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
Tuesday, 9 February 2010
Monday, 8 February 2010
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
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
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
Monday, 1 February 2010
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
“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
Sunday, 31 January 2010
HOW HIGH IS THAT MAN?
Alan claims to be six feet tall. I don’t know about that. But I can say with certainty that he is comfortably taller than the beach umbrellas for hire on Ipanema Beach. Late on Saturday afternoon a few minor adjustments made to combat the receding arc of the setting sun caused the umbrella to subside and eventually topple. Reluctant to get out of his deeply reclined yellow beach chair, Hooky opted to stay seated and hold the umbrella in place like a king grasping a royal sceptre. Soon enough though, his arm grew tired and the inconvenience of bracing the umbrella became greater than the effort required to set it back in the sand. He rose to his feet. Screwing the umbrella down proved unsuccessful. The wiggle technique failed. Greater force was required. He dusted the sand from inside the umbrella post and lifted it high above his head. With a mad look in his eye he brought the umbrella down as if he were trying to part the Red Sea.
The sands did part and the umbrella stucketh fast.
That Alan managed to brain himself with the canopy and break off one of the spokes in the process is neither here nor there. Success speaks for itself and the shade cast by that umbrella was all the more welcome for having imparted an important lesson; for future reference, when trying to insert an unfurled beach umbrella into the sand, don’t do it while standing inside the umbrella.
Speaking of Alan’s claims to be six foot he got chatting with an Irish girl on Friday night at the street party in Lapa. She asked him how tall he is.
“I’m six foot”, he said.
She looked him over for a second, paused, and without blinking fired back;
“Does that include your hair?”
Zing.
The Lapa street party is like any other street party in the world except with better dancing and a higher risk of coming home without your wallet. Pickpockets are everywhere and the hostel staff are at pains to tell you where in the area is and isn’t safe to visit. Horror stories of robbings, beatings and rape are rife, though no doubt garnished with considerable exaggeration, the backpacker telegraph being what it is.
In order to combat the pickpockets it is common practice for holiday-makers at the Lapa party to hide enough cash for a cab-fare home somewhere on their person; usually their underpants. Given the number of pissed up westerners enjoying the party it’s a fair chance that a sizable proportion of Rio’s large denomination folding money has, at some stage, seen some time in the undercrackers of a sweaty gringo. I raised the practice with Alan the next night.
“The muggers must know about it by now”, he said.
I agreed. Alan took a sip of his coke.
“But I guess going up to someone and saying ‘empty your pockets and drop your pants’ might lower compliance rates a bit.”
Indeed.
I’d employed the jock-locker myself with mixed success on the two previous nights. By Lapa I’d managed to get my stashing technique down pat. Not so the night before when, to the great surprise of the assembled football fans on the way back from the Maracana Stadium, a 50 Real note dropped from the right leg of my shorts and onto the floor of the Metro carriage. Epic fail.
Also along the lines of the epic fail was Mr Hook’s first foray into the Portuguese language. Having invested in a guide book, Alan put in a rudimentary examination of the vocabulary section and came away with the firmly held impression that ‘sim’ is Portuguese for no. He wasted no time in applying this knowledge in practical settings and on then opening morning could be seen proudly walking Copacabana Beach, greeting each solicitous stall-holder with a firm but polite ‘sim’, before walking on, leaving a trail of hopeful yet confused vendors in his wake.
Turns out ‘sim’ means yes.
Failures in language are unfortunately an inevitable part of travel if, like Alan and I, you haven’t invested considerable time in learning to parlay in the native tongue. Fortunately, if all else fails you can always fall back on international travel pictionary. My rendering of Sugarloaf on Friday proved a particular triumph and we made the cable car just in time to meet our climbing guide, Duche, who took us for a four-hour rock-climb up the face.
He’s a good guy, that Duche, and we got chatting after repelling back to flat ground and safety at the end of the climb. He told us that he heads down to Patagonia every year to climb and, last time he was there, he met his current Argentine girlfriend.
“She’s great”, he said, “but you know, I miss Brazilian women. Having an Argentine girlfriend in Brazil is like going to a BBQ and bringing your own hamburger.”
Of course failures in language can be overcome if you have an impressive non-verbal skill to compensate, as was aptly demonstrated by an Argentine lad at the Lapa street party. The man salsa’d like a pro and that’s pretty much kryptonite to any western girl who’s been subjected to years of rhythm less drunken shuffling on the club dance floors of London and Sydney. He was good. I’d go so far as to say he gave meaning to the phrase ‘sweeping them off their feet’. As I incompetently made my way around the dance floor it occurred to me that dance is just another language I can’t speak.
One of the first things I noticed about the Brazilians is that they have an unhealthy relationship with cheese. You cannot find a savoury snack in this country that isn’t filled with, encased in or made of cheese. It’s unbelievable. One of the snacks on offer to the revellers at the Lapa street party was a lightly grilled, six-inch block of cheese, loving presented on a stick.
I found this only slightly bemusing until I went to dinner and ordered the margarita pizza. Look, can I just take this opportunity to simply say the following; cheese is a TOPPING! Under no circumstances is it permitted for cheese to form the base of the pizza. What you presented to me on Saturday night was a plate of warm cheese and it did a massive disservice to your wonderful country. From now on in Brazil I’m sticking with rice, beans and BBQ meats.
Just down the road from the restaurant that night a lively party was kicking off with people spilling out of the bars and into the streets of Ipanema. It looked like a pretty good time and Alan and I headed down to grab a beer and join in. As we grew closer we started to notice that quite a few young men were in various degrees of close embrace. Taking this for Latin gregariousness we moved on. It soon became apparent that this form of gregariousness might not be exclusively Latin and after passing a couple of gentlemen engaged in what can only be described as an erotic cuddle, Alan and I shared a look of trepidation.
“I’m not sure this is where we want to be.” I said.
Alan nodded. “I’m all for trying new things,” he said as we looked around Rio’s gay scene in full flamboyant flight. “But there are limits.”
We went back to the hostel where he spooned me until I fell asleep.
Kidding.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
The sands did part and the umbrella stucketh fast.
That Alan managed to brain himself with the canopy and break off one of the spokes in the process is neither here nor there. Success speaks for itself and the shade cast by that umbrella was all the more welcome for having imparted an important lesson; for future reference, when trying to insert an unfurled beach umbrella into the sand, don’t do it while standing inside the umbrella.
Speaking of Alan’s claims to be six foot he got chatting with an Irish girl on Friday night at the street party in Lapa. She asked him how tall he is.
“I’m six foot”, he said.
She looked him over for a second, paused, and without blinking fired back;
“Does that include your hair?”
Zing.
The Lapa street party is like any other street party in the world except with better dancing and a higher risk of coming home without your wallet. Pickpockets are everywhere and the hostel staff are at pains to tell you where in the area is and isn’t safe to visit. Horror stories of robbings, beatings and rape are rife, though no doubt garnished with considerable exaggeration, the backpacker telegraph being what it is.
In order to combat the pickpockets it is common practice for holiday-makers at the Lapa party to hide enough cash for a cab-fare home somewhere on their person; usually their underpants. Given the number of pissed up westerners enjoying the party it’s a fair chance that a sizable proportion of Rio’s large denomination folding money has, at some stage, seen some time in the undercrackers of a sweaty gringo. I raised the practice with Alan the next night.
“The muggers must know about it by now”, he said.
I agreed. Alan took a sip of his coke.
“But I guess going up to someone and saying ‘empty your pockets and drop your pants’ might lower compliance rates a bit.”
Indeed.
I’d employed the jock-locker myself with mixed success on the two previous nights. By Lapa I’d managed to get my stashing technique down pat. Not so the night before when, to the great surprise of the assembled football fans on the way back from the Maracana Stadium, a 50 Real note dropped from the right leg of my shorts and onto the floor of the Metro carriage. Epic fail.
Also along the lines of the epic fail was Mr Hook’s first foray into the Portuguese language. Having invested in a guide book, Alan put in a rudimentary examination of the vocabulary section and came away with the firmly held impression that ‘sim’ is Portuguese for no. He wasted no time in applying this knowledge in practical settings and on then opening morning could be seen proudly walking Copacabana Beach, greeting each solicitous stall-holder with a firm but polite ‘sim’, before walking on, leaving a trail of hopeful yet confused vendors in his wake.
Turns out ‘sim’ means yes.
Failures in language are unfortunately an inevitable part of travel if, like Alan and I, you haven’t invested considerable time in learning to parlay in the native tongue. Fortunately, if all else fails you can always fall back on international travel pictionary. My rendering of Sugarloaf on Friday proved a particular triumph and we made the cable car just in time to meet our climbing guide, Duche, who took us for a four-hour rock-climb up the face.
He’s a good guy, that Duche, and we got chatting after repelling back to flat ground and safety at the end of the climb. He told us that he heads down to Patagonia every year to climb and, last time he was there, he met his current Argentine girlfriend.
“She’s great”, he said, “but you know, I miss Brazilian women. Having an Argentine girlfriend in Brazil is like going to a BBQ and bringing your own hamburger.”
Of course failures in language can be overcome if you have an impressive non-verbal skill to compensate, as was aptly demonstrated by an Argentine lad at the Lapa street party. The man salsa’d like a pro and that’s pretty much kryptonite to any western girl who’s been subjected to years of rhythm less drunken shuffling on the club dance floors of London and Sydney. He was good. I’d go so far as to say he gave meaning to the phrase ‘sweeping them off their feet’. As I incompetently made my way around the dance floor it occurred to me that dance is just another language I can’t speak.
One of the first things I noticed about the Brazilians is that they have an unhealthy relationship with cheese. You cannot find a savoury snack in this country that isn’t filled with, encased in or made of cheese. It’s unbelievable. One of the snacks on offer to the revellers at the Lapa street party was a lightly grilled, six-inch block of cheese, loving presented on a stick.
I found this only slightly bemusing until I went to dinner and ordered the margarita pizza. Look, can I just take this opportunity to simply say the following; cheese is a TOPPING! Under no circumstances is it permitted for cheese to form the base of the pizza. What you presented to me on Saturday night was a plate of warm cheese and it did a massive disservice to your wonderful country. From now on in Brazil I’m sticking with rice, beans and BBQ meats.
Just down the road from the restaurant that night a lively party was kicking off with people spilling out of the bars and into the streets of Ipanema. It looked like a pretty good time and Alan and I headed down to grab a beer and join in. As we grew closer we started to notice that quite a few young men were in various degrees of close embrace. Taking this for Latin gregariousness we moved on. It soon became apparent that this form of gregariousness might not be exclusively Latin and after passing a couple of gentlemen engaged in what can only be described as an erotic cuddle, Alan and I shared a look of trepidation.
“I’m not sure this is where we want to be.” I said.
Alan nodded. “I’m all for trying new things,” he said as we looked around Rio’s gay scene in full flamboyant flight. “But there are limits.”
We went back to the hostel where he spooned me until I fell asleep.
Kidding.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
Saturday, 30 January 2010
ALAN AND THE SAUSAGE DOG´S TESTICLES
G`day kids,
I`m stuck on an island at the moment (by choice, not obligation) and the wi-fi hasn´t been working so there are no new blogs just yet. Don´t panic though. They´re done but not uploaded. Hopefully tomorrow.
I hear you can´t wait to read about Alan and the sausage dog´s testicles. Frankly, I´m not suprised. It´s a great story.
So, take care. More soon.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
I`m stuck on an island at the moment (by choice, not obligation) and the wi-fi hasn´t been working so there are no new blogs just yet. Don´t panic though. They´re done but not uploaded. Hopefully tomorrow.
I hear you can´t wait to read about Alan and the sausage dog´s testicles. Frankly, I´m not suprised. It´s a great story.
So, take care. More soon.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
Friday, 29 January 2010
RIO AND ALL THAT
Alright, so we touched down in Rio and everything is smashing. So far I've only found time to write a pissy entry about public transport, which seems to be my default subject whenever I feel like I'm falling behind. I'll bring back the funny soon. I promise.
I've been barrelling through the city sights in the past couple of days and spending a bit of time down the beaches. It's a cool city and I'm looking forward to heading out to the street party in Lapa tonight. We've kept it pretty low key for the first few nights as we've had things planned early each morning but Saturday has been blocked out for hungover beach-wallowing so tonight should be fun.
Despite a few quiet nights we've still managed to make some good progress in our attempt to sample 25 different beers over the course of our trip. We're already three beers in and at this rate we'll have achieved our target with more than 30 days to spare. I think we're good enough.
We have decided to introduce a rating system to allow you to get a real feel for our enjoyment of each individual brew. See if you can work out what it is. Here is a picture of us enjoying our first beer on Brazilian soil, it's called SKOL and well, I'll let the picture tell the story...
That's Alan on the left. You'll hear more about him over the duration of the trip. The more observent of you will also have noticed Roger Federer in the background. It's unlikely that you'll hear any more about him at Truedrinks but please feel free to follow his professional and personal progress at www.rogerfederer.com.
That is all,
Dale Atkinson
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