metres up the incline from the river’s edge.

Having dried ourselves, we headed back to the tour company office for an included lunch and some rest in those oasis-like hammocks. Lunch was met with a voracity that only swimming for two hours can bring. The food was great, and especially the dessert. “MMMMM Dulce de Leche!” This was not lost on some of the other locals. A few parrots descended on the tables and began pecking at the food on peoples plates. What was a novelty to us though, was an annoyance to the owners. They began sending the parrots on their merry way, but they didn’t go too far. After they decided that settling on a pole was safe enough, Ian (“Baby Alpaca”) decided to go and feed the cheeky birds. Ian, fine tuning his bird pulling skills, very quickly had the parrots besotted with his charms. The parrot entertainment did lose its appeal eventually when a wave of tiredness descended on the Rio Ring. It wasn’t long before the group were nestled in the comfort of a flotilla of low lying hammocks.

The day’s excursion was not yet over though. On our way back to Bonito, those of us who had elected to take a look at the macaws were dropped off for the half hour tour. Alighting from the bus we were greeted with what appeared to be sparse and open scrub land, punctuated by the occasional scattering of some tall trees. The only instructions from our guide were to keep to the path and follow the signs, and then all would be revealed. Apparently we would then be witness to a huge massing of macaw. Joanne was beside herself at the prospect. Expecting to be inundated with macaws, our group began exploring the circuit. Within minutes, we saw a lone red macaw screeching and clinging to some sparse branches of a tall eucalypt. This was very cool, given that for most of the group getting a good look at a macaw had up until now proved elusive.*

* Excluding the fleeting glances of the macaws in the Pantanal, there were an exceptional few of us who had actually already been close to a macaw. The three hard-core lads who had survived Bolivia’s Death Road, had been treated to the antics of a couple of macaws at their finishing point in the Coroico Valley. The three lads I speak of course were Glenn, Michael and yours truly.

Venturing further along the trail quickly revealed yet another of Brazil’s remarkable sights. Hundreds of them! We could hear them first. The macaws are noted for their screeching, but in large quantity it can only be described as sheer cacophony. Shortly after hearing the strident chorus of macaw banter, we saw them, a flurry of red and blue darting to and fro, amidst the trees about 20 metres or so in front of us. We watched fascinated for a few minutes, before following the path further around, to a look out. What ostensibly had appeared to be a vast open flat revealed a massive hole in the earth. The diameter of the hole was a few hundred metres across, and a couple of hundred metres deep. The hole was edged by rugged, red cliff walls that descended into a bed of green trees and shrubs, giving this macaw habitat the appearance of an overgrown quarry. The sheer cliffs of this colossal cleft are lined with salt and nutrients, which the macaws happily lick to their hearts content. So ideal was this place for the macaw, that they are truly prolific here. After viewing them for a while, watching some dart across the ravine and then down into the pocked cliff face, we moved further around. The path proved to be a circuit around the entire circumference of this macaw sanctuary.

Upon reaching the opposite side, we had another great vantage point of the initial flock we had seen. We were fascinated further when the exotic birds set flight, almost in unison, and landed in a group of trees only about 20 metres away. To our marginal disappointment they chose not to come any closer than that. We could have stayed there for longer, but thirty minutes was to be our maximum, given the rest of the group who had decided not to pay the extra ten Real for this little jaunt, were waiting patiently for us on the bus. In any case, this trip was still well worth it. If Joanne was beside herself before, she was now positively elated at the entire experience. It would seem that in South America, where in one place disappointment may come from seeing a unique animal only sparingly, there is always somewhere else on this continent that this elusive animal lives in welcoming multitude. This macaw Mecca was one such example.

After our macaw experience we re-boarded the bus, and a short while later found ourselves back in Bonito, much to the gratitude of our necks and legs. That evening, and after much deliberation, Margaret and I decided that we would elect to go and visit the Mimosa water falls the following morning. Dany informed us that we had a free morning the following day, so we could either choose to sleep in, spend it in the numerous T-shirt shops or do this particular tour. After twisting Margaret’s tourist arm, we were going to do the Mimosa tour and so that meant any souvenir shopping had to be done that evening. So that night the mission was gorge some food and

then get some shirts. Well, that’s the way it was positioned. I soon learned that it was the other way round. We were to finish our tourist obligations before eating our meal. I wasn’t happy. Margaret was in her element.

There appears to be as many T-shirt shops in Bonito as there are fish in the Rio do Prata, but like the very same fish some were better viewing than others. However, this is where the comparison ends. Where we weren’t obligated to look at every fish that revealed itself in the river, every T-shirt shop in Bonito was to be held with much scrutiny. Despite, visiting I’d say, every T-shirt shop in Bonito, we eventually bought about half a dozen from one shop only. This was before my whinging finally saw us look for a place to eat. We opted to grab something at the Taboa café, which was where the rest of the group were, the majority of which had elected to have the following morning off, and so were already well in the relaxation groove. Ordering some food, Margaret and I took in the surrounds of the Taboa café. The most unusual feature of this tourist’s café was that the walls were covered in Graffiti. Most of it was your obligatory tourist blurbs “I was here” etc, but there were some more unusual ones.

After some discussion over a few caiprioskas* the group decided that the Rio Ring needed to be immortalised on the walls of this establishment. Specifically, a tucan had to be drawn, which was bigger and better than that of another tucan which had been drawn by a previous Tucan group that had clearly passed this way a month or so earlier. I’m not sure whether I offered, or whether it was a general consensus, but I was the one given the arduous task of standing precariously on a bench to draw a tucan on the yellow walls of the Taboa.

Although it had been a long time since I had drawn anything, not since high school in fact, I decided to have a go at it. Well, if truth be told, just like the school yard, the peer pressure was now telling. It was high pressure work, and I began to regret every snide remark I had made in my life about Rolf Harris. This clearly had come back to haunt me, especially when I finished my work. What resulted on the walls of the Taboa was to say the least a most ordinary impression of a tucan. In fact it resembled a sea gull with about as much charisma as the breath of a coca-masticating Bolivian. That said though, the drawing seemed to go down as well as the caiprioskas, particularly when I began inscribing the names of group members on the wings of this poor excuse for a bird. What drew the most applause was officially declaring our tour leader Dany as Captain, and Alpaca Alan Chamings as Vice Captain.

* The caiprioska is like a caipirinha, but contains vodka instead of cachasa. This drink is most suited for those who have stomachs averse to sugar-cane alcohol. That said, a good caiprioska contains enough vodka to make up for any loss in cachasa potency. This was noted, given Dany our tour leader was on his third caiprioska and suitably wired to the moon.

I’m not sure how long the proprietors will leave the picture up there for, but it will probably be too long for anyone with any ounce of artistic taste. I concluded my graffiti exploits by signing my name, together with the name of the most obscure city in the world, and curiously the one that I grew up in: Wollongong. I wrote this at the bottom of the wall, near a doorway, and had to bend over most awkwardly to write it. This was to the amusement of a dog, who being besotted with my backside attempted to molest me. These were tough graffiti conditions, but I persevered and managed to get it written while warding off the advances of this amorous Brazilian dog. Soon after I had finished writing, Maurie (“Benny Hill”), in the absence of the Incredible Horst declared the availability of the 71 year old, super man to all and sundry above the doorway of the Taboa. “For a good time, email HHHB” is how it read. Quite innocuous really and the email address just below this bold statement was an additional nice touch from Maurie.

Having had enough of the graffiti antics, Margaret ventured back to the hotel, while I finished off my peach caiprioska. This was one of the many caiprioska varieties offered by the Taboa. In fact, some members of our group by this stage in the night had indulged in just about every flavour. Avoiding another booze onslaught though, I slipped out after two caiprioskas and made it back to the hotel. I barely had time to think about the following day’s trip to Mimosa water-falls, as I was asleep within minutes.

Only five of our group had decided they wanted to avail of the trip to Mimosa Water falls. Dan (“The Man”) and Kim (“Stand By Your Man”) our newly consummated Rio Ring couple, the Incredible Horst, Margaret and myself had decided to forego a sleep in and take the tour to the apparently beautiful Mimosa falls. Breakfast was at its Brazilian best, and much of the morning’s discussion amongst this group of five was whether or not we should bring swimming gear. The day had revealed overcast skies and so we were in two minds, given we had had our swimming fix the previous day. But, the friendly proprietor of the hotel soon swayed us, and informed us that swimming at Mimosa was all part of the experience. So after a lot of foosterin’ and general feckin’ about, we were eventually prepared for the days outing – complete with swimming gear.

Our guide arrived for the 9am departure on time and it seemed for this excursion we would not be subjected to the joys of Juca’s bus. Travelling in a small group proved to be quite advantageous as this time, we were ferried aboard a waiting mini-van. It was approximately an hour’s journey from Bonito to the Mimosa falls. We were a little dubious about our decision to bring swimwear given the weather didn’t look too promising through the entire journey. But as we arrived at the entrance to the Mimosa falls park, the cloud cover lifted a little and revealed a few welcome rays of sun. The Mimosa park setup was very similar to that of the Rio do Prata. A similarly constructed tourist office, shop and restaurant set amidst some beautifully well kept grounds. Curiously though – no hammocks.

We were only kept a short while at the office. Enough time to pay for our trip, visit the loos to change into our swimming gear, and of course be fitted with the obligatory scuba boots. Before we set off, we learnt that there was a minor glitch in our tour organisation. Apparently, they didn’t have an English speaking guide. So we would have to put up with listening to Portuguese and at best a few broken words of English. We weren’t too disappointed though, given we were just happy to take in the sights and do a bit of swimming. I figured the only time it may come in handy to understand Portuguese, was if the guide, in the course of our venture, said something like “Don’t swim there – you might die!” Surely, this wouldn’t prove dangerous though. But, we did have a communication saviour in the form of a young Brazilian girl, who was taking in the same tour with her younger sister and her parents. This particular girl, spoke both English and Portuguese fluently, and so offered to help out with some of the commentary. With this in mind, two mini-vans set off toward the verge of the rain-forest, which enclosed the Mimosa water-falls.

As with our Rio do Prata excursion the previous day, we were informed that we had a ten minute walk through a rain forest trail before we would come to the Mimosa Falls. Leaving the vans behind, we set out on the walk and I took particular interest in the Anteater signs that lined the trail. There would be another uniquely Brazilian animal that we could add to our list. So, we kept our eyes peeled throughout the walk, ignoring the Portuguese commentary, but surprisingly by Brazilian standards, we saw no wildlife. Before we had given up in search of rainforest wildlife, we came upon the first in a series of waterfalls. We learned, care of our Brazilian tourist friend that the falls were a series of cascades. There was actually no need for this translation, given that by the time we stood at the verge of the first cascade, we could see the foaming summit of another within metres of us. The swimming call soon went up, and I decided to go for it. The water was invigoratingly cold, but after a while it was pleasant. Margaret joined me and we swam underneath the white-veil of the first cascade. Dan and Kim shortly followed after, but it seemed that this time around that Horst was having second thoughts about his bravery. He elected not to swim, on the grounds he wasn’t feeling well, or was it because he was happily admiring the figures of the two Brazilian girls who clad in bikinis slowly made their way into the water shortly after Dan and Kim. Horst happily took some photos of us with my camera, and I promised I’d send him the one he had slyly taken of our Brazilian translator’s 16 year old, younger sister. Horst you dog you, I thought at the time. Still, when in Brazil, it is difficult not to admire some of the wildlife.

After a few minutes swimming, we returned to the trail and were eventually treated to swims in yet another two lagoons, both of which stood at the feet of magnificent foaming curtains of water. One lagoon was particularly spectacular. The height of the falls was at least 6 metres, and the waters descending into the lagoon did so with a tumultuous roar. We learned that it was possible to swim under the veil of the falls, into a small grotto beyond. Given I was a fish in my former life, I did this with ease, and after some coaxing I managed to get Margaret to do the same. We sat for a few minutes on some outcropping rocks within the grotto and watched the implacable sheet of white crash in front of us. It was really cool.

The next part of the journey, involved traversing some undulating steps, until eventually we arrived at a small dock. Here we all boarded a canoe for a short jaunt down river to the beginning of yet another trail to yet another waterfall. It seemed the cascades of Mimosa were endless. I inquired of our Brazilian interpreter what Mimosa actually meant. She said it meant cows milk. Not all that auspicious, but I guess kind of apt given the foaming water. It was also on this short boat ride that, after regaling our adventures in the Pantanal and Bonito to the Brazilian girls that they revealed they had in fact seen an anaconda on a previous days excursion. Unfortunately for us, where they had seen the elusive snake was in a river which we would not be visiting as part of our tour. “Gutted!”

After several more water-falls, we began electing not to swim, as by this stage we were almost swum out. But, seeing our new found complacency, our guide had saved the best till last. As we doubled back along the trail, in the direction we had come, the guide took a fork that eventually lead us to another waterfall adorned lagoon. On first inspection, this was no different than any of the other beautiful falls we had seen – but this had a bit of a twist. Immediately to the right of the bank, a set of stairs carried upwards to a wooden gang-plank. Yes, it seemed there was a challenge on offer. A 6 metre jump in fact. Cool, I thought. It wasn’t too long before I was peering over the edge into the lagoon below. The height was incredibly deceiving. It certainly looked worse from the top, than it did below.

I stalled for a couple of minutes, but eventually I rose to the occasion and took the plunge. The second or two it took to drop into the water, felt like a near eternity. It was enough time in any case to brace myself, and I hit the water with no apparent injuries. My fear overcome, I ventured back to the rest of the group who had viewed my jump from the river-bank. I decided, that it was too much fun, so I was soon jumping again, this time with a mighty “WHOOP!” I had jumped a second time, within a minute of the first. Now at this point, there were no other interested parties in taking the jump, with the exception of the younger of the Brazilian girls. I gathered from her sister that she would only do it, if she watched me jump before her. So off we went up the stairs to the plunge-point. I’m not sure how much English she understood, all I said was “jump like this” and in I went for the third time.

Mimosa Falls, Bonito, Brazil

After much coaxing and her threatening to back out, she took the jump, to the abated breaths of her parents who looked on worried. Now, all this adrenalin charged activity was enough to wake Horst from his weariness. He decided it was time to have a go as well – and as usual he didn’t disappoint. The 71 year old, took the 6 metre plunge all in his stride and it was apparently water off a duck’s back.

A final cascade saw Margaret have her last swim, before we wearily trudged the remaining trail back to the vans. After changing into some dry clothes, we were then ferried back to the park office. It was here we were treated to a scrumptious Brazilian lunch, and it was here also that marked the last time in our South American trip that we would actually set eyes on a caiman. There was a lagoon in the front of the office building, and in it a few small caiman were peering above the water line, still as logs. My caiman watching was interrupted though, when abruptly the call came to leave. As it turned out, we actually had a tight deadline to meet. It was almost pushing 2pm and we were meant to be leaving Bonito with the rest of the group at this time, for our evening’s journey to the border of Brazil and Paraguay.

We said our farewells to our guides, our new Brazilian friends and caiman. The journey back to Bonito proved to be a little eventful. A few miles from the Mimosa Park entrance, the road had been dug up by an excavator, which to add to the convenience was also blocking the road. Given our time constraints, the driver decided to chance his arm, and hauled his car into the thick, lush grass at the road side, to go around. Unfortunately though, there was a good mound of freshly dug dirt and rock on the road verge, and the van got a little stuck as it tried to negotiate it. In fact, it was quite possible that if he attempted to floor it, that he may actually remove the van’s muffler in the process. For a good ten minutes, the driver disappeared underneath the van, removing dirt and boulders. After a grunt, and ignoring our offers to help, he nonchalantly hopped back into the driver’s seat, and gunned the engine. The van groaned a little, but it made it, and we braced ourselves as the van drove through the thick grass to bypass the dug up road. To our complete surprise we did not get bogged in the grass, and we returned to the main road with a rousing cheer. And so it was, we didn’t have to wait too long before we found ourselves back amongst the Rio Ring in downtown Bonito. Still we had arrived pretty late and so we left the tour driver in our wake and made a bee-line for our rooms to organise our packs. Packing in record time, a short time later we were boarding Juca’s magic bus. The four hour trip to the border town of Ponta Pora, would be our last trip with Juca. We delighted in this thought for about five minutes, but were soon distracted by the marauding army of white cattle that had blocked the road and were being mustered around the bus. Ten minutes of watching stupid cattle bounce off the side of Juca’s motionless bus. Every jolt the bus took was a major set back for Juca and tour group relations. Juca was not happy. But after another half hour or so, nor were we. By this stage we were dozing and waking in fits and starts care of that all too familiar ache in the back of the neck.

Later that evening, complete with stiff necks we were finally able to say farwell to Juca and piss off to his bus. We had arrived at our hotel in Ponta Pora, on the border of Brazil and Paraguay. Our hotel was humorously called Hotel Barcelona – no doubt in a tribute to Manuel the waiter.

Margaret and I decided to avoid the group eating dynamic that evening, and began to search for an Internet café. Dany had said that there weren’t any in Ponta Pora, but we were determined to find one – given that our South American Footprints guide suggested there was. After wandering through the streets of Ponta Pora for a while, we decided to ask for directions outside the town’s Technical College – “Faculdades Integradas de Ponta Pora”. The security guard not understanding English, asked one of the students to speak to us – and soon after we found ourselves being lead through the corridors of the college, past bustling students, and then into a small room where a PC sat. Only problem with this was the fact that the PC was being used. But, after a flurry of Portuguese from an official, the student was instructed to leave, and low and behold Margaret and I had Internet access – and free access at that. We were pretty chuffed with the results of our adventure. This was tempered slightly by the fact that the Internet speed was only marginally quicker than that experienced in Potosi. We decided only to spend a few minutes, checking our emails after the guilt of forcing the student out of the room on our behalf. When we eventually arrived back at the hotel, we did so with a spring in our step. It hadn’t quite registered with us at this point, that the following day, we would be leaving glorious Brazil for the more economically challenged nation of Paraguay.