THE WHEREABOUTS OF BUBBLES

There have been some inquiries of late as to the whereabouts of Bubbles the sock monkey. As regular Truedrinks followers will already know, Bubbles has been my friend and on-and-off travel companion since we met in the front bar of Jolly Gardeners in the summer of 2007, his unique and inimitable brand of cheeky high-jinks over that time earning him numerous fans and admirers.

He is not accompanying me on this journey and while I do not intend to address all the reasons for his absence, I will explain some of the background behind the decision in order to prevent the wild speculation that always seems to dog my erstwhile friend.

Our friendship has always been somewhat tempestuous but, for the main part, the partnership has been fruitful and mutually beneficial. Clashes of personality and temperament always become apparent whenever travelling with someone over an extended period of time, and minor irritants are sometimes chaffed into mortal wounds by the general stress of late nights, substandard lodgings, cramped transportation and general travel fatigue. The Iinfrequent but much discussed differences between us were, in most instances, caused by that grain of irritation which comes with living cheek by jowl. From such irritants peals often grow. Sadly, in a small number of cases, ulcers are cultivated too. Despite everything that has happened, I steadfastly maintain that our journeys have produced more pearls than ulcers.

The occasional flare-ups between Bubbles and myself have not been helped by the fact that, due to this blog, our friendship has been lived, to some degree, in the public eye. I must take a full measure of responsibility for this. The wild speculation and exaggeration that swirls around our adventuring and the intense analysis of our actions and activities is my fault alone. That is has led on occasion to animosity and hostility between us is something I constantly dwell upon and always regret.

Unfortunately, Bubbles does have a dark side. Luckily, few are acquainted with the gremlins that sadly lurk in his soul. This is as it should be. Everyone is entitled to a private life, even those special few whose exploits generate attention of a kind which ensures ownership of their life and lifestyle passes to the general mob, whose acquaintance with the individual is limited to the Chinese-whisper anecdotes that accompany anyone of true individualism and class.

Behind the lively public raconteur lives an intensely private sock monkey and it would be neither fair nor proper for me to give oxygen to private fires, the light and heat of which belong only to those whose feelings kindle the flames. We all fail in action and spirit and the blame as often lies as much with the person taking offence as the one doing the offending.

His errors of judgement and wildly erratic behaviour; the Vatican fistfight, the misappropriation of Mr Farouk Habibi’s camel and subsequent demolition of two thirds of the Great Souk of Damascus, even his muddle-headed and frankly bizarre attempts to smuggle hashish into Amsterdam in my backpack, have all been well documented to varying degrees of accuracy in the grubbier sections of the international press. On those issues I will maintain my silence except to say that they were very much the actions of a sock monkey struggling to come to terms with some deeply personal issues relating to his uncertain parentage.

My door remains open to Bubbles and I sincerely hope that, at some point in the future, we resume our world travels together. However, space between us at this time is vitally important not just for me, but for Bubbles too. I am ashamed to say that my presence all-to-often led directly to the unsavoury or dangerous circumstances in which Bubbles would place himself and his friends. I, like many people, am guilty of goading Bubbles into impulsive and unpredictable action in the hope of being pulled along on the bow wave of his wild adventuring. This selfish manipulation of a truly free spirit is to my eternal shame. I am as much to blame as he.

Finally, I ask that you respect Bubbles’ privacy. I am not in direct contact with him at this time but sincerely believe that he will get in touch with his public as soon as his treatment allows. Please do not do anything to hamper his recovery.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

HEADWINDS AND HINDQUARTERS

On the cycle again in Puerto Madryn, this time out to the sealion colony at Punta Lomas. It’s a 30 kilometre round trip and by all accounts a snack for a couple of finely tuned athletes like Alan and myself. Of course, we weren’t taking into account local conditions, which on the outbound leg consisted of a steady upward incline into a 16-knot wind on a track varying between gravel and shale. Unfavourable, particularly the road surface which rather perversely managed to reduce traction while also increasing friction.

My Uncle Bob, a former club cyclist back in South Australia, still competes in triathlons alongside my Mum and Dad. Mum does the swim, Dad the run and Bob grinds out the cycle leg.

Now, leading up to these triathlons Uncle Bob has a tradition of expressing concern about the possibility of strong headwinds. On a number of occasions he has pointed out that conditions will be much tougher for the pedal man if a gusting northerly or bitter southwester picks up while he’s out on the course. His concerns are raised with such frequency that, Mum, Dad and Bob’s wife, Aunty Helen, have started making fun of his preoccupation with barometric conditions and tease him mercilessly about it.

The teasing has become such a long-established feature of their triathlons that Mum, Dad and Aunty Helen have developed a headwind rating system with which to more effectively mock Uncle Bob. It is called the “Bobfactor”, with a slight zephyr of breeze rated a “Bobfactor” of one and hurricane-force winds earning the maximum “Bobfactor” rating of ten.

It is now standard practice within my family to rate all wind conditions using the “Bobfactor” and to make pointed references to Uncle Bob success or otherwise in combating whatever prevailing weather conditions we are discussing at the time.

Well Bob, I can only apologise on behalf of my chortling parents. Your concerns regarding the headwinds are entirely legitimate. I have now experienced “Bobfactor 6” and frankly, that’ll do me.

Not that the prevailing weather conditions were the only handicap we were called on to overcome. You can’t cycle hub-deep through loose gravel and shifting sands without one or two mechanical problems becoming evident.

Fortunately, Alan Hook is a mechanically minded chap. A motor enthusiast, he’s broken vehicles down and successfully reassembled their constituent parts. He can name the parts of engines and knows what they do. He can bleed a brake-line in a way that doesn’t end with the car informally parked-up in a shop front window. He loves gears and front differentials – positively lives for turning engines. Give him a cog and a chain and a mechanical failure to sort and he’s Larry.

So, he was absolutely delirious on the way out to Punta Lomas when the gears on his bike started shifting in an unpredictable and entirely unsolicited way. Delirium grew to ecstasy as his chain skipped the cogs and became lodged between the wheel hub and the spokes. Twice.

By the time his front tyre went flat, with me some 800m ahead and in full possession of the tool kit, he had just about reached the seventh stage of enlightenment. Fortunately for me, nothing else went wrong. Otherwise I’d have had to build him a shrine and start a religion.

In fact, Alan’s impending achievement of Nirvana may not be that far off given that his strange, almost mystic allure to Brazil’s animal life forms seems to have gained traction south of the border too.

Suffering that flat tyre and no doubt bothered by the fact the only means of repairing it was freewheeling down the far side of yonder hill, Alan found himself sharing his frustration with a stately little guanaco.

Unsure of its intentions, Alan was disinclined to immediately offer the hand of friendship to an animal of uncertain temperament and physical prowess. Sadly, my return with the repair kit ensured that the true potential of the relationship was not fully explored.

We will never know what might have been.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

SUFFER THE LITTLE CHILDREN

Back on the bikes again, this time around Buenos Aires, which is a pleasingly flat city to take in on a cycle.

On the tour with us was an American girl. She would have been around 16; self-conscious and just a little plain in a way that will disappear forever once she grows into her looks. Not that that offers much consolation now, particularly as she suffers from the worst case of Sexy Mum I have ever seen.

Sexy mum was in her mid 40s and beautifully presented. An Argentinean New Yorker by way of Madrid, Paris and Amsterdam, her back-story as exotic and fascinating as her looks, which it has to be said, had seen some artificial improvements over the years – skin tightened, breasts lifted. Not that we were put off by that. If anything, it actually made her sexier.

It’s a tough break being a slightly awkward daughter to a smoking hot mum and you could visibly see the girl’s exasperation build as one by one each of the lads over looked her to look over her sexy mum. Half way through the tour she decided she’d had enough and demanded to go home. I wasn’t surprised. There must be only one thing worse than being a teenage daughter to a sexy mum. And that’s being a sexy mum’s teenage son.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

KNOWING YOUR PARK FROM YOUR PUERTO

There are two airports in Buenos Aires. This is important, particularly if the bus you return to town in is delayed in traffic and you only have 1 hour to get from the central bus station to the departure gate of Andes Airlines flight 132 to Puerto Madryn.

It is vital in these circumstances to clarify your choice of domestic or international terminal when communicating your destination to the cab driver. Be aware that the generic word for Airport in Spanish – aeropuerto - has a very specific meaning in Buenos Aires. Aeropuerto and Aeropark may sound similar but they are NOT the same thing and their variance in function is a subtle but important one.

So, for a stress free trip to catch your domestic flight, why not do a little research first? That way you wont end up heading entirely the wrong way down the city’s most crowded street, putting valuable metres and time between you and the busiest domestic airport in the country.

Get it right first time every time and get to your destination happy.

We made the flight. But we were last to check in.

Thanks go out to our driver Jorge who earned every centime of his ludicrously generous tip.


That is all,

Dale Atkinson

CIRCLE THE WAGONS

Off we go to watch Boca Juniors play at the famous “chocolate box” ground in Buenos Aires, known locally as La Bombonera.

Tour guides are quick to play up the danger of watching football at the ground and go to some lengths to describe the surrounding area as bandit country. While it’s probably fair to say La Boca isn’t the most pristine neighbourhood on the South American continent it’s hard to imagine it being more dangerous than just about anywhere in Rio. That’s not an impression willingly fostered by the companies that charge a truly stunning premium to take tourists to watch Maradona’s old club play the beautiful game.

My good friend Joe Wallace of www.theroastdinner.blogspot.com fame is certainly of the opinion that the whole set up is a scam, having visited the ground under his own steam last year. He would, no doubt, have upbraided me for having more money than sense for forking over the equivalent of a month’s worth of street food to get to the game, emphasising his point with a disappointed shake of his freakishly oversized head.

Unfortunately, his analysis would be spot on. Certainly the premium was not reflective of the quality of the service provided.

The bus taking us to the ground was late but that didn’t really matter because the match didn’t start until four hours after the advertised time anyway. Fortunately for us, the guides had just the remedy for unexpected downtime and took us straight to a back-street bar and grill where we were invited to enjoy the reasonably priced cold beer and BBQ meats. Not much in the mood for either, Alan and I decided to take some time out to explore the neighbourhood only to be told pretty promptly that it wasn’t safe for us.

This seemed entirely unlikely but as we didn’t know where we were or what time the group was heading to the ground we decided to stick around and wait it out. Two hours later, following the departure of 90% of the tour group to the ground, Alan, myself, and a small band of increasingly worried football fans were left waiting outside the bar while our guide paced the sidewalk talking urgently into his mobile phone. Things were not going according to plan. Whether it was a failure to secure tickets for us or just transport to the ground wasn’t made clear until nearly 45 minutes later when, our clearly flustered leader, announced that we would be walking the seven blocks to the ground. Evidently the mean streets of La Boca could be made to respect honest pilgrims after all. Convenient.

Clearly operating under the doctrine of what Alan says the Army calls ‘raincoats on, raincoats off’, on reaching the ground we were again asked to wait for the arrival of what, I can only assume, where hastily arranged panic-tickets. I say this because instead of receiving a formally issued conventional paper ticket, each tourist was given the ground pass of an absent Boca Junior season ticket holder. I had the good fortune of going to the football as Ruis Sergio Martin and can I just say that it enhanced the experience enormously. There’s nothing like being a true believer.

In the end the match turned out to be less eventful than the journey to the ground, ending in a nil-all draw, but that didn’t stop the local fans behaving as if they’d just won the league. The singing and dancing was unrelenting throughout the game, with the action on the pitch having absolutely no impact whatsoever on the volume or fervour of the tunes.

Despite the paucity of on-field action the tension, the drama, the buzz and the atmosphere were clearly too much for our tour guide who, at half time, was spotted smoking a king-sized joint up the back of the stands. Well I guess you need something to bring you back down after leading 15 strangers through Apache country.

Great day, great experience, useless tour.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

NOT SMALL ENOUGH, THROW IT BACK IN

We headed to Rosario for a few nights and on the first day hired bikes and took a ride along the Rio Parana, a wide, handsome river about eight times broader than the Thames at any point upstream of the Barrier.

Recreational fishermen scatter the bank sporting cane fishing poles rigged with about four metres of line, a small float and a hook baited with some kind of insect. These pescadores extract fish from the waters with a stylish snap of the wrist, flinging them over their shoulders and onto the bank to flap and gape before being lobbed into the bucket with their equally unfortunate fishy-friends.

We watched one man haul in a decent, pan-sized fish, which he promptly de-hooked and hoofed back in the water.

“Es pequeno?” I said, asking if the fish was undersized.

He replied with a string of Spanish too advanced for me to decipher before motioning to the yellow bucket next to his feet. It was half-full of fish, all of them shorter than the length of a £5 note and a fraction the size of the catch he’d just returned.

Argentina is now the only place I have ever seen a fisherman throw one back for being too big. It’s nice to know that they’re fishing for the future.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

THE AGA CAN'T

There are three main categories of backpackers in South America; intoxicated Australians, Israelis taking a year off after 18 months of national service and posh British kids on gap-year.

The Brits are typically about 19-years-old and all of them have the accents that come as standard with tuition at the right sort of schools. They have names like Ollie and Seb and have been sent out by their parents to gain valuable life-skills before heading back to the UK where all those life-skills will be dampened by three years of soft student living.

Two prime examples were preparing pasta in the hostel kitchen last night. Frustrated by how long the water was taking to boil, one of the lads checked the hob and noticed the flame was no longer burning beneath the pan.

“You’ve turned the gas off, you absolute arse.” He said.

His friend looked perplexed.

“What? Oh, sorry. I only know how to use an Aga.”

Who says the class system is dead?

PLEASE RETURN ALL INVITES

So we turned up at Stop Hostel in Puerto Iguazu on what we thought was the recommendation of some Swedish girls we met a few days before on Ilha Grande.

Alan sent one girl a quick email just to say thanks for the tip. A day later he gets a reply.

“We didn’t recommend Stop Hostel. You really should keep better track of your new found friends.”

Cancel your flights kids. The Stockholm wedding is off.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

AGUA POR FAVOUR

In an attempt to save a bit of time and avoid too many exhausting, day-long bus rides, Alan and I are cheating a little and have booked a few internal flights around Argentina. The places we want to see are just too far spread to tackle by road in the time we have left.

An unusual feature of the Aerolineas Argentinas booking system is that internal flights can be reserved online, but tickets have to be paid for and collected in person from a certified Aerolineas Argentinas agent. In a way this is irritating but it has also turned booking air travel in Argentina into a kind of heritage experience. A piquant taste of pre-internet travel; exotic and exciting in it’s own limited sort of way. It's even more realistic in Puerto Iguazu where the Aerolineas office has 60s decor. It's a full emersion.

In the corner of the office, by the rack of travel magazines and promotional materials, there’s a charming old water-cooler. Attached to its side is a dispenser filled with Dixie-sized paper cups. It is hot at this time of year in the north of Argentina and the roads are dusty. On entering the office I spied the cooler and thought a refreshing cup of chilled water an attractive possibility. As the agent was immersed in conversation with two Irish girls I decided to avail myself of the facility.

Problem was, I couldn’t get a bloody cup out. There was the water. There was the cup. But the cups wouldn’t budge. I tried everything; twisting, wiggling, cajoling. Nothing. Worst of all, the more I tried the thirstier I got.

In an act of desperation I took out my pen, reached down into the top of the cup-holder and tried to poke a cup free from above. When that didn’t work I decided to abandon subtlety in favour of brute, he-man force.

Now I don’t know if you’ve ever tried to collect an airline ticket while holding the broken remains of the travel agent’s cup dispenser but I find the best policy is to put faith in his professionalism and act as if nothing untoward has happened at all.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

THE LATER OF THE ALLOTED TIMES

Entering Argentina involved the usual bureaucratic rigmarole that seems to accompany border crossings. I never understand why customs and immigration procedures should be more convoluted simply because entry is being made by land rather than air or sea. It cab be slightly irritating, unless of course you are Austrian and used to ruthless efficiency, in which case it then becomes incredibly vexing.

Earlier that morning, the mini-bus we’d hired to take us south of the border unexpectedly motored past the turn-off to Argentina and made for a drugs compound just outside of town.

I am open to the possibility that the building in question was a hostel rather than a drug processing plant but its isolation spoke otherwise and its inhabitants spoke German. On reflection, solid conclusions are perhaps difficult to draw.

The upshot of the detour was that our small party of waterfall enthusiasts had been increased by one. Austria was on board and he would tolerate no delay. Waterfalls would be seen and they would be seen in an orderly, efficient and thorough way.

He fidgeted and worried at the border crossing, which took about 45 minutes, expressing concern that we might not get to see all that the park had to offer.

“Maybe we will have to run around the waterfalls,” he said as we waited for the Argentinean authorities to stamp our passports. I was midway through a reassuring reply when he pointed over my shoulder and shouted; “here he comes”, before leaping back onto the mini-bus and taking his seat.

Ten minutes later the van still hadn’t moved. Neither had Austria. He was still perched on his seat, cradling his daypack in his lap like a nana nursing a handbag full of bingo winnings.

When we finally did arrive, Austria leapt from the van, waiting just long enough to hear our driver say he’d meet us at the entrance at “5:30 or 6:00 o’clock”, before sprinting off into the park.

Nearly five hours later, having seen all the falls and exhausted all of the walking routes, Alan and I made it back to the rendezvous for a cold drink and a nice sit-down. We were a little early but after a long afternoon of sappingly direct sunshine we were looking forward to getting back to the hostel for a shower and a cold beer. Not so our Austrian friend who was nowhere to be seen.

It would be another 45 minutes before he emerged from the park. On the stroke of six o’clock we spotted him making his way up to the reception centre. That we were able to spot him so clearly among the hundreds of people exiting the park was mainly down to the fact he was sporting a rouge-tinted pair of eye-catchingly brief swimming trunks that were roughly the same colour as his sun-roasted head.

He looked as content as it’s possible for an Austrian to look and on reaching us he nodded once and said: “I took the later of the allotted times.”

Well hello to you too.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

BIG WATER

Iguazu translates as ‘Big Water’ in whatever the native tongue is in these here parts, Gurani I think, and while slightly deficient in creativity, points are awarded for accuracy. The waters here are big. Real big.

We spent two days scrambling around the World Heritage Park that encompasses the Brazilian and Argentinean sides of Foz do Iguazu, watching water tumble over and onto rocks from various heights and at various speeds. It’s a lot more impressive than I’ve just made that sound but that’s the problem with breaking anything down to its constituent parts. It reduces the majesty a little, which is something I suppose you should try your best to avoid when attempting to describe the fascinating. It’s just that I don’t have the vocabulary to paint the word picture on this one, so I’ll let the pictures do the talking for me. And while I’m at it, I’ll apologise to the natives for mocking their description of the falls. Big Water works pretty well.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

WOK SEEMS TO BE THE PROBLEM?

They sell beer on the beaches in Brazil. Cold beer. You can get it from the bar or just wait for one of the young lads with eskies to come over and sell you a frosty one. There is a choice of 500ml bottles for sharing or 350ml cans just for you. The bottles come with a stubby holder to keep your beer cold. The cans you have to drink fast or drink warm.

It’s a nice feeling at the end of a long day in the surf and sun to sit with your toes in the sand, sipping on a cold beer and watching the day fade into evening.

Of course, for all sorts of reasons, it wouldn’t work in Australia. Attitude mainly. Our puritanical streak and competing larrikin spirit would put an end to it before too long. The larrikins would get blind drunk and trash an ice-cream parlour, giving the puritans their chance to paint beach-side beer-sales as the first irreparable tear in the fabric of Australian family values. And that would be that.

It’s a real shame. I mean we have plastic money. It’s the perfect currency for buying beer in an aquatic environment.

While beer sales would certainly catch-on at Australia’s beaches, I’m not sure the same is true of cookwear. The Brazilians don’t seem to go in for it much either which was bad news for the salesman on Matadero Beach who was working his way up the waterline with an impressive selection of rather sturdy looking woks on display.

But silver linings can be found in every situation and despite his lack of success he too could take heart in his vocation. Popular it ain't but at least it’s family friendly.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

PILLOW FIGHT

The uncertainty over our arrival time meant we lobbed into Florianopolis without accommodation booked for the first night of our stay. Not a massive problem, just a matter of ringing around the hostels and seeing who had beds.

First call, Bell’s Company Hostel. The phone rings and rings and rings and then…

“Hola, amigo.” Says a cheerful sounding voice.

“Hola. Fala Inglais?” I reply in the hopeful tone all influent foreigners use.

“Yes, yes, of course my friend.”

“Hi mate, we’ve got a booking for tomorrow night but we’re in a day early. Have you got any beds for tonight?”

“Oh man, tonight is going to be, oh my God! I have five bar staff on tonight. Big party. Big, big party.”

“Cool. That sounds great. So there are beds then?”

“Yeah man, we have 15 new people coming in to stay today. It’s going to be massive. 500 people are coming over for the party.”

“Cool, but does that mean there are beds for us or not?”

“You come over and we will find something for you.”

“So there are beds?”

“I see you this afternoon for the big party.”

And with that the conversation ends and the line goes dead.

Slightly confused as to whether we were booking in for beds or just a big party I make my way back to Alan to deliver the inconclusive news.

We decide to risk the trip to Bell’s.

Our arrival is explosive. The cheerful voice at the end of the phone belongs to a cheerful man in a black Speedo who immediately welcomes us into his establishment with a twenty-minute tour that includes a person-by-person introduction not only to all his staff but every guest he can find too. Some of the guests have clearly been through this ritual a number of times before and, sick of it, start creeping under bed-sheets and edging towards doors as soon as they see us coming. Sadly for them, Gekko’s enthusiasm is matched by uncanny speed and none escape an introduction.

At the conclusion of this grand tour of the premises we still haven’t been allocated beds but Gekko assures us that this will be remedied in due course. In the mean time, if there is anything at all we would like (with the exception of a comfortable place to sleep it would seem) we need only ask.

“I can get you anything on the island except prostitutes and crack.” He says before turning on his heel and disappearing into his bedroom.

Alan and I walked back into town to find an establishment more willing to cater for our tastes.

That’s a lie. The place seemed nice enough and besides, Gekko already had our passports locked in his filing cabinet. The no whores and crack rule seemed reasonable and, in the case of Gekko, entirely unsurprising. If you’re as relentlessly upbeat as he is you clearly have no need for professional sex or illegal stimulants.

True to his word he did find us a bed, possibly from an orphanage, and as we sat drinking a beer on the patio we could see the bare foam mattresses being marched into our dorm.

In the end it wasn’t a shortage of beds but bedding which was the major issue and pillow roulette broke out on the first night. Unfortunately for me I left my pillow momentarily unguarded and wound up having to sleep on my hands. The next day, as I hunted around for a spare, I came to the conclusion that during the day people were stashing their pillows in their lockers. Proving once more that value is a human construct.

Speaking of which, Gekko kindly offers a security service for all his guest’s valuables. This sounds more reassuring than it is as the “safe” is just a battered old filing cabinet, with each person’s valuables demarcated by the use of labelled plastic bags.

Despite its simplicity, the system seemed to work well, at least until the third morning when Alan and I wanted to retrieve some cash. Worryingly our bag could not be found. More worryingly, Gekko appeared to be oh-so-slightly stoned.

The fact that this intoxicated man may have misplaced our cash, credit cards and, most importantly, our passports put Alan and me under a certain amount of strain and flop-sweat began to appear as he counted out the bags again and again, failing each time to locate our valuables.

Hooky looked like he was about to break out one or two aspects of his army reserve training when, after the third sweep of the cabinet, Gekko’s even more stoned friend peered out of his marijuana induced fug and suggested that the bag may have fallen down behind the draws.

Bingo. Disaster avoided. Code red status downgraded to alert but not alarmed.

The moral of this story is that in times of bedding shortages keep your passport on your person and your pillows under lock and key.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

GOING JACK

From Ilha Grande to the Angra Dos Reis bus station where we were unable to get tickets on the midday bus to Sao Paulo and beyond. Three hours to kill now added to the 20 we would spend on the two busses to our destination and there was nothing for it but to sit it out over sugar drinks and cheese-based snacks.

20 hours on a bus isn’t so bad and I managed to get plenty of sleep in despite the excessively loud smooching going on between the young couple on the back seat. Real smackers they were and very distracting too. I never thought anyone would be able to produce a kiss capable of being heard over the volume of a fully extended iPod. Turns out someone can. Passionate people these Brazilians.

Due to a combination of misinformation and poor research we arrived in Sao Paulo at 10pm unsure when the last connecting bus of the day would be departing for Florianopolis. Anxious to avoid an unwelcome overnight stay in the city, Alan and I were among the first off the bus, grabbing our bags and making for the ticket windows without a backward glance. A bus was leaving in ten minutes and we could be on it. The only problem was that our four friends from Ilha Grande were nowhere to be seen. As Alan handed over the cash for the tickets we shared a look.

“They’ll make it”, I said, looking doubtfully at the large clock hanging from the ceiling of the bus terminal.

“Yeah” Alan said hefting his backpack onto his shoulders and pocketing his change. Then, having validated each other’s selfish instincts, we made for the bus at a trot.

We made it with seconds to spare and any guilt we might have felt was quickly ameliorated by the air-conditioning and deep, comfortable seats of the coach. As the bus made its way south we both reclined and basked in the glory of a perfectly timed connection.

Tellingly, we were both slightly miffed the next morning when we arrived half-starved and nearly desiccated to find that our callously abandoned companions were just 45 minutes behind us; fed, watered and fully refreshed after making good use of an oh-so-brief but oh-so-handy 30 minute lay-over.

I on the other hand had had nothing but a cheese ball and packet of “Peanuts Japonaise” in the preceding 20 hours and was feeling a little grouchy. Bad result. Bad karma.

Alan told me later that our mad, selfish scramble to the connecting bus in Sao Paulo would be called ‘going Jack’ in the Army, as in “I’m all right Jack”.

Apt.

That is all,

Dale 'Jack' Atkinson

PICO DO PAPAGAIO

Alan and I have bagged our first peak of the tour. The 990m tall Pico do Papagaio sits at the centre of Isla Grande and takes two hours of hard climbing to reach (it's the tiny looking rocky outcrop, way up the back of the picture). With the island’s gentle sea breeze unable to penetrate the jungle canopy the humidity is intense and even though we took 4.5 litres of water between us, it was only just enough for the three-and-a-half-hour round trip.

The canopy also prevents you from gaining any terms of reference. Judging how far you’ve climbed or how far you have to go is absolutely impossible, which can make the uphill slog slightly demoralising. We tramped upwards for nearly seven kilometres and it was only at the very end that we were able to break out into the open air.

Difficult though the going was the view at the end was worth every step. Stunning.

On the way back down form the peak, as we started on the last of the water bottles, I remembered a conversation I’d had the week before with Duche, our rock-climbing guide on Sugarloaf.

As we locked off our carabinas and prepared to repel down the face Duche nudged me and pointed at a hardy looking plant that was clinging to a crack in the cliff to his right. Despite the fact that it hadn’t rained in Rio for more than a fortnight the plant was leaking quite a lot of water onto the rockface.

“If you ever get stuck in the jungle with no water,” he said, “you can find this plant and drink the water stored in its stem. It stays in there for months and months and months. The water it is fresh and it is perfectly okay to drink. Well, you would get very sick if you drank it, but I could drink it.”

Cheers for that Duche. Good to know.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

ALAN HOOK, LINE AND SINKER

Back to the subject of the island’s numerous domestic canines and it would seem that Mr Hook’s ongoing love affair with Isla Grande’s pups is not entirely unrequited. Certainly our fisherman’s dog, Bobby, looked decidedly pleased to see him as he boarded the little blue fishing vessel we’d hired for the day. Bobby wasted no time in giving Alan’s tender areas an exploratory nuzzle and was clearly impressed by what he encountered, reaching an advanced state of sexual arousal in what can only be described as indecently short time.

Our American friend Chris took this in with the sad and knowing look of a parent who has just caught their son masturbating in the airing cupboard.

“Oh Bobby” he said softly, with a slow shake of his head.

Fortunately for Alan, Bobby’s attention span was shorter than his sex drive was strong and he became distracted by an empty water bottle that was skittering across the floor of the boat.

Canine relations aside, the expedition wasn’t an unqualified success but we did managed to land a few fish and spent a pleasant afternoon lolling about in the warm and gentle waters of southern Brazil. Our boat was a battered old blue fishing vessel. Worn down by years of use, and desperately in need of refitting and a service, it was exactly what we were after. That our fishing rods were made of fishing line wrapped around plastic coke bottles added even more to the experience.

Our sleepy eyed captain also introduced us to the concept of smart bombing, a practice which involves strapping on a snorkel mask, stripping down to your Speedos, grabbing a line and swimming it over to where the unsuspecting fish are peacefully going about there fishy day. Perhaps I’m overly indoctrinated into the ethos of fair play but it all seemed jolly unsporting. Though not unsporting enough to throw any of the fish back.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson

THE DOG'S BOLLOCKS

We arrived on Isla Grande today. It’s an island about three hours drive south of Rio. It’s so lush and beautiful it looks like a hideout for a Bond villain. Thinking about that as I rode the boat from the mainland reminded me that when I was in Paris with Emma we came across a shop-front for Goldfinger Real Estate. How very different the exchanges must be now that the super villain has pensioned off his white cat.
“Do you expect me to rent this apartment Goldfinger?”
“No Mr Bond, I expect you to buy!”

For Alan, by far the most impressive things about the island so far have been the testicles on the sausage dog we saw while having a beer by the quay on Sunday afternoon. Such cheerful little nuts, sitting like two shrink-wrapped vulcanised rubber balls proudly on display high between the hind legs of this stately little dog.

“They’re amazing,” Alan said. “They’re just like a perfect set of perky breasts.”

Hmm.

Later that night we came across the same hound. This time he was being carried by his owner who was cradling the pup by his front legs, giving the world a full frontal display of tiny dog’s generous testicles.

Alan was so happy he almost cried.

That is all,

Dale Atkinson