Day 241 - Christmas in Wales, and England

It's December 22nd, about 2:30am. Roughly four hours have passed since we phoned the hotel to tell them we were 10 miles away. Nick is driving extra-ordinarily well, given the slightest wrong move on the snow-covered roads would send us into a hedge. The mood in the car is flat. We have been driving for ten hours straight. We have traveled just 25 miles.

Today, it snowed in England. Quite a bit.

Rach and I have traveled dirt roads in Bolivia where you have to hold a hankie to your mouth simply to breath. We've held it together whilst our spines turned to jelly on chicken buses in Belize. We've spent two days becalmed in the Caribbean Sea and ridden out three metre waves in a storm to end all storms. We've walked the Inca Trail, hiked up a volcano and trapsed through insect-infested swamps.

None of this compares to the trials of a trip from Heathrow to High Wycombe.

It's all so very English. It's not clear why, but for some reason this extreme snowfall seems to have caught the country by surprise. Snow? In England? No! Surely not?

England has, quite literally, ground to a halt. Motorists sit immobile in traffic jams on snow-covered country lanes. Talk radio is alive with stories of 15 min journeys taking 7 hours. Sports centres and churches are converted into emergency shelters for those who can't get home. Ordinary folk come out of their homes to provide tea and chocolate to weary travelers. It's a big slice of Blitz spirit, Xmas 2009 version.

Then, shortly before 2:30am, we slide down a hill and power up the other side to see heaven emerge from behind a hedge. Bright, giant lights appear in the windshield, proclaiming we have reached 'The Crown Pub". We made it! A bed is ours for the night.

And not just any bed! Underfloor heating! Satellite television! A bar which is still open at this ungodly hour! Never in my life have I suffered so much yet been so happy to do so.

Welcome back to England.

Fast forward a day. We're in Wales. It's 10pm and cold. The snow crunches underfoot as we make our way slowly toward the farmhouse on the hill. My father's car has passed us twice already. Once, as it made it's way down to the main road to pick up Fran and Nick. Despite the impressive performance to date of the rental car, it simply couldn't make it up the final mile of ice-encrusted Welsh lane. We hid behind a tree as he sped past, oblivious.

On the way back, Dad drives a different route. We are caught in the headlights, no place to hide. We put our heads down and trudge on, pretending to be locals, walking like farmers. It works! He doesn't notice that it's us, 13,000 miles from where we should be.

Now, we're making our way toward the farmhouse door. Dad answers. Surprise! He looks shocked. What are you doing here?! We laugh, come inside and have a drink. Everyone is here. Nephew Phoinix and neice Jamzyn are bigger. My sister Tania and my Dad are smaller. I meet the new addition to the family; Zara, a huge Rhodesian Ridgeback. We all congratulate ourselves on pulling off the surprise. We 're together, in snowy Wales, for Christmas.

It's now the 25th December. It's Christmas Day.

The kids buzz around the tree like dragonflies in a swamp. They pluck presents from underneath the tree, handing them out to the lucky recipients one-by-one. Everyone has been so kind and generous. Zara inspects each piece of empty wrapping only when she is sure it contains no food. Then, she moves on to the next.

Yesterday evening, we phoned absent family and friends far across the seas. There were smiles, and there were tears. Speaking, as always, reminds you of what you are missing.

We gorge ourselves. Sian, my wonderful secret-keeping stepmother, has done the work of ten men (which converts to roughly three women). Turkey, ham, spuds with cranberry sauce, sprouts, honeyed carrots, stuffing and sweet potato. We pull crackers and talk too loudly. Chocolates and Welsh cheese follow as we watch the Doctor Who and Gavin and Stacey finales. Outside, the snow is no longer falling, but the hills remain dusted with a light covering. The air is cold, clear and crisp, and the Southern Cross is no-where to be seen.

This is Christmas, UK style.


All the trip from hell photos are here and the Xmas photos here

Day 232 - Rio de Janiero

"People," begins Elliot, swizzling his cocktail stick, "well, I say people, I mean four friends of mine..."

He pauses to note, as if for the first time, the garish pink drink in front of him, as well as an expectant Alex the barman.

On the TV, the latest unforgivable gaff by a quarterback named Fitzgerald is being broadcast to the world.

Elliot takes a moment to sample his drink from the straw, then nods to Alex to indicate the cocktail is good. Alex scuttles happily back to his cocktail mixing station.

"Ya, well that's about it really. My friends give me their money, and I come to Brazil and find ways of investing it". Then, as indicated, that's about it. Elliot leans back into his chair, brushes his fop of blond hair from his eyes and continues to drink.

Not a bad life. Very Rio de Janiero.

This bar, Blue Agave, is situated two blocks black from Ipanema Beach. It is small, but well set out. It has new fittings and fixtures and a giant plasma above the bar, showing pirate ESPN. It has a comfortable feel to it; part New York Tavern, part Miami tequila den. I have already decided I shall drink here all week long. I pick up a vibe that Rachel feels the same way.

It's a new bar. We know this because the owners have told us. They have told us many things. The history of their travels around the world, how they came to be in Brazil, why they decided to start the bar, why it's a Mexican bar; even why they think Rio needs this kind of bar. Even when I think the conversation is over - for example when they walk off in mid-conversation to deal with something more interesting than me - they invariably return minutes later to resume talking at me without missing a beat.

The best way of dealing with this, I have found, is to simply order another caiprinha, smile and be a CCC person (Cool, Calm and Collected). No siree! Bore or no bore, I will be friendly. I shall be polite.

In truth, I am having a Great Night, so I don't really mind too much.

My head is swimming with the warm fuzz of the greatest liquor known to man: cachaca. I am engulfed in a combined alcohol and sugar buzz that feels, I conclude without any accurate basis of comparison whatsoever, like being embraced in the bosom of a oversized pair of breasts sitting atop a warm tumble dryer in mid-spin.

Malik arrives a little later. We are yet to know it but Malik and us, we are going to have some fun over the next few days. He will introduce us to a whole group of Rio expats (including, quite coincidentally, Elliot once again, although they don't know each other at this point). They will lead us astray. Including into a favela at 3am. Anyway, I digress.

My tacos arrive. They are spicy and spartan. I am reminded of Mexico again. Malik is talking about Ipanema and DJs. Mexico loses out and I tune in to Malik.

"I love coming to Brazil," Malik says in his booming baritone. "Everytime I get a chance to bring a DJ out here, I jump at it. I mean; what about that beach! What about the food! What about the party to be had!"

As well as being a man with a fun job (DJ management), he's also right. Rio is fun. Rio is Sydney's older sister, but better looking and more of a handful. Same sea, harbour, sun & fun concept. Much, much bigger scale.

Like Sydney, Rio cares a lot about what she looks like. She is a proud independent (amicable divorce some years ago) woman of mixed heritage. Young, fun and easy on the eye.

Compared to her baby sister though, Rio is less neurotic. Far wilder. Untamed. A little dangerous, even. She lets it all hang out. Let her in to show you a good time and she'll send you home to Mama with an itch you'll never be able to scratch.

Meanwhile, Christ (the Redeemer) stands arms spread wide, watching over her from above. Rio denizens says that the day the city stops her wild and wicked ways, when she finally gets down to some good old fashioned hard work, the Redeemer will clap.

Malik and I start to talk football. He's a Liverpool fan, but we can't all be perfect. Rachel, meanwhile, talks to Malik's friend, Corrally. Corrally teaches water polo and has the scars to prove it. Alex begins to juggle bottles. Three big, blonde Swedish guys viking into the bar at 100mph. Rachel recommends they read Steig Larsson's books. They teach us how to pronounce Swedish names properly. Stuff happens and nothing happens. We drink and eat and smile. Rio buzzes on nicely in the background.

At 4am, we head on to fresh pastures. Still, Rio keeps on going. And going. And going. She's like an energizer bunny with a samba wiggle, draped in yellow, green and blue. Wiggle, wiggle. Drums, drums. You can sleep when you're dead.

Far up on the hill, JC looks on,
not a clap in sight.


Photos from Rio can be perused here. Todo bom :)

Day 226 - The rain in Brasil falls mainly on me (in Trindade)

My clothes are wet and refuse to dry. A faint smell of wet squats in our room, refusing to move out. The ' ' key no longer works on my com uter (I think it's the humidity), meaning I am facing writing an entire novel without it. uck it.

It has been raining for four days solid. Trindade ( rounced "Trin-da-jay) - this small Brazilian beach town four hours south of Rio - is in danger of being washed down the hill, over the beautiful sandy beaches and off into the angry surf beyond. The roads have turned into rivers of mud, and the heavens above form a gloomy barrier against the sun we are all willing to emerge.

Short-term holiday makers grumble, knowing every second lost to the deluge is a second closer to returning back to normal life. Long-termers like us scheme as to what to do. Should we head further north? Or stay here and wait it out? In the meantime, we make do with watching films, reading or considering the nature our navels.

It's not Trindades' fault. Our itinerary was good. It was true and righteous. In the uber-ranking of itineraries it shone brightly with a golden light and sweet, jangly music that indicated its' godliness and wonderful nature.

After the considerable hustle and bustle of Sao Paolo, we needed some beach time. Brazil's largest and most ethnically diverse city is a dizzying metro olis. The culinary collision of a hundred different cultures may have ensured a diversity of cuisine to make a steak-and-red-wine-weary mouth melt, but it has also created the worlds' largest 24-7 traffic jam. It's really a city to go to meet friends, or else best to move onward. Or, in our case northward. The town Of Paraty is only a single vowel from being the word Party; surely worth a visit on this fact alone?

One beach out of town - Jabaquala Beach - we found ourselves a small flatlet with a rickety old balcony overlooking the beach. One beach out of town and a world away from Paratys' colonial tourism. It's a cute little town, just twenty minutes walkover the hill, but we wanted a world away from restaurant hawkers, costly cai rinhas and men selling useless trinkets and other shiny things.

Our beach was somewhat more sedate. A one-mercado town, where horses wander around town and on the beach, and small kiosks selling fresh fish and cold beer do business seemingly whenever they feel like it. The kind of beachside town you know your Grandma would love.

In between cooking fabulous home meals in the tiny kitchenette, Rachel made secret lans. A boaty jaunt out to the many islands just off the coast. Eighty foot yacht, fresh fruit, secret beaches, BBQ lunch. A Friday to remember.

Then, that morning it started raining. We moved the boat 'til Saturday.The next day, it showed few signs of abating. We made a call. Nobody wants to cruise the islands on a rainy day. We would head 40 mins south to the tiny, wee hamlet of Trindade.

Trindade is the town where Brazilian travelers come to lie on the beach, eat acai and moqueca (coconut fish stew), drink fresh young coconuts and surf the monster waves. It feels like the end of the world, somewhere between the Caribbean and the Brazil of your dreams. Few locals are fluent in English, exce t for George, owner of Kaissara hostel.

All that was missing was the sun.

Day 1 wasn't all bad. Sure, it was cloudy, but it was warm. We had a frolic on the beach, marveling (well, I marveled) at the material differences between Aussie and Brazilian bikinis. In the evening, we had a BBQ, drank cacacha (sugar cane rum) and had a crack at the most dangerous drinking card game known to man. It lead to more cacacha, tri to a local bar, more cacacha, dancing and, finally, bedtime at 3am.

Next day, it rained. No matter! We ate moqueca, trawled for new swimwear (wife in Brazilian bikini; tick!) and watched the town go nuts as Flamengo clinched the Brazilian title on the last day of the football season.

Monday, still it rained. We began to run out of things to do, not to mention dry clothes. Holidaymakers began to drain out of town; some because the weekend was over, others because of the rain. Maybe it will clear tomorrow? Yeh! It'll clear tomorrow.

Tuesday was massage day. And read-your-book day. And write-a-novel-on-your-com uter with no ' ' day. News came that Sao P aolo was flooded. A river had burst it's banks. Still, the rain came drifting down.

It's now Wednesday. We've decided to stay here for the moment. One beach is the same as any other in a rainstorm. At least we've got the hostel to hang out in. And we have Anchorman to watch. And Rachel's halfway through her book.

I wonder when the rain will sto ?


Those images things (that start with that letter I don't have on my keyboard) are here: from Sao Paolo and from Parati and Trindade