8. Bonito.

Bonito is beautiful. The dust roads stretch through town like an Oxfam advertisement, yet the local economy is booming thanks to the diamond-clear idyllic waters flowing in scenic forest nearby. We stumbled off the night-bus, knackered.

Travelling is exceptionally tiring anyway, and especially so on a budget where one’s feet are the primary method of transportation and map-reading suffers due to disturbed sleep in noisy dorm rooms. When time is tight, the urge to fill every waking hour with activity is so strong that the traveller eventually finds themselves so completely knackered that there is no option but to do nothing. Like in school, too much learning causes lethargy, and without a break it becomes a chore rather than an activity.

But then you stumble upon a place like Bonito. So charming and relaxing that nothing could be better or more welcome. We spent three full days in or beside the water. Karen and Quentin kept us company, and we bumped into Matt again, though didn’t get a chance to write down his email address before he was spotted leaving town on the back of a motorbike. And he was so desperate for the picture we took of him ‘with’ the alligator...

For two days we fed and jumped at giant dorado fish in the piercing sunlight, and for the other we floated downstream on inflatable rings, staring serenely through almost invisible water.

We felt so lucky to be where we were. With a combined age of under forty we were experiencing things that many people at home never got the chance to. We had the summer which never comes in England. The kind that you wait expectantly for only to discover that it is now October, and the wait must begin again. We were lucky, too, to be from where we were. Without being British we may never have gone anywhere. We had an exchange rate which allowed us to do practically anything our heart desired, and enough Portuguese to ask for beer and ice cream. Who could ask for more?

Bonito was refreshingly untouristed, though that looked set to change. The town was just starting to be featured in guides, and word of mouth was spreading. When we were there only the main commercial drag was paved, but movements towards the spread of tarmac were already in operation. That seemed like a shame at the time, but looking back, I wonder why. The increased wealth of the area was no bad thing for anybody, surely. Other travellers talked of the ‘Westernisation of paradise’, but what exactly does that mean? Is tarmac a cultural symbol or an achievement of practicality?

I wonder if a part of travelling for some people is the reassurance of their own home comforts. Certainly we met some backpackers and travellers in general who visit poor countries to see how the other half lives. Maybe what these people need is a reason to settle down and accept life as it is for them at home. Real possibilities elsewhere and the prospect of radically changing one’s own life are often more terrifying than exciting.

Much like us, many young people feel dissatisfied with their lives in their hometowns. There seems to be such a big world full of possibilities out there, and so few at home. I suppose for some the realisation that so much has to be sacrificed to live somewhere more exotic is the catalyst for accepting home as home; which is perhaps a suppressed desire from the start anyway.

Maybe we fall into that bracket too, but if so then we are yet to come to terms with it. Settling down is an inevitability, but England is so drab and flaccid that at times it seems like the very worst option. Bleats of ‘mortgage’ and ‘jobs’ from family and friends only serve to solidify the desire to do something original, something outstanding.

I’m sure this all sounds idealistic to many. But sometimes I am overcome with the urge to jump to my feet and just say “Fuck this world, I have so much more to give than this.” So much achievement and progress is limited by the prevalent social order. I want to contribute something worthwhile, why is that so hard to achieve or for others to accept? Maybe I’m still too young to know any better, or maybe I am just what I am. Maybe this is me and will continue to be me for ever, regardless of what other people thing. I don’t want to abandon my life and civilisation like some people do, but I do want to live out my own existence. Rich or poor, happy is me. Unhappy me is a pain in the arse. That's the way it is.

I think my point is that for some people travelling is entertainment and a temporary diversion, whereas for me, and I hope for Laura as well, it is a process of self-rationalisation. It is learning how to be a reasonable person, how not to take anything for granted, and how to truly appreciate diversity. Through experience, people get better.

7. Campo Grande and the Pantanal.

Travelling on a budget is an adventure in itself. Thinking of ways to save a couple of Reals here and there is good fun, though ultimately pointless once you’ve then spent twice that amount on churros. One idea which does make a lot of sense is catching night-busses. You save the cost of a bed for the night and get where you want to go without losing too much of the day.

When possible, go for a ‘cama’ bus. They are more expensive than the rubbish bus and a night in a hostel combined; but faster, more comfortable and allow what some may call sleep. Despite our first impressions, let’s be clear, it isn’t sleep. Comfortable as it may be the difference between lying down on a bed and leaning back quite far on a seat is actually quite large. It’s more like a hypnosis caused by the endless sound of tires on tarmac and streetlights swooping past. Occasionally that spell is broken by sudden braking and the running over of animals, or the smell of the on-board toilet door being opened. Or, worse still, having to change busses in a sleepy haze.

All of these things happened on our bus(es) to Campo Grande. When we arrived, we were surrounded by scouts offering tours to the nearby Pantanal wetlands. A guy called Matt whom we had befriended on the bus had booked ahead for one of these, so we followed his tip and signed up.

Campo Grande sucked. It was a stopover town. Eventually we found a nice pizza restaurant where Matt and I had a battle of who could eat the most. I proudly won, as I always do. Matt made various excuses about jet-lag and suchlike. Apparently he was a web-designer, and was stereo-typically built for a tougher contest. What a disappointment.

It was at this restaurant that we first discovered the bizarre Brazilian custom of Pressured Pizza Consumption (PPC). Your pizza arrives, and the waiter kindly presents the first slice to your waiting plate. You calmly eat your portion, wondering why said waiter keeps looking over. Your slice is finished, but, what’s this? The waiter springs from behind a plant to load the next piece for consumption. Your plate has become a Pez-dispenser. This has to be experienced to be understood, but the pressure to eat and keep on eating, or get the hell out right now, is stupendous.

We began to think we were being taken for a ride and getting laughed at, and developed various Service Block Manoeuvres (SBMs) to keep our own pace. The waiters looked disgruntled as we dished up another slice with half of the previous one remaining, or chewed on crusts until they weren’t looking and then piled up slices on our plates; but we felt the warmth of pride and achievement. We had won.

With nothing else to do, we went back to the hotel and I had a shave. The man at the desk smiled and said I was like a new man. Little did he know then that I had foiled the PPC.

The following day we would be leaving for the back of beyond, sleeping in hammocks, playing with parrots and paying through the nose for beer. We made the most of our ‘en-suite’ facilities/cupboards whilst we had anything resembling them, and lay awake in bed with grins of excitement.

25th July.

When the next day arrived, we stocked up on water and headed to the tour meeting point. We expected to arrive at some kind of camp site a few hours later, but after a coach took us four hours north, to a town called Miranda, we were told to wait for an hour for the next ride. There was a tourist restaurant and shop nearby which we browsed. For sale amongst stuffed piranhas and deer skulls were stuffed caiman in various poses. I found them hilarious, but Laura was appalled. I wonder if anyone actually bought something in that shop, and took it with them on safari. The thought of one of the people in the hammock next to us having a pair of caimans doing the waltz in their backpack was too funny for words.

Soon, we were greeted by a grubby little man chewing on his hat. He gestured us into the back of his off-road ex-military transport vehicle, and drove for another five hours into the Pantanal proper.

The ride was fantastic. Initially the road was worn, compacted dust. We sat on the rear edge of the vehicle and watched the ground rush away by degrees. “Look” boomed an impressive voice belonging to the tallest man on the continent. An extraordinary finger directed us to a poor of water. Around it lumbered giant guinea pigs (capybaras), and dozens of alligators. Cool. These pools were all over the place, as were larger swamps. Amongst and around the reeds we saw countless more alligators, deer, coati, anteaters and various large birds. There are of course countless reasons why it is better to see these animals in the wild than, as we have, in the zoo. But at that point we were filled with non-verbal appreciation. A feeling of gladness that your internal dialogue ignores is surely one of the greatest sensations.

We soon left this relatively smooth track to bounce through sand dunes and dense foliage. Later the sun slowly abandoned us. Never has the sky been so dark. Like a firing range, the sky displayed a billion tiny stars, planets, and, not a cloud, but the Milky Way. Neither of us had ever seen anything so beautiful, and nor have we now. Except, of course, when Laura first set eyes on me.

Eventually we arrived at our destination, where we were greeted with chicken curry and rice. I’ve long been in favour of quantity over quality where food is concerned, and I certainly had it.
Our hammocks were surrounded by a huge mosquito net which may well have worked if not for the large gash in the door. In any case, we were knackered, and slept soundly through the puncturing of our skin.

26th July. The Pantanal.

In the morning I nursed my bites with a numbing cold shower whilst Laura had a guide make her a necklace from a leaf and an alligator vertebra. How they got waterworks out there at all is a mystery. We wondered about the camp and admired the general scene. There were several small shelters, the mess hall – wooden pillars with a corrugated iron roof – the showers and toilets, and two sets of sleeping quarters for about a dozen people each. I love bushcraft – Ray Mears, Bear Grillis, etc. and the site had been designed and built in that simple but effective tradition. Log seats surrounded a fireplace in the centre, where a short, slight, dark Brazilian man petted a red macaw. I was walking over as it flew to a low branch above my head and dangled upside down by its claws. It squawked as memories of the bird park in Foz came flooding back with a cold sweat. We had a little chat with the Brazilian man, Bobby. It turned out that the macaw had somehow become attached to the campsite and spent most of each day there. I told him about the last macaw we had met, and showed him the video we had made on our camera. He thought it was the best thing he’d ever seen.

Those of us who had arrived the day before gathered around the fireplace and were divided into groups and designated a guide. We had Bobby as our man, and were in a group with the huge Czech man, his little girlfriend, and a Dutch couple (“but not a couple”) Quentin and Karen. We left to trek through the surrounding forest, as we would spend must of the next two days doing.

The Czech must have had a screw loose. He towered above all of us with his massive face, and took twenty photographs a minute. Any attempt at conversation with him scared off nearby birds with tectonic ripples. We left him to it and enjoyed the sights at lower altitude.

Wild boar families grazed in the distance, and the scenery of semi-parched, semi-swamped grassland dotted with patches of beautiful rainforest was home to dozens of Indian bovine, lolling inexplicably out of the bushes with blank expressions and cacophonous bells. Flocks of blue macaws flew and settled, scattered and cawed as we moved amongst them, and exploring the forest provided glimpses of toucans, a dead armadillo and a torrent of giant ants.

These were not your regular large ant. These were unstoppable machines. Thousands of them stretched in either direction. Bumper-to-bumper they ran along, having created actual roads with their repeated journeys. The sandy earth, usually covered in twigs, leaves and plant life, was bare wherever they trod. Their motorways stretched for miles, sometimes bisecting each other with terrifying-looking squabbles and frantic negotiations. Inch-long ants carried huge leaves, berries and other debris home to a network of holes.

Examining the scene more closely was fascinating. An area of several metres squared contained dozens of these little holes, all pointing towards a central point. Different parts of this area were populated by different sized and shaped ants, doing different jobs. Some were collecting food; some were removing dirt from the holes; some were moving larvae from one hole to another; and some were carrying bits of shell, only to turn back after being mocked by their peers. Ant life is nuts.

We left the forest and were confronted by an emu (or maybe ostrich), who turned and boinged its way away from us after seeing Quentin’s hideous face.

Later, skirting along a patch of forest Laura and I were beckoned madly by Bobby. The rest of the group were far behind, so we hurried to see what he wanted. His beckoning became more furious when we weren’t fast enough, and on our arrival we could see why. In the leafy undergrowth, sitting in the shadow of a great drooping branch, was a baby jaguar; one of the rarest sights in the country. Mad fumbling with the camera and startled intakes of breath scared the little guy off before the others joined us, and we set off to track it down.

After 10 minutes of hunting we came to our senses. We were chasing, nay hunting, a very young jaguar whose mother must surely be nearby. We were threatening her child. Have you ever seen Apocalypto? We gave up and glumly minded our own business.

The evening took our and Matt’s group to a beautiful lake. As we arrived, a six-foot alligator lumbered round the corner and stopped in front of us. “Don’t worry amigo,” charmed Bobby, “Is ok. You can do this,” he said as he stroked the placid reptile. It turns out that the difference between crocodiles and alligators is that the latter are a bunch of limp-wristed pussies who only eat fish, soy beans and malt loaf. For some reason I decided to push my luck, and had my photo taken biting its tail. “Ah… be careful amigo…” muttered a grimacing Bobby. Even wimps can snap, but luckily not this one.

Matt and I swam in the lake. Bobby assured us it was safe, but the numerous slimy eyes resting above water did their best to put doubt in our minds as they slipped menacingly below the surface. We survived, but I did feel like I’d done something a little bit careless. Their teeth were real, and so were the alligator instigated scars which all the guides except Bobby bore on their limbs and torsos. Pissing off wildlife, I decided, was best left to the Chinese.

Having said that, the next day I spent a quarter of an hour chasing a baby anteater through a cactus patch. I hope it fared better than my legs. It looked fine, if a little bizarre, as it climbed a tree to escape and then retraced its steps upside down. It stretched across two tree trunks like a naked Alf, tiny penis pointing at me angrily. “You crazy, amigo.” I think Bobby liked me.

After a beautiful trek through the forest on horseback, we were taken to the camp’s second base, a place called The Lodge on the bank of the Rio Negra. The horse riding was enough to keep us laughing for weeks. Seeing the Czech ogre on a horse was like watching a giraffe ride an elephant. Also of note was the big crowd of annoying Israeli teenagers. Dressed like homeless hippies, they pranced around, bizarrely, being loudmouthed Americans. There’s always one particularly annoying Israeli teenage guy. We saw several groups of Israelis on our travels, but there was always one. He generally had long hair, a massive face with flapping lips and a complete lack of anything interesting to say. Somehow he managed to have crowds of pouting girls, Israeli or otherwise, surround him. The cowboy gave him the smallest horse he could find.

In the morning we went fishing. We caught twenty something piranhas which we then ate for supper. A pointless exercise really, as they seemed to have nothing edible on them at all except the gunk in their spinal columns. The fishing was the fun part, though. Apparently that kind of piranha doesn’t eat people unless they are bleeding, so a couple of us waded into the water. One of the strangest sensations I’ve experienced is that of small leeches attaching themselves to my legs, only to be pulled off by piranhas a few moments later. I began to wonder if the leeches were big enough to make me bleed. Laura opted for having her leeches removed with Bobby’s machete. Wimp.

That afternoon was our goodbye to the Pantanal. We sat down to the same meal we’d had for the last three nights and chatted to the Czech and Dutch couples. Matt had left on the way to The Lodge to fit in more sights before his brother’s wedding in Rio.

There was a frog on the wall. “Surely that’s plastic” I said. “Ya”. No-one else agreed, so I decided to prove it. I took up my fork, thought better of it, and went over with my plate. On closer inspection it didn’t look any more alive than it had before. I gave it a hefty porcelain nudge and watched it fly into the air. It narrowly missed Christo Redentor who let out a powerful “ooorgh”, and painfully bounced its way across the floor. I felt all funny. I’m not religious, but praise the lord I didn’t use the fork.

The massive man and the rest of the group went back to Campo Grande, whilst Karen, Quentin, Laura and I went on to Bonito.

6. South American birds.

Like I said before, travelling without plans is great, as long as you have enough time to do whatever takes your fancy along the way. Knowing your limits is frustrating. Countless places and activities get left behind with promises of coming back one day.

We only had one place which we were desperate to go to: Macchu Picchu in Peru. Which was why our pouring over the cheap tickets to Asunción, Paraguay, and Buenos Aires, Argentina came to nothing. Instead we decided to hang around in Foz before heading off in a vaguely Westerly direction.

We had been so impressed by the waterfalls the day before that we decided to go back and see them again. We got on the bus with that intention, but quickly changed our minds when we saw a sign to the local ‘Parque de Aves’. We hopped off, paid our money, had a brief conversation with an emu and then headed into the park for a day in the life of caged birds.

For some reason we always end up in zoos or bird parks, wherever we are in the world, home or abroad. Birds in cages is pretty much always a bad idea. What kind of sadistic person keeps a budgie? Thankfully this park had a decent number of large aviaries where proper flying was a possibility. But it also had its fair share of grisly little enclosures for huge macaws. I comforted my enjoyment with the knowledge that I would probably kill and eat any one of those birds, and that they were probably happier being in their cages than meeting that fate. Therefore I was doing them a favour, really.

Realisticly the only parts of the park which were worth visiting were the walk-in enclosures. Chasing little egg-shaped birds along a path and staring an evil-looking black bird in the eye for ten minutes were worth the entrance fee alone. There was quite a lot of that, too. Particularly memorable was the macaw section. Distracted by several of the birds hanging upside down from the ceiling we didn’t notice the approach of half a dozen more behind us. Wings clipped our heads and squawks shook our eyeballs. I felt a little bit strange, and then got strangled. Turning to see just what was going on put me face to face with the colourful face of a curious bird, tugging at the string around my neck. How we laughed. Soon, however, the heavy poultry on my back became a little worrying. It was very cross. It was also completely unwilling to go away. It tried to bite me, then Laura. Pushing it didn’t work, nor did jumping up and down or moving violently. Just when I was considering calling the police, the bird decided that it had urgent business to attend to and left us to hurry swiftly from the enclosure.

There’s a lot to be said for the park itself. It’s huge, with thousands of birds spread over a large area of tamed tropical rainforest. Apparently some of them have been rescued from illegal exporters; cut out of cardboard postal tubes. Some are clearly still quite angry about it. A toucan rejected my advances by ripping off pieces of bark from the branch it was perched on and throwing them in my face.

We lingered in Foz a couple more days. We took a day trip to experience the waterfalls from the Argentinean side, and cannot recommend doing so enough. The view is much closer to the action, intimate, and nerve-wracking. The waist-high barrier alone stands between you and a several hundred metre drop. The old, ‘broken in a flood’ walkway stands nearby like a bad joke.

For some reason we then decided to see the ‘largest hydro-electric dam in the world’. Perhaps if it had been switched on it would have been worth the journey.

Aside from that disappointment, the trip had a more interesting element.

We missed the stop for the dam, and rode the bus in a circle. In so doing we saw Foz outside of the urbanised centre. Buildings slowly became more and more dilapidated. Classy modern houses crumpled into lean-to shacks. Bizarrely, the two often co-existed adjacent to one another. Streets would contain one or two luxury bungalows with swimming pools and 4x4s parked outside, surrounded by run-down ‘houses’ occupied by grubby children, twisted metal and broken glass. The only common denominator was dog ownership.

How Brazil manages to shamelessly maintain this inequality remains a mystery to me these years later. From Rio to Foz, how can a man eat steak with a view of the starving? But then, so much of the world works on this basis. The fact that it was so visible in this case doesn’t make it any different from the UK dumping excess food in the sea whilst 24,000 people a day die of starvation. I often think that the paper and metal that causes this ignorance will surely be the downfall of civilisation entirely. The current of currency infatuation causes wars, and leads to crippling, deliberate, international debt. This view may be simplistic, but is that reason enough to sit on one’s hands? Does the homeless Palestinian or orphaned Afghani care about global economics? Sooner or later the vengeful victims will outnumber the peacemakers, and whose fault will it be? I felt dry and corrupt inside.

5. Iguaçu Falls.

Someone once asked me if my adventurous lifestyle was a reflection of wanting to differentiate myself from those around me. He asked if I thought I was above them and wanted to make that overtly obvious. He thought I was wasting my time and money, and should snap out of my childish fantasy-world.

That was a case of complete misunderstanding and a clash of personalities. But on reflection, how much of what we do as travellers is based on our experiences at home and with others?

I feel like I travel because I need to have my options wide open. I want to be doing something new and unusual all the time, and if trapped in one place I get serious claustrophobia. I don't know where the feeling comes from, but I love the idea that I could live in any one of the places I have been; indeed any place I want, and move on when I get tired of it. Home has its fair share of fun and activities, but there's something about a different sky to jump out of, different river to swim down, different school to teach in, language to speak and people to know that makes me happy. And, though Laura differs on this one, I love not having a plan, or (more to her taste) having several and picking one at random. Maybe there's an element of danger in there for some people (especially our parents), but who cares? We laugh in the face of danger, and chuckle when we realise that we very nearly did need the travel insurance which we never got around to buying. The confident traveller doesn't need to justify himself or herself to anybody. The confident traveller likes, and commits exclusively to, what they want.

Ideally. Of course, sometimes you may find yourself in an inescapable position, arguing with the unreasonable as above, or having some Dutch hobo threaten to shoot you in the face. But this is character building, and in hindsight fuel for some of the best travel stories of your repertoire.

In fact it sometimes seems like the dangers of travelling are the real stimuli. The unknown and the scary are great fun. Being tailgated at night by a Spaniard with headlights on full-beam and horn blaring; creeping swiftly through the rainforest in persuit of a jaguar cub; crawling along a path with a 600-metre drop on one side, dehydrated and injured at one in the morning; desperately trying to calm down a drowning Laura: these are some of my favourite memories.

What the guy who asked me the questions at the start of this entry fails to understand is that travelling, and these fantastic experiences, have absolutely nothing to do with anyone else. Your own interpretation, as I have said, is based on what you feel inside. The joy of experiencing a certain thing comes from within your own consciousness, which is what makes it is so rewarding and emotional. For this reason guides get in the way, groups are rubbish, and the Brazilian side of Foz do Iguaçu is difficult to fully appreciate.

Ten hours on a bus wasn't as bad as we had expected. The 'cama' bus (with seats that recline to about 30 degrees) was comfortable enough, and we dozed pretty much continuously. We arrived in Foz at 6am, and in a fit of hyper-budgeting decided to walk to our hostel instead of taking the taxi. It was a nice idea, and not too bad in practice either, though it did take 2 hours of weighed-down trudging to get there.

Walking was a big part of all the travelling we did in South America. Not only did it burn thousands of calories, but it gave a decent ground-level view of the continent. I'd love to be able to instantly integrate into society in these places, but it's never going to happen. Putting oneself in the daily position of the population is a start, however. But instead of finding work or renting a house, we thought walking on their pavement would be adequate.

Foz do Iguaçu was not much of an improvement over Curitiba based on the town itself. We found hoards more European shops and restaurants, and the highstreet was clearly designed with an eye to tourism. Our hostel was very good, however. The Hostel International sign, as it was in general in South America, was a pretty good indication of reasonable standards. We got ourselves in dorms and contacted our families through the free internet access.

However, we didn't go to Foz to see the town or email our parents. We went there to see the billions of gallons of water exploding over the cliffs just outside of town – the Iguaçu falls.

One of the perks of staying in a Hostel International place is the information they have for travellers. They cost a bit more, sometimes much more, but win out on ease of use. We found out all we needed to know about getting around and seeing the highlights of the area from the guy sat at the reception. So, armed with his instructions we went and waited for the bus on the wrong side of the road.

When we eventually got on the bus, it took us to an official 'Iguaçu' coach full of tourists. We drove through some dense-looking jungle, and were let off at the start of a wooden walkway. This turned out to be our track to follow for the duration of our viewing. The whole group moved as one, very fast. Luckily we soon realised that we didn't actually have to move at their speed, it just meant we'd be jostled every now and again as another group walked past, cameras at the ready.

What's the deal with cameras, anyway? They seem to take such control of the photographer that they become more important than the experience itself. More than once I found the first thought in my head at a new attraction revolved around the best camera angle. Women seem particularly prone to this, and Laura's laptop overflows with thousands of pictures of the same people in the same poses.

The first few waterfalls were beautiful dainty streaks tumbling from the parallel cliff-face (which was actually Argentinean territory). The average height of these falls were well over 200-feet, and they imposed beautiful white streaks down the dark rock precipices. The walk was just over a mile and a half, featuring 275 waterfalls. That's a lot of waterfalls. In fact, the combined volume of water is apparently thrice that of Canada's Niagara falls.

The cliffs stood solid and tree-lined, water busting through wherever possible. Looking at all the protrusions from the rock, I was lost in dreams of caving heaven. Imagine the size and length of the caverns in such systems, despite the tough basalt rock… Laura gave me a look which clearly forbade any attempts to venture underground, and we trotted merrily on.

We took our sweet time along the walk, frustrating many safari-jacketed Americans living life through a lens. We had an encounter with the virtually tame Coatí of Foz; a kind of cross between ant-eaters and skunks. One must have smelt the banana in my bag, and managed to undo the zip and stick its head inside before I shoed the cheeky bugger off. Or at least tried to; a Brazilian lady asked me to kindly allow it to investigate the contents of my bag whilst she photographed the hilarious incident.

The path came to an end at the famous Devil's Throat, a horseshoe shaped cliff which offered unstoppable blankets of water falling hundreds of feet. A bridge extended towards the edge for visitors to peer down and around whilst being surrounded by falling water on three sides. Huge clouds of mist swirled around, and a game of count-the-rainbows lay beckoning.

Humbled, soaked and tired, we headed for the bus-stop.

As usual, I was hungry. The on-site fast food place served what masqueraded as a "Super-hotdog". Dissapointed that it was not hot as in spicy, hot as in sexy, or hot as in warm, I searched for the words to describe its unique texture. A German teenager put it more eloquantly than I ever could have as he projectile vomited across the pavement. "His mouth must taste like mine" I mused.

Little did we know then that this teenager would stalk us the entire width of the continent, over three countries and thousands of miles.

4. Curitiba and the cultural baggage.

I've heard that the Japanese actually see the world differently (to us Westerners) because of their writing system. Apparently that's why they take photographs of traffic signs, chavs and council flats. That got me thinking about why we travel. Seeing new things and interpreting them in relation to what you're used to seems to make a lot of people happy. I wonder how quickly that honeymoon period would slither into the banal were we to emigrate to the postcard or photograph. The traveller is always seeking new things because they are consistently discontent with the known. Yet sometimes we do miss that known. Most of us find ourselves in McDonalds or Pizza Hut abroad from time to time, even if we don't eat there at home; probably because we're just bored of putting the effort into acclimatisation. Everyone needs to just relax from time to time, whatever we're doing, and however relaxing that doing is in itself. Knowing exactly what to expect is relieving.

However, Curitiba was rubbish. Not because it was freezing cold there, but rubbish because it is home abroad. We were there on the back of Robby's advice, but should have worked out earlier that he didn't really understand what we were all about. Laura and I travel on a shoestring budget, and want to experience the best of a foreign culture available within our means. Advice like "you fly there, is much more fast" and "I know driver, you hire driver there" should have set alarm bells ringing. Well, we were young and stupid, and you learn from your mistakes.

In hindsight, a driver would have been fabulous. Curitiba is surrounded by beautiful gardens. In fact, the city has 54 square metres of grass/garden for each inhabitant; every one of the almost 2 million people. It's just a shame that it's so difficult to get to any of it. Having said that, the public transportation system is exemplary. The bus-stops look like immaculate horizontal glass tumblers, and are visited by bendy busses every couple of minutes. The system proved too complicated for us stupid kids, however. We got off our bus about 15 minutes too early, and wondered around a scruffy American-style neighbourhood for an hour before emerging in a carbon copy of Bristol (our home town in the UK) city centre.

The novelty wore off in minutes. We walked past H&M, Marks and Spencers, the obligatory fast food outlets and a myriad of other familiar shops, mystified. We found a very cheap place to stay, and then discovered real Brazilian electronics.

Bare wires dangled in the shower, and equally bare wires connected the television set to the plug socket. We decided to leave them well alone.

The bathroom was to become something of a regular feature of en-suite rooms throughout South America. The so-called 'en-suite' was a plastic sliding wall erected inside the main room with a toilet and cold shower (of sorts) behind it. Privacy was reserved for the public toilets. But at £2.50 each per night, who cares?

We were seriously disappointed that Churros weren't popular in Curitiba, but eventually found a curiously fatty variation that satisfied our needs, and fuelled us to do what tourism our legs would allow.

The buildings of the centre, and indeed all of Curitiba that we saw, were spectacular European structures; it just wasn't what we wanted to see at the time. Really, that was a shame. Looking it up now, we did miss an awful lot of impressive architecture, gardens, and cultural diversity. Sure, it doesn't look very Brazilian, but the foreign-themed parks and edifices do offer very dignified and pleasant viewing.

I guess this take us back to what I started this short entry talking about: the travellers' problem of the known. Travellers, like everyone else, must sometimes just be content with where they are, and make the most of it.

In the end, we stayed for a night and then moved on.

3. The rest of Rio.

We slept for 12 hours. After ingesting some ham and cheese, Laura and I explored Flamengo beach alone. We sunbathed, drank more coconut milk, and contemplated how lucky we were to be in such a beautiful country. We were content to sit and enjoy each other’s company in the pleasant heat; watching dozens of young, fit Brazilians jog around the beach, and some old fat Brazilians try to look cool as they exercised in spasms.

After a while, though, the curse of the traveller started nibbling at our toes – the need to go and see thing whilst we still had time. Somehow it was possible to feel time slipping away with 70 days left. I suppose that was our fault for imagining we could see the whole continent in that time. Lesson learned: don’t be too ambitious, and don’t fly back from your starting point. It’s an expensive, and stressful, way to travel.

In the afternoon Robby took us to a city on the other side of the bay: Niterói; where we took a tour of the Contemporary Art Museum, designed by one Oscar Niemeyer Soares Filho. Filho is quite a name in Brazil. Not only did he pioneer the possibilities of using reinforced concrete in building construction, but he also designed huge parts of the city of Brasília. However, he eventually got kicked out of Brazil for being a filthy lefty.

The building itself was amazing, and gave panoramic views of Robby's city, and the bay of Guanabara through its curved glass walls. Unfortunately, you can’t polish a shit, and the art inside was modern to say the least. Hundreds of bricks bore the slogan ¨Repieter¨ whilst terracotta eggs hung in wire structures. It all stank of GCSE ‘art’ projects: it starts off as something of a curiosity until you realise that there really doesn’t seem to be any depth beyond the obvious. Ultimately, the exhibition was vaguely interesting, but it was easy to see why some critics argue that the architectural sculpture of the museum itself upstages the art inside.

Afterwards Robby took us to sit by the sea to drink beer and Caipirinhas. Laura only had one, but nevertheless afterwards walking proved a struggle. Robby says that the best seafood in Brazil is served in Niterói, but it was too early to eat, so we took the ferry back to Rio; a lovely and inexpensive way to see the islands and bay.

Looking over the water it was possible to see flavelas rising up the hills. The vast inequality started to sink in, and I asked Robby about something he had said the day before; that ¨in Brazil there is not the link between rich country and rich people¨. Brazil sits comfortably in the top 10 countries by GDP, but per capita languishes in the 60s.

¨Why is that?¨ I asked.

¨Two reasons – politics corruption and debt to America. If America said no more Brazil debt, people here maybe live better. No flavela maybe.¨

This seems to be a colonial trait that occurs the world over. Take control of a country, cripple it, and lend it money it can never pay back to fix it. Then watch as the leaders of the country take it for a ride. This pattern occurs globally, but nothing seems to change. Why do people stand for it? There should be fighting in the streets over that kind of injustice. Why does the monopoly of force reside within the state alone? Sure, the state has the armed forces, but what soldier would fight the nation? Robby didn’t understand what I was talking about. Anyway, if he had perhaps I would have been thrown out of the country like Oscar Filho.

Conversation moved on, and Robby admitted his failed marriage. He´s 38 and has a beautiful daughter whom he never sees save for a photograph on his fridge. Sad, but perhaps not as sad as the fact that his aspiration is to be the 'number one Rio hostel for Bristolians'. We taught him how to say ¨gert lush¨, and ¨how bist you?¨. His grin was wide. Apparently the first two people who stayed with him were also from Bristol.

From the centre we took the subway, and Robby introduced us to a wonderful street snack - a kind of cinnamon covered pancake sausage filled with chocolate or butterscotch* called a churro, bought from popcorn sellers. Not your average, continental churro, oh no. The Brazilian version has to be experienced to be understood.

*We are addicted.

Also available on the streets are corn on the cob, hotdogs, coconuts of course, sweets, toys, clothes and gambling. Not least, to be found everywhere are dogs: "200,00 dogs just in Rio". Not just ordinary dogs, either. No, Rio has to take it to another level and decorate every man woman and child with a tiny, ugly animal that instantly attracted Laura’s adoration. I started to worry that perhaps this was a reflection of our relationship...

Over the next few days we did the compulsory sightseeing. First up was the Loaf of Sugar that had been in view for most of our previous few days of excitement. How impressive it was, too. We took a bus to the foot, a cable car to the top of the first hump, Morro de Urca (after avoiding persistent guides), another to our target, Pão de Açucar, and took in a deep breath. From 1,300 feet, before us lay the whole of Rio. The beaches of Ipanema, and Copacabana, the flavela of Babylonia, the sumptuous Tijuca Forest, Christ the Redeemer still far above us, the Bay of Guanabara, and in the distance, Niterói. We could see everything we had done in Rio so far and retrace our footsteps. Around us danced little monkeys, happily posing for photos with hungry eyes. It wouldn’t have been much of a shock if they had held out their hands and muttered “ey yankee, you pay for picture”.

Despite our return tickets on the cable-car, we decided to walk the tropical track down the mountain, searching for wildlife along the way. Animals we saw none, but lizards, luscious plants and trees there were plenty. We left bananas in strategic places to feed the nervous monkeys we knew must live nearby, and made our way gently down. The foot of the mountain led us onto a small but perfectly formed beach, where we waded and celebrated life.

We bought churros and then decided to walk back to Robby's house. It took a couple of hours, but was a nice way to see the beaches of the city (though not all are as lovely as Copacabana - one was covered in millions of cockroaches, and smelt of sewerage). We also saw many huddles of stray cats amongst the rocks, scrutinising the large white birds perched on the shore.

Later that evening two Austrian girls arrived to stay with Robby and went straight out to party, immediately smitten by his Brazilian charm. The next day we all made the trip to Christ the Redeemer together, atop Corcovado Mountain. Again, amazing views awaited us, though slightly pale in comparison to Sugar Loaf due to the setting and crowds. No monkeys in sight, but lizards and large insects seemed to blend in with every rock. Robby and the girls quickly developed a more than friendly relationship.

Like Tom Cruise, in person Jesus is a surprisingly small guy. The white statue stands 120 feet tall, which may not be as small as the guy from Top Gun, but considering its visibility from all of Rio was surprising up close. I guess it is what you do with it that counts. The tourist value of this white version of the jet-black prophet was obvious, and Laura and I ruined several dozen people's photos trying to get our own, and vice versa. Stopping at the bar for Caipirinhas, as it was on Sugar Loaf, was tempting, but the Catholic price for our desires quietened the possibility.

That evening and the next day were spent on Copacabana beach, in temperatures high for us (34C), but low for those who, like Robby, see the city and swim in the seas the year round. We admired sand sculptures of scantily clad chicks, perused local crafts and swam in the tepid sea. I battled large waves, gaining bruises and embarrassment in the process, and swam till exhaustion reared its elongated head and sent us home.

But what trip to Rio de Janeiro would be complete without experiencing the nightlife? Robby is not short on practice showing tourists a good time in the busy night-time streets of Rio, and took us to the famous Lapa district. After riding the tube, we arrived in a large square composed of huge buildings, almost all of which seemed to either sell fast food, beer, or be a nightclub. All the clubs were packed full of locals and tourists, charging a mint for entry. We ended up dancing in the front garden of a gay club playing such classics as George Michael’s “Outside”, “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” by Cindy Lauper, and the classic “Ride on Time” by Black Box. Fun was had, and after a couple of hours Robby moved us on.

We walked down a few dark and dirty streets, becoming more and more crowded until it was necessary to literally push our way through. Music came from every open door, all of which seemed to be a club or bar of some sort. Samba would bust from the glassless windows of one building, whilst across the street Britney Spears jostled with trance beats for aural dominance. Dotted at very regular intervals were carts selling beers, caipirinhas, and vodka mixes in rubber tubes. Some were semi-professional looking stalls, others seemed as if it was a last minute decision of a local to buy some cans, get out the picnic cool-box, and sell beer to revellers.

As thick as the crowd was the marijuana smoke. Luscious smells of exotic strains coated the air above and around us. We wondered to the infamous Escaderia Selaron, a mosaic covered giant staircase in the artists’ district. Stoned teens crowded the steps; sitting, lounging, giggling; open-mouthed and bleary-eyed, desperately trying to moisten cracking lips. We sat and watched soaked in the sights, smells, sounds and aura of this domesticated wonder. “No police?” I ask. Robby replies “Police do not care. Here is for party and police stay away”. By the density of the partiers it would have been too big a task to govern anyway, and we saw no violence that night.

We moved on and into a dance club. It was tiny and swelteringly hot. The music was loud and the dancing close. We kept going late into the night, stopping only to admire the worst, most hastily put together bathroom ever seen. Eventually we went home, negotiating a taxi driver who, like us, didn’t really know where we were going, and clambered into bed around 4.30am

The following day we went to see an edited down version of the ballet. This is a programme funded by the government, similar to the £5 opera ticket thing they had in England a while back, which allows the poor to see the fancies of the wealthy one day a week. It was quite entertaining, for ballet. Then we returned to the beach, and stayed there for the rest of the day.

2. Robby's House.

Landing in Brazil at 11pm, preceded by a 16 hour delay in Madrid, was marred by tiredness and confusion to say the least. We begrudgingly paid the airport-sponsored taxi company far too much to take us to our hostel. Then when we eventually found it we bumbled upstairs to be greeted by our nervous and completely confused host. Cockroaches ran past our feet as we fell into bed.

Stepping out into Rio de Janeiro the next day was like an escape. Not from the boiling hot room above us or the scuttling and biting insects, but from all constraint. We had nothing that we really had to do, and no-one to tell us otherwise. The sky stretched out above us over a beautiful, different world. Down below it, we danced a little jig to celebrate the beautiful, different us.

The morning sun showed us a dreamy interpretation of 'concrete jungle'. Tall, parched buildings poked out of tall, moist vegetation. The air was humid and tasted polluted, and we turned around to see steep inclines dotted with shanty towns. In pictures this lack of equality is nauseating, but in the flesh we as yet had little time for such pleasantries. We walked to the local beach, Flamengo, to be tourists.

The walk there was hot, and lined with healthy palm trees (somewhat different from the struggling British front-garden variety). Our backdrop was the famous statue of Jesus standing far and above us like an omniscient dictator, and the beautiful mounds of Sugar Loaf thrusting from the sea to our right. We sauntered through a park of deep greens to the beach, bought coconuts and slurped their milk. We stared around at the foreign environment with stupid childish grins on our faces.

Robby, and Sugar Loaf

Robby sat down next to us and we got talking about his life in Rio. In Brazil there is no welfare system, so when he lost his job with the national oil company he had to think of something to bring in the Reals. Jobs are scarce, and rich people more so. He opened his apartment as a budget hostel 18 months ago, and has had a steady stream of guests since, though we were alone for the time-being. He moves from room to room depending on how many guests stay. There was a tiny little compartment hidden behind the fridge, which was a real effort to get into. It was maybe big enough for two average sized men to sleep in a more than friendly way. Right now, Robby lived in there. During the February carnival, he said, so many people came to stay that first he had to sleep in his hammock, suspended in the living room, and then later on the floor. Sleeping with the cockroaches, what a life. Apparently people paid to do just that, though, during the famous Mardi Gras.

Later he showed us the city centre: the theatre, national oil company and parliament buildings; all handsome, old, ostentacious structures. We saw also a pyramidal Catholic church; huge, mostly drab concrete, but with massive, beautiful stained glass windows. We sat inside and contemplated religion for a while, before deciding there was more fun to be had not in a church. Nearby we boarded a century-old rickety tram which took us to the ¨artist's place¨ - Santa Tereasa.

Why artists would like it quickly became obvious: beautiful old colonial residential buildings with views of the mini-mountains of Rio, with more of the lush vegetation of the tropics decadently daubed all around. Robby managed to convince my sidekick Laura to try a drink made from sugar, lemons and ¨sugarcane vodka¨ - a Caipirinha. It had one hell of a kick - something like sucking rubbing alcohol from a lemon on ketamine.

Painted wall in Santa Teresa

Our day eventually took us to the most famous beach in the world, the white hot sands of Copacabana. Nearby we enjoyed a buffet lunch (at 4pm) of all kinds of cosmopolitan foods; at a restaurant where waiters attend every minute or two asking if we would like them to cut us some meat from their skewer? Or perhaps garlic bread? How about some chicken hearts, tourist? With his mouth full: "Can you buy me lunch?" asks Robby, casually. It seemed rude to say no.

We walked it off on beautiful sands by tropical waters, lined with the iconic black and white pavements of Rio. The beach was lined with plush multi-storey residential properties and markets, backed by the peaks of lush green mountains. Muscle men did their greased-up thing on the beach and the girls played volleyball; whilst we sat by the sea and learned more about Robby, and a little helpful Portuguese. We were shocked to hear that we had arrived mid-winter. "A little cold for me," said Robby as I invited him to swim in the sea. We got sunburned.

The tube and a crowded bus took us home, ready for bed at 7.30pm. And that was it, the end of our first full day. Two youngsters waded naively into foreign lands with expectations of paradise and tranquility on a budget. Luckily, so far, we had it.

1. Introduction.

“What’s the cheapest place to fly to in South America?”
“Probably Lima… no, Rio de Janeiro.”
“I’ll have two returns please.”

This farcical conversation consummated the beginning of our first trip together. Laura, just turned 18, and I, just turned 21, had managed to save enough money to leave Europe a retreating coastline. I rang Laura to let her know.

“I’ve just spend over a grand.”
“What?”
“I got the tickets!”
“You never did!?”

Laura didn’t believe it would ever happen. Loads of our friends had been saying things like “Yeah I’m totally going travelling this summer, man” for years. But something in me refused to let my dreams evaporate from reality like so much saliva from the jaws of a hippy. We were really going. I called my mum.

“You never did!?”

I’d paid over the odds by believing that a student travel agency would be the cheapest option, and many more youthful errors would linger behind us like a slug-trail; but we were taking a lunge into freedom that had been restrained for far too long. We set off for ten weeks with no plans other than traversing the entire South American continent, twice.

Below is a diary of our adventures written from notes several years later, along with my feelings and thoughts from then and in retrospect. In one month from now we depart for our biggest trip yet, so this recount can’t be put off any longer. I hope there’s something in there that speaks to you, or better yet, is useful.

See you in Tokyo.