Taking the plunge in the Pantanal

I have always liked animals, at school Biology was my favourite topic and I was very close to studying at University to become a Biologist. However as I realised in my late teens, I only like nice animals, mainly the ones with fur, and definitely only the ones that can’t kill you. So our trip to the Pantanal region of south west Brazil was interesting to say the least.

Our three day trip began with a five hour buttock-bruising bus ride to our camp in the middle of the Pantanal, a wetlands area that covers some 89,000 square miles. The camp consisted of a few huts and huts with hammocks in where slept.

After arrival we were told to amuse ourselves before dinner by wandering around the camp. My boyfriend and I went for a short walk to a nearby river. By the bank we watched as some local kids stood barefoot by the water fishing. To my horror I noticed an alligator in the water and I shrieked out loud whilst simultaneously scrambling up a nearby hillock. The kids stayed exactly where they were and started laughing at me. As I quivered and tried not to wet my pants my boyfriend (who was equally as nervous) spoke to the kids in Portuguese. Apparently these alligators are actually called caimans, and they are totally harmless. I wasn’t convinced, there was no way I was going in the river.

The next couple of days were spent exploring the Pantanal on truck and on foot. I was channelling my inner David Attenborough at times as red macaws and toucans flitted past our heads, monkeys screamed in the nearby branches and caimans meandered past us in the shallows , the caimans still gave me the creeps though.

The high point of the trip was when our driver spotted a giant anaconda in the bushes. We were driving along a dusty road in an open top 4WD and suddenly the driver screeched to a halt and pointed. Of course we coudn’t see anything. He jumped out and grabbed a stick and started poking at the bushes by the road. Out came a monster. The 3.7 metre long beast slithered slowly out into the road in front of us. The guide happily went up to it and poked the monster with a stick. Apparently they are harmless on land, however an anaconda this size could kill a fully grown man in the water. Another great reason not to go swimming.

The next morning we were taken out on by boat on the river to fish for piranhas. We were given bags containing lumps of liver and told to use them as bait. Sure enough, seconds after hurling the baited hook in the water the fish would bite. The river was teeming with the things. Did I say I wasn’t swimming?The tour ended with a boat trip up the river. Half way through the guide killed the engine and told us we could get out and have a swim. To my surprise everyone else in the boat happily threw themselves into the water and splashed around with big smiles on their faces. ‘Are they mad?’

I sat in the boat resolutely ignoring the calls from the others for me to jump in. After about 20 minutes I realised that noone had died, and I was starting to feel like a lemon. Our guide reassured me, apparently anacondas don’t attack if you keep moving your limbs and the piranhas don’t eat humans (that myth was invented by Hollywood). So bowing to peer pressure I took the plunge.

If someone had told me that I was going to pay good money to swim in piranha, anaconda and alligator-infested water I would have laughed in their face. But I did it, and it was great.

The monster anaconda

At the Copa…Copacabana

I love beaches.

I have made the iconic Bondi Beach my home for the last five years, and so I arrived into Rio de Janeiro with high standards. In fact as soon as I had managed to sleep off some of my post flight exhaustion I got down to Copabana and Ipanema to see how the other most famous beaches in the world rated against my beloved Bondi. I was not disappointed.

Copacabana is a beach with a buzz. The four and a half kilometres of golden sand is packed with sights and sounds. People of all different shapes, sizes, ages and skin colour strut their stuff, laze on loungers, sip caipirinhas, sunbake, flirt, play football, splash in the sea and generally hang out in the hazy sunshine with the back drop of the towering Sugar Loaf mountain.

I was very pleased to see the large number of incredibly fit men with perfect bodies wearing tiny trunks jogging up and down the beach. The jogging was too slow to be for exercise, instead it is just an excuse to show of their biceps to the beach. It works!

My boyfriend was equally happy with the gorgeous Brazilian girls in their teeny weeny bikinis. Bizarrely, toplessness on the beach is frowned upon by Brazilians, this prudishness does not sit well with the dental floss approach to swimwear.

I was not as pleased to encounter the larger women in bikinis. Women who weigh 18 stone should not be allowed to wear string bikinis, there should be a rule against it. It’s just not fair for everyone else.

Ipanema Beach, just around the corner from Copacabana is where the wealthy hang out. The beach is made up of mini communities, demarcated by the Postos (lifeguard posts). Posto 9 is frequented by beautiful gay men with buffed up bodies. We hung out at Posto 11 along with the families.

I wouldn’t really call these beaches relaxing. They are full of Cariocan entrepreneurs selling drinks, snacks, beer, bikinis and more. Every couple of minutes one of these hawkers will shove something in your face with enthusiasm and will not go away until you have told them no.

At present the ‘peace’ is also frequently interrupted by trucks with huge mounted sound systems driving past blaring out samba music. These trucks have pictures of the political candidates for the upcoming election plastered on them. Apparently this is the way that political parties in Brazil campaign. Given the total lack of success of political parties in the Australia recently this could be something that Labor and the Liberals consider in the future.

I really don’t care that these beaches aren’t relaxing. They are jam-packed full of fun and sunshine and surely that is the perfect formula for the beach.

Partying with Gen Y in Lapa, Rio de Janeiro

Last night we went out to Lapa, known as the nightlife district in Rio. For the duration of the Brazilian Independence day long weekend celebrations this slightly scruffy but thriving samba club district opens its doors and spills out onto the street.

High energy latino music blares from the clubs and bars whilst impromptu parties start on the pavement to bands set up under the dilapidated tramline archways. Rows upon rows of stalls selling beer, oversized caipirinhas, pina coladas, sausages on sticks, kebabs and other local streetfood to the crowd.

My boyfriend and I were there with a group of backpackers from our hostel. On arrival we quickly load ourselves up with ridiculously cheap yet insanely strong caipirinhas and start to wander aimlessly amongst the revellers. Within a very short space of time (say ten minutes) the caipirinha has gone to my head and I am jigging around to the music whilst chatting animatedly with a Brazilian guy who probably has no idea what I am saying.

After sinking a couple more caipirinhas I get chatting to a 20 year old English backpacker called Samuel. He is dressed in the Gen Y uniform of an oversized yet clingy white T-shirt bearing the scowling face of Grace Jones, black skinny jeans and Morrissey hair swept forwards over his melancholic eyes. We chat about Brazil, his university (he is heading back shortly for his final year) and the music he is into.

I am informed by Samuel that the cool kids now listen to what is known as ‘Techno-House’ which he patiently explains to me is ‘a mix of Techno and House’. At this point I realise he is talking to me like he talks to his granny which I find highly irritating. To change the subject and get my revenge I ask him that question that I used to despise being asked when I was his age, “so…what do you want to do with your life?”

He looks away theatrically and sighs, then turns back to me and says “To be honest with you Becks, I think the best years of my life are behind me”

As I choke on my caipirinha I stare at him to detect any sign of an ironic smile…none….he is actually being serious.

I am speechless.

I then tell him he is being bloody ridiculous and point out that I am 32 and my boyfriend is 36 and we’re still having fun. He then looks at me again with those melancholic eyes.

Again I am speechless, and fuming. I need another drink.

After sinking a few more caipirinhas we find our way into a bar with a smartly uniformed Latino band cranking out ‘Buena Vista Social Club’ style tunes. Thankfully the booze has blanked out Samuel’s words from my head and the music starts to take control of my hips. I leap up excitedly on to the dance floor to shimmy my stuff. My boyfriend looks on with a slightly amused grin (he is used to this) but the other young backpackers look concerned.

I don’t care that I look like an idiot, I am having fun, and focus on shimmying around with a 50 year old women, who for her age is very light on her feet I think. As I am swirling away my eyes happen to lock with Samuel’s and I realise that he is probably thinking exactly the same about me.

Time for another caipirinha…or ten.

The rest of the night is a blur, somehow we make it back to the hostel in a taxi. This morning I feel horrendous, and extremely old.

Oh the joy of sweet sweet capirinhas. Photo thanks to brockleyboyo

The rules of long haul economy travel

I am writing this whilst sat in the arrivals area of Rio airport. Everything is very hazy and world keeps floating around me as if I am not really here but instead watching from a higher place. For some reason the words on this screen look smaller on right than they do on the left….weird.

No I am not on drugs, in fact I have severe sleep deprivation caused by three back to back flights (Sydney – Buenos Aires – Sao Paulo – Rio de Janiero). I have been travelling non-stop for 27 hours and have had less than 2 hours sleep in that time. My body clock is also 13 hours ahead of where it should be.Today for me will last for 37 hours thanks to the pesky international date line.

As my boyfriend hasn’t yet turned up to meet me I thought it would a good time to write about long haul flights.

As a Brit who lived in Sydney for six years I am a very experienced at long haul flights. I have flown around the world at least eight times and over the years I have noticed a common themes:

1) The person sat next to you is annoying. They may not start off being annoying, in fact often a few friendly words are shared and perhaps some nervous murmurs when the plane hits some turbulence. However like any relationship, as time wears on innocent habits start to become really bloody irritating. On my first flight today (a 12.5 hour slog from Sydney to Buenos Aires) I was sat next to a mid thirties couple who seem friendly enough. I had got the aisle seat and after take off was settling down for some sleep when the women beside me wanted to get up. I obligingly went to stand. The women insisted that instead she would climb over me, which seemed to work fine. However, after the fifth climb-over-the-seat performance I was starting to get cranky, and then on the seventh I was kicked in the head by her stray foot.

2) Plane meals are one of the best inventions in the world. The food itself maybe rubbish but unwrapping those little packages makes me feel like Christmas has come early. And you can’t beat a slice of rubber cheese on crackers whilst sipping cheap Chardonnay.

3) Any form of TV or audio entertainment gets boring once flight time hits over 12 hours. At this point the cheap airline headphones begin hurting and my eyes can’t focus on the screen. Which brings me on to point 4…

4) There are never enough good movies on long haul flights. I knew I was in deep trouble earlier when I seriously began considering ‘Hot Tub Time Machine’ as a viable viewing option.

5) The hardest bit of the journey is waiting at the carousel. After maintaining a stoic manner for hours upon end it is always that last the last ten minutes of watching bags go around in circles that reduces me to a miserable quivering wreck.

It is in this state that I sign off. Hopefully my boyfriend will arrive soon and I will be able to get some sleep at long last. At the moment I could lie down and sleep right here on the floor on the airport. In fact I might just do that…

In bed, one week to go

Bed is my favourite place in the world. I am, in fact sitting in bed right now with my laptop perched on my lap and two pillows propping me up. The ability for a mattress and duvet to provide feelings of warmth, safety and comfort is incredibly undervalued.

  

It is from this cosy position that I ponder my next few month’s adventure, that is South America. I’ve recently left my stressful media job and have embraced all that is good about being unemployed, that is staying up till whenever you want and lying in bed at hours my Mum would disapprove of.

 

Sat on my bed is my guiltily unread copy of Lonely Planet’s ‘South America on a Shoestring’. Every time I pick it up I only get through a couple of paragraphs before my eyes get drawn to the boxed sections headed ‘Dangers’ and somehow within seconds my brain manages to conjure up all kinds of nightmare scenarios to the point that I have to put the book down again.

 

This makes me sound like a wuss, don’t get me wrong I know will enjoy the experience. As a teenager I lived in America looking after kids at summer camp, in my twenties I backpacked around South East Asia, suffered 15 hour long bus rides in India, jumped out of planes in New Zealand and ended up settling in Australia for six years (I’m originally a Brit). I had the same feelings of trepidation before each of those trips.

 

But at the grand old age of 32 I am slightly disappointed to realise that my years and experience hasn’t morphed me into a Bear Grylles/Ranulph Fiennes fearless adventurer type as I had expected. I guess the nugget of knowledge I have picked up is to just stop whingeing and get on with it.

 

So with that motivation I am now going to leap out of bed and do something productive….like make a cup of tea, and perhaps go back to bed…for now.

 

Yes, this is my bed