What to say about the drive itself? A combination of immense beauty along the coast of South Africa and imense poverty as one headed inland. Oddly enough, I suppose, there were regions in which they overlapped.
One such region was just north of East London. We crested a hill (driving on the the left hand side of the road ) and took in a vast lansdscape. Imagine Southern California before the smog, freeways, Starbucks and subdivisions. Dry, rolling hills and a single two lane road running up the side of a tall rise. Through the haze of cooking fires, one could make out the pastel painted sides of what could only be called huts. A heard of cows and goats grazed in the foreground and children swatted at bugs as they awaited their taxis. Beautiful? No question. But sad in a way. This was a different flavor of poverty than what I saw in South America. In Brasil or Argentina, it was an acceptance of the hand they were dealt any they seemed happy. In South Africa, the feeling was one of exhaustion. Maybe it was the winter, maybe the defeat of Ghana in Match 58. One can only see so much from the window of a car.

On the other hand, if you think that the South African road crew doesn’t know what they doing, we had just started down a long slope when we saw the oddest thing – a warthog crossing sign – the only one of the trip. And not more than 30 feet away was – you guessed it, a warthog contentedly chewing on some piece of trash. Don’t believe me? Phil will vouch for me.

Recommended stops – Mossel Bay for the calm and East London for the food. While I dined on a lamb steak, my buddies had crocodile starters and ostrich flambe. The Stellenbosch area just outside of Cape Town was also a nice stopover. I have to recommend visiting Spier, a beautiful winery complete with tastefully decorated sampling rooms (get it?), organic restaurant, local crafts fair, immaculate picnic areas and a cheetah and eagle recuperation area. The white wine was particularly good.

The drive was long, but the roads were in spectacular shape – no issues at all maintaining 100km/h through the whole trip (excepting small towns and big trucks). Wish I could have spent far more time, but, heck, we made it.

The site was rocky and cold, the waves smashed upon some very sharp, very ship-eating rocks. I understand why getting around this coast must have been a real challenge.

To the mental strains of “America, The Beautiful”, the three of us climbed upon the pedestal, and unfurled the American flag one of us had carried. And for a brief few minutes, we were the “Southernmost Americans Celebrating their National Holiday in Africa.” Not a bad way to spend the Fourth of July.

Next stop, Durban via the Garden Route.

But that evening, after working through the road closures that (not so) conveniently put out hotel inside the security zone, we emerged from the hotel into chaos.

The streets were packed with German, Argentine and other fans, each trying to out-psyche each other. The Germans were very methodical and prepared – even going so far as to have someone bring a whole KEG as a hat. The Argentines were louder and more unified in their white and sky blue attire.

Shoulder to shoulder with people from around the world, we hiked down the closed streets of Cape Town to the beautiful Green Point stadium. A quick breeze through security, a peek at the Coca-Cola dancers (lame) and the rival MTN Celluar dancers (way better), and we were in the stadium.

Nothing like you get on TV, of course. The stadium was at once much larger and much smaller than I expected. The field was smaller than it looks on TV, which made sharing the event with 64,100 other spectators a strangely intimate experience.

And, of course, who could forget the game itself? The play was beautiful – that is if you were German. Watch ESPN for the highlights, but the young German team demolished the favorites. The night was an evening I will remember.

Next up, a drive around the tip of Africa to the city of Durban for the next match. Spain vs Germany!!

Hey, we made it! Internet is kinda sketchy what with all the tourists and all. But we’ve made it! We’re staying in a hotel about a 10 minute walk from the stadium. The scene is electric and we’re all having a good time. We’re planning a trip around the Cape, all the way to the very tip. Should be a great time.

Enjoy the pictures.

If you click on the Photos tab, you might be able to see a few random photos.

Go team!!

Hey, everyone! Long time no chat. I brushed the dust off this ol’ site, took down the viagra ads, and you know why? Because I’m off on another trip. Yeah, South Africa for the freekin’ 2010 FIFA World Cup

Amazingly enough, I’ve got tickets for the quarter and semifinals in Cape Town and Durban, respectively. While the US is no longer in the cup, I have a feeling I’ll be catching some pretty incredible matches.

Now, I wasn’t able to fully recover the old site – most of the photo links don’t work anymore. The photos are still on Flickr, but the links themselves are bad. But the new stuff should appear just fine and I’ll fix the old links when I return.

But first, a four hour drive to JFK and a 15!! hour flight to Johannesburg, SA. Since my last trip, technology has improved a bit. I should be able to do all my blogging via my HTC Fuze. It even has a GPS for those maps I liked. Wish me luck, and they’ll be more posts while I’m on the road. If you want to track the crazy flight, go here.

Well, so much for THAT New Year’s Resolution. Over a month since the last update. Sheesh. Until this moment, I haven’t had the chance to really tell you all about the last leg of the trip, the Amazon. Suffice it to say that I am glad that I went and didn’t chicken out. It was pretty incredible!

I arrived in Manaus in rainy weather. It was reassuring, the Amazon being a rainforest and all. Unfortunately, I arrived on a Friday night – too late to arrange for any river tours, too tired to go out and explore the city. But the next day, I wandered around the muggy, rainy city, poking my head into some of the many shops. And about those shops, there were about a thousand of them, all filled with clothing, cheap electronics and small appliances. I knew that Manaus was a free trade area, but it was still odd to see so much STUFF in the middle of the jungle. But I amused myself by watching the un-Bouncers trying to get people to come in their store. Normally, bouncers throw you out of a place, but these people were doing everything shy of grabbing your arm and pulling you into their store. Yelling through bull horns, showing clothing (or no clothing, if you get my drift), whistling, clapping, shouting. Mind boggling and loud.

But I walked away from the center of town and began to explore some of the gems of the city. The first is, of course, the famous opera house. Other than the timber used to frame it, every nail, window, tile and statue was shipped from Europe. See, the Europeans had been making a killing on the rubber trade and had a little money to spend. And what better thing to create in the middle of the jungle than an opera house.

The next was the shore of the Rio Negro, the large tributary of the Amazon upon which Manaus is located. Up and down the massive river floated large multi-decked ships – the “busses” of the Amazon. For a small fee, you could theoretically travel all the way down to the Atlantic or all the way up to Peru or Columbia. All one has to do is pay your way and kick back in a hammock for the two to six days it takes to get anywhere. What a way to travel, eh?

I finally arranged for a Amazon river tour. First stop, a few days at the Posada Amazonas on the banks of the Ariau, a tributary of the Rio Negro and Amazon. You know what? That stay gets an entry all to itself. See you tomorrow. For now, enjoy the photos (click on the camera icon above).

It was just a few weeks ago that I was camping in a native village in the middle of the Atlantic Forest. And not too much later, I found myself in the middle of Brasília, the high-tech capitol of Brasil. There couldn’t have been more of a contrast. In the village, life stopped when the sun went down as there was no electricity. In Brasilia, night was when life just got started.

It ended up being more Tommorrowland than Star Trek, though. Don’t get me wrong, I think that Costas and Niemeyer (the city planner and chief architect of Brasilia, respectively) were a pair of geniuses. Taking a hint from the foundation of Washington, D.C., then President Kubitschek, embarked on a plan to move the capitol of Brasil from the southern city of Rio to the center of the country, both to unify Brasil and promote development of the interior. What was amazing about the project was the speed. The entire city of “Brasilia” was built from 1956 to 1960. “Fifty years of progress in five,” were the words JK used to run for presidency, and in that he was correct. But walking around Brasilia today is walking around a 1960′s sci-fi movie set or Disneyland The tall modernist buildings with the flying spires, the nearly identical “Super-Quadra” neighborhoods, the amazingly detailed city plan, the magnificent cathedral – they all felt vaguely dated. More like a 1920′s view of what the future would look like. I enjoyed the city tour and took a bunch of photos of the very cool buildings.

But I attempted to walk around the city and realized that the scale was all wrong. The main “mall” of Brasilia is nearly a kilometer wide, much wider than the more human-scaled mall in Washington. Walking the length of the axis of the city from the JK memorial to the TV Tower to the Plaza of the Three Powers is an all-day undertaking. Built in the early age of the automobile, it was imagined that everyone in Brasilia would have access to a car. Heck, I’ve even heard that the original city didn’t have any stop lights – all traffic was routed through tunnels and overpasses. My advice, get a city map and plan on spending some time in taxis or buses.

I stayed in a room in the “Hotel Sector North” and explored some of the nearby super-quadra neighborhoods, trying to get a feel for the sort of people that lived there. I poked my head in various stores and bars, trying out the best of my Portuguese. What I found were people that were generally proud of their city, while acknowledging the problems with overcrowding and traffic. A very healthy attitude and generally very friendly people.

I’m glad to have visited this city. As far as I can tell, it is unique in the world – a capitol in the middle of nowhere, imagined nearly completely by three men and brought to fruition. An attempt to implement a utopian vision. Only time will tell how well they succeeded. Succeed or fail, you can’t discount the power of their vision.

Well, I made it back to the USA. Six days of driving to Santos, Brazil, then sixteen days sitting on a beach getting Harold’s shipping organized. I then took a few days to explore Sao Paulo, then a week to check out Brasilia, and another week to visit the Amazon. That got me back in the States on the 12th of December, just in time for the Christmas/New Year’s season.

But I have twenty minutes to not break my New Year’s resolution: “Write In My Blog More.” So here it is, my first blog entry of the year. There are, of course, a few entries outstanding (Brasilia and the Amazon), and a stack of photos from to share. And with all the holiday activities, I really haven’t had the proper time to reflect on 2006 – my year of travel.

Short and sweet summary:

I’ve made it back safe and sound. No crazy diseases (that I know of). Harold’s kicking it Sao Paulo, waiting for the ship to take him home. I’m staying with my mom and helping out around the ol’ house for a month or so. Will be traveling to Houston to pick up Harold middle of next month. After that? Gainful employment.

While it sounds like procrastination, I’m going to put off posting the remaining entries until tomorrow. What it actually is is an attempt to break this big “End-Of-Trip-What’s-Next” post into more manageable bits. Trying to summarize a year and a half‘s worth of traveling is just a bit bigger task than I’ve wanted to tackle. That leaves me to work on my Brasilia entry- my first destination on my own in South America. Hard to believe it’s been a month since I’ve been there.

That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it!

Here it is, the beginning of the end. We have decided to head back to Sao Paulo to ship our vehicles back to the United States. This will entail a six day driving spree through the inland route and back to the big city. Our turn around point? João Pessoa, the easternmost point in the Americas. Okay, it’s not the Amazon, but it is still pretty cool. Until I took this trip, I didn’t realize how far EAST South America goes. Take a look at a map. The easternmost point of the Americas is more east than Florida, more east than Newfoundland, and more east than the southern tip of Greenland. It’s almost due south of Iceland, for gosh sakes. At that point, Africa was just 1800 miles away, only 200 miles farther away than Sao Paulo, our final destination. Pretty crazy!

The city itself was very nice, another grouping of hi-rises along a beautiful beach. However, the vibe here was a little different. Sure, there were beach restaurants playing loud samba music. But there was a distinct non-Brazilian tint to the whole place, perhaps due to its proximity to Europe. For example, while bicycling down the well-maintained beach path, I passed a few restaurants with some different music. One had a guy playing “Bolero” on a saxophone, another a jazz quartet, a third was having waltz dance lessons, the last was a real-true-to-life Texas country western bar complete with a fake plastic horse out front. In front of all of this was a motorcycle show, street-fair style. It was odd seeing the street closed down and it full of tents selling motorcycles, bike leathers, and American-flag encrusted Harley-Davidson memorabilia. Very strange and unlike the Brasil I had seen so far. But deep, dark clouds started rolling in and the light started failing. I didn’t feel like cycling back down the highway to the parking lot at Ponta do Seixas (the EXTREME easternmost point) in the dark and rain, so I didn’t get to explore the city as thoroughly as I would have liked.

The point itself had a few beach bars, and I enjoyed swimming in the bath-water warm ocean. The rest of the day was spent munching on plates of the best french-fries I’d ever had and drinking ice-cold sodas.

As a tribute to the end of the trip, and a demonstration of how much of a nerd I am, I awoke the last morning just before dawn, donned my damp swimsuit and dug out my camera and GPS. See, being the easternmost point of the Americas means that this point is the first to see the sun. My few pictures of the sunrise turned out pretty well, I thought. However (and this is where the nerdy point comes in), I wanted to mark the location with my GPS. Not content with just standing on the beach and finding the easternmost point, I began to wade due east out into the water, GPS receiver held high over my head. When I got out until my feet could barely touch the ground, I clicked “MARK” on the little plastic. That was the most eastern point I ventured in the Americas, not the point on the beach. I exited the water with a sense of satisfaction and a big smile on my face.

And I wonder why I have so few friends.

So that’s it, we’re heading back south to Sao Paulo. I am trying to decide what I want to do next. I could take a bus back up to Belem and take a passenger boat up the Amazon to complete the trip as planned. I’d guess the bus ride would be four or five days, not exactly the most fun. I could fly back to Joao Pessoa, and then rent a car or take a bus to Belem – another idea. I may just skip the whole Amazon-Belem-to-Manaus-boat thing and just fly right to the large city in the middle of the jungle. I’ll let you know.

We are steadily moving north and trying to locate a port from which to ship. It’s looking more and more like we’ll be heading out of Sao Paulo, about 1000 miles to the south. Until we are sure, we are shooting for Joao Passoa, a city at the easternmost point of the Americas. One stop along the way, the very historical city of Receife and its neighbor Olinda. Interesting story with these two towns. Olinda was settled by the Portuguese in 1535 and was one of that country’s first settlements. Unfortunately, the Dutch showed up a few decades later, didn’t like the location of the hillside town and torched it. Very rude. The Dutch then used their dike building skills to build a new port city a few kilometers down the coast, Recefie. It was the old city of Olinda that I wanted to visit.

Of course, I picked one of the hottest days of the trip to visit the city. After walking around the “new” city of Recefie (founded in 1590 or so), I bought a pastel and a soda from a street vendor and took the bus over to Olinda. A pastel is basically a giant deep-fried won-ton, filled with cheese or meat.

Spent the rest of the day wandering around the old city, up and down the steep streets. Must have looked lost, because an guy came over and introduced himself as a professional guide and asked if I wanted a tour of the city. Nice tour, glad I took it. Got to see the old churches on the hill, the Portuguese observatory, and some of the old houses, specifically the ones that weren’t burned down by the Dutch. This was, of course, all while enjoying the view of Recefie off in the distance. I especially enjoyed the old cloister in the center of Olinda that they were rennovating. It was a very classic building, painted beautifully in white and yellow. It was slowly being consumed by termites, and they were trying to repair the building faster than the termites could eat. In fact, most of the old buildings were being renovated in one form or another. It would be interesting to return in ten years and see how everything came out.

I did make a mistake, however. I was not forceful enough with the guide in getting a price for the tour BEFORE we started. He kept saying we’ll take care of it back at his office. My mistake – it cost me US$50 for a 1 hour walking tour. Oh, well.

That evening as the sun went down, I went and visited the “Blue Note Bar,” a live jazz bar in the back of someone’s house. Very nice and groovy, just three guys – a drummer, an electronic piano and a bass. Very sedate and relaxing – and safe. Took a taxi back to the mall parking lot in which we were camping, and turned in for the night.

If you haven’t yet heard, it looks like we’re going to be cutting our trip short, or at least changing the itinerary. Due to political considerations in Venezuela, we’re not going to exit through that country, and instead we’re going to ship our vehicles out of Brazil. In particular, the Chavez administration is charging huge export fees for anything heading back to the States. That, and the anticipated “lubrication” make it financially undesirable. We’d also be arriving around the time of elections, a time of predictable instability. Being Americans driving flashy American vehicles, our guide decided that we didn’t need to expose ourselves to those kind of situations. And so he called the trip.

We are still going to head north in Brazil for a few more days, hitting the cities of Recefie and Joao Passoa, the easternmost point of the Americas. After that, we turn back and head to a port, either Salvador, Rio or Sao Paulo. The other option is to drive back across the continent and ship from Arica in northern Chile. In any case, Harold is never going to see the Amazon and I’m not going to drive across the equator on this trip.

How do I feel? Disappointed, that’s for sure. Okay, the main goal of my trip, to complete a drive from Alaska to Argentina is done. With that alone, I have a great sense of accomplishment. And in that light, Brazil was kinda an add-on – a bonus. And I have been traveling for about a year now, staying in one place for a few weeks at the most. Four months of that have been in foreign countries where I don’t know the language (that well). I’ve spent more money than I thought I would (big surprise) and I still haven’t figured out how to get more. The pace of this guided tour is also taxing, as it never quite syncs with what I want to do. Sometimes, we race through an area, other times, we sit in a place far too long. And mentally, I’m ready for a break and am thinking about taking the first flight back to the states as soon as Harold is tucked into to a ship. Order myself a nice lager beer in English and give my brain a break, maybe even get a job. (Did I just say I needed a break from vacation? I guess I have traveled long enough.)

On the other hand, I DID write “Arctic to Amazon 2006″ on the side of my camper (still has a good ring to it). It seems silly to be all the way down here in South America and miss one of the wonders of the natural world. Ending the trip on a “failure” is not what I had in mind. The option is to take a flight to the Amazon city of Manaus from whatever port we ship from and see the river from there. It would be a wonderful gem with which to finish this trip.

So, here I am, thousands of miles from the States, and no clear way to get back.

Now that’s what I call “F-U-N”!

[ed: This post deals with adult subjects and should probably not be read by anyone.]

Salvador, Brazil – capitol of the state of Bahaia. Spicy food, capoera, arts and crafts markets galore. Okay, not one of the SAFEST places on the whole trip. Our guide used one of his connections to allow us to camp INSIDE the police academy near the Cathedral do Bomfim. Not really available for public parking. But as I will soon get to, our guide earned every single dollar of his fee by camping here.

We did get in rather early that afternoon, after driving through the “lock your doors and don’t stop at the stoplights unless you want to get mugged” section of town, so there was still time to see some of the town. So that afternoon, the group struck out to explore the historic city of Salvador.

One of the interesting things about Salvador is that it is built on two levels. The lower level is at sea level and contains all the ports, docks and markets. The upper level is built atop the tall cliffs near the water. The upper level contains the historic city, as well as most of the tourist stuff and night life. Between the two levels is an art-deco elevator constructed in the 1930′s. For the low, low price of 5 centavos (less than 3 cents), you are whisked between the two city levels.

Looking for lunch, we walked down one of the tourist streets in the pedestrian zone of the historical city. It was funny, we got two of the restaurants in a bidding war over our business. Finally went with the restaurant that offered us all a free caipirinha. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Caipirinha The meal was good, but a little on the bland side. That’s when I discovered the wonderful Bahia sauce. The waiter warned us it was “mutio picante.” I didn’t listen to him for two reasons. First, I was from San Diego and had dined on Mexican and Thai food, not to mention the hot wings at San Diego Brewing Company. Second, it was a tourist trap, how hot could it be?

With a smile, I placed two or three big dollops of the red, translucent, oily sauce on my fish. I knew I was in trouble after my first bite when my tongue refused to work and my whole jaw began to ache. Then the hic-ups started. Then, and only then, did the pain start. The sting on my lips kept increasing until, as far as I can tell, the nerves gave out and a merciful numbness set in. With tears rolling down my face, I gave a feeble thumbs-up to the waiter who didn’t see it because he was rolling on the floor laughing.

That night, I lay inside Harold, listening to raindrops lightly falling on the roof and bullets hitting the paper targets of the firing range we were parked behind. Ahh, what a night. It was indeed a rough town, and I was glad to have the protection of the high walls and police.

I was awakened, no, not by morning pistol practice, but by the sound of revelry. I don’t think it was my imagination, but I think the commandant of the academy chose the loudest and most off-key bugler he had just to mess with us tourists.

I was anxious to explore the city the next day, and walked the four miles to the town center through the heat. I poked my head into various small stores, walked down crowded alleys full of shops and people, generally exploring. Of course, I was the only blond headed guy around, but that just made it interesting. The plan was to meet the guide for lunch at the central artisan’s market in the lower city, but the skies opened up and I was ditched.

I consoled myself with a beer and a plate of deep-fried small fish, eaten whole (with the heads!). Tasty and salty – good with beer. Gave an old beggar woman a 1 real coin (’bout 50 cents) and earned a thumbs up from a tall black man at the next plastic table over. He ended coming over and introducing himself (in broken English and Portuguese, sorta Eng-uese) and told me he was one of the local capoera school masters. His school would be performing soon, and oh, would I like to buy their DVD? I passed on the DVD, but ended up buying a round for him and his buddy. Hoping to get an insight into the Bahian culture, ended up chatting some more, talking about the trend in women in capoera, what it was like to live in Salvador, and helped with my Portuguese and I helped with his English. Somehow, I ended up buying another round, but at 80 cents a liter, I wasn’t really keeping track. Now I was on three liters of beer in two hours, and I was feeling a little light headed. Soon enough, the school got on stage, and I watched them “art-fight” while drinking another half a liter of beer.

It was interesting to watch the dancers, some beginners, others more adept, all coming blazingly close to knocking each other’s blocks off. At some point, one of the instructors motioned that I come up on stage – he wanted to give me a lesson. I held my own and didn’t hurt anyone or anything. So now, Jesse has had some experience with capoera. Back in Guatemala, I discovered that I was a soft sell. This time I ended up buying a T-shirt from the school.

So, the capoera master decided that I was an okay guy, and decided to show me around his city. We began to retrace the steps I had taken the previous day, but now I had a whole new perspective. Not only was I slightly buzzed, but this guy was, I don’t know, like some guy running for mayor. He seemed to know everyone. The fisherman down at the dock said hello and showed me the fish they had brought in. A few of the artisans at the market waved us over and said hello. He knew the elevator operator. A well dressed business man gave my friend a big hug. Even the policemen smiled and nodded. At the upper city, there was a street fair going on, and we downed another liter of beer – a gift from a woman he called “mama.” She was an enormous black woman, clothed in the typical Bahian white dress. Everything I said made her crack a smile, showing her brilliant white teeth. I didn’t think I was funny. Maybe she just liked showing off her teeth, I don’t know. The whole while, my new friend kept pointing to women walking by, saying “You like? I know her, I’ll get her for you.”

After polishing off the beer, we got up, said our goodbyes to mama, and departed. We walked past tourist shops I had examined earlier in the day and turned down a dark, dark alley. Ducking under a bundle of a dozen 2×4′s carried by two workmen (who works at 11pm on a Friday?), I followed my friend off the main street into the muddy hill of the residential area. The area was a mishmash of cinder-block homes, bare-bulb lit passageways, small vegetable gardens and dirt paths. We finally settled at a “bar” with a fantastic view of the lower city and harbor. I only knew it was a bar because there were plastic tables and chairs – one bare light-bulb illuminating the whole scene. Another beer, another round of Portuguese and English lessons.

It was then my guide took out a small plastic zip-lock bag and started rolling a crack cigarette that I all of a sudden felt very out of place. Now, I wasn’t concerned about my safety, just my money. This whole time I was never felt unsafe, oddly enough. Actually, I felt quite welcome but I knew that it was time to end this little adventure.

And this is where Norm earned all his money. My friend wanted to me to drop off my purchases for the day, and we could continue partying. I was set to leave early the next morning, but I didn’t want to let him know that. I made motions that I would grab a cab and meet him back at the square with full intentions of calling it a night.. Somehow, I couldn’t make it clear that I would meet him later (I was lying, after all), and he ended up climbing into the back seat of the cab as well. I figured he was either a nice guy or, more likely, he knew enough to not let a good source of drinking money leave to quickly. If I was staying in a hotel, I would have been worried that he knew where I was staying. As it was, when the cab pulled up in front of the police academy, I got out, paid the cab driver for return fair and said I was tired and wouldn’t be partying. His face dropped, and I felt bad. I looked back at the safety of the high walls of the academy and sighed with relief. I had a way out, and took it. Let’s just say that I didn’t really feel like spending the night with a crackhead short on money trained in a form of martial arts. In case I forget to mention it, revele was ESPECIALLY loud the next morning.

How do I get myself INTO these situations?

Brazil is littered with little beach communities and we just finished up a 16 day stint of seeing them. I hope you’ll understand why my blog is so far behind – it’s hard to get up and go to a stuffy Internet cafe and write. Sit on the sand or sit on a hard chair? Ocean waves or CRT rays? Surfing the waves or surfing the ‘net? I’ll let you decide.

But I will admit, there is something like too much of a good thing. I am a mountain/hills/forest kind of guy. I eventually have gotten tired of picking sand out of odd places, my tools all rusting and the beer, while plentiful and cheap, isn’t all that great. Forget all these lagers, I need a nice Ale.

So when we stopped in Monte Pascoal National Park deep in the Atlantic forest, it was a nice change. Monte Pascoal National Park is interesting for many reasons. First, Monte Pascoal (586m) was supposedly the first point of land that sighted when the Portuguese discovered Brazil in 1500, making it sort of a Brazilian Plymouth Rock. Secondly, and more interesting for us, it was occuiped by 200 members of the Pataxó Indian tribe in 1999. They kicked out the national park staff, wrote a statement saying they were preserving the park, occupied the staff buildings and set up a small village around the main parking lot.

It was into that main parking lot we pulled and it was like being transported into some National Geographic magazine. While many of the people wore modern clothing, there were some men and boys decked out in more traditional garments – feather headdresses and grass “skirts” for lack of a better name. The houses were all small and thatched and smoke curled from each one. Naked babies ran shrieking away from their mothers while older children gazed at our large RV’s. Their life was simple, but not impoverished. We spent the afternoon trying to talk to the kids in Portuguese, and they taught us some words from their native language. Soccer was, of course, the big sport of the village, and our guide had brought a bright green rubber playground ball for the kids to use. Between that and two bags of microwave popcorn, we were quite a hit. We even got a tour inside the park and saw some of the forest and old national park facilities. The Indians had constructed a large monument to the native peoples of Brazil with a center garden containing samples of different indigenous plants. The old central administrative building was converted into a gift shop, and the guide attempted to sell us hatchets, spears and blow guns. Fun, but I couldn’t imagine getting any of the arsenal back into the states.

What I didn’t do was take any photos. I felt distinctly uncomfortable and out of place as it was, and taking photos is still so intimate to me. I was a guest in their village, and couldn’t bring myself to treat them like a tourist attraction. Somehow, someday, I will have to find a good way to take some photos in situations like this, or I’ll never have any readers.

When the sun went down, the villagers went home and to sleep. No electricity made for a dark, dark night. So when the evening rain rolled in, I sat in my camper and tried to pretend I was sleeping in the middle of the jungle. A call of a macaw in the distance made me realize with a start that I WAS sleeping in the middle of the jungle – no imagination required. I pulled the sheet a little tighter over me and listened intently for the sound of arrows and poison darts hitting the side of my camper. With that, I went to sleep.

The next morning while the rest of the group headed down the road, I hired a Pataxó guide to take me to the top of Monte Pascoal. I laced up my $200 Gore-Tex boots and grabbed my high-tech rain coat and camera. I was soon introduced to my guide, an 8 year old boy clad in shorts, a striped shirt and flip-flops. Great. I could just tell, he was going to kick my ass climbing this mountain. The trip itself was hard, working up the muddy side of the mountain. I think that switchbacks were a European invention, because this trail went straight up..and up. The whole way, me huffing and puffing, trying to coax some Portuguese lessons out of the guide. Him, confidently strolling up the mountain, smiling every time I wanted to stop, asking me if I was “cansado”. But he got me there, and I was rewarded with a view of clouds and the occasional distant green landscape peeking out from under them. It was a quick walk/slide back down, where I hopped back into Harold, waved goodbye to the village, and drove away.

Unforgettable.

I will also always remember the little towns of Cabo Frio and the neighboring towns of Buzios (supposedly one of Bridget Bardot’s hangouts, ans a nice shopping and clubbing area) and Arrial do Cabo, a fishing community. Striking off without the guide, we all piled into one of the RV’s with the intention of spending another nice day on the beach.

Wanting to get out into the water more and hearing about the large amount of wildlife in the area,the stowaway and I went searching for a boat, cruise, tour, or something. Not 40 meters down the beach, a man wearing a classic fisherman’s cap flagged us down.

“Boat ride?”

“Maybe, how much?”

“Eh?” he said. And that is where we learned that “Boat ride?” was all the English he knew.

But between some hand gestures and the few Portuguese words we knew, we soon found ourselves in a small, but pretty sturdy looking fishing skiff in the middle of the bay with a Brazilan couple. While I hummed the theme to Gilligan’s Island, the captain steered the boat away from shore, giving us a great view of the beaches. We explored the rocky coast of the nearby large island, poking around in caves that reminded me of the Channel Islands in California.

But soon tradgedy struck the hapless traveler (i.e. me). When I went to snap a photo of the scene with my little waterproof digital camera and MAN… I had grabbed the empty battery. No photos for you, NEXT!

The scenery, however, more than made up for my potentially foul mood, and before I realized what was going on, the captain anchored in neck-deep, crystal-clear water. Tossing us a few snorkels, he jerked his thumb over the side of the boat. With a splash, I jumped in the warm water and gazed down at the few, but energetic, fish. The swell was easy to manage, and the sun on my back felt good. I climbed back aboard, dried off, and took the proffered soda. The captain pulled anchor, fired up the engine (on the first shot!) and headed out again. On the way back across the bay, we even saw two giant sea turtles and a very lost looking penguin doing the backstroke. Between the fish, birds, turtles and seals there was plenty of fauna to enjoy.

Next, the captain dropped us off at a beach backed by a tall dune of the finest, whitest sand. As a kid, I remember watching my grandma bake bread. She’d make a huge pile of flour in the big mixing bowl, just before cracking an egg in the little well she’d make at the top. I remember imagining what it’d be like to slide down the side of one of those flour mountains. That memory came to me as I slogged my way up to the top of the dune, small plastic sled in my hand. It was just like I thought! Although, somehow, I ended up going much faster than I expected. There was always the ocean to to hit when I got to the bottom, just in case.

After trying to clean sand out of …ahem… some unusual places, I waded back out to the boat and the captian again pulled anchor and we headed back across the water. The captain steered the boat over to a small floating dock at the far end of the bay. Turned out it was a restaurant/bar made up of a few floating dock segments strapped together. We ordered a bowl of steamed oysters that were harvested in front of our eyes and only minutes old. Oh, and you’ll never guess what I had to drink! Guarding our food and drinks from the persistent bees, we demolished the oysters while slowly bobbing up and down on the ocean swell and watching the fish below.

A perfect way to end the day. As my aunt said to me, “The whole world is your oyster. That is a wonderful thing … if you like oysters”. And that day, I couldn’t complain.

[ed: I've marked the location of the floating restaurant (pronounced "hest tah hante", really!) on the map below. Zoom in to one step below the maximum. You can make out the tables and stuff. Isn't Google Maps cool?.]

What people think about when they hear the words “Rio de Janeiro” probably tells alot about who that person is.

Here’s what I’ve come up with:

• Those of you who think about Ginger Rogers and Fred Astair dancing in the nightclubs of the Copacabana are probably old movie buffs (or maybe just old).
• People who think of Carmen Miranda and the famous black and white stone sidewalks that separate the street from the beach are probably a bit younger and vegetarian.
• A few of you are thinking about the Girl From Ipenema. You are also probably wearing a beret at a jaunty angle, smoking a cigarette in a holder and wondering where your excessively string coffee is.
• Many of you are thinking about long, crowded beached covered with brozned, topless women. You probably think about topless women without reading my blog.
• A few of you think about the amazing pictures taken from helicopters of the famous Cristus Redentor statue overlooking the city. You have too much money.

Me, I think about a fat man, a hysterical man and a poorly hatched plan to make a Broadway show. Who knows what that says about me?

In Rio, we camped at a Camping Club do Brasil site about an hour north of downtown in an area called Recrero. Very nice campground, especially since the camping club was celebrating their 40th anniversary and the place was filled with all sorts of people, bands, little bars, strange RV’s – the works. Oh, and did I mention that it was right across the street from one of the nicest beaches I’ve ever seen. No topless women, but pure, clean white sand and wonderful warm water.

The first evening, we signed up for a “Carnival Show,” a mini-recreation of Brazil’s famous carnival. The show was one-third history, one-third Vaudville, one-third dance review, three-quarters tourist trap, but all fun. The costumes the women wore were incredible (and incredibly revealing), huge feather bedecked things that probably come to life on their own at night. The show featured a capoera performance and an MC with a pretty cool trick. He knew, by heart, most of the country names in the world, and rattled them off. When someone cheered, he’d greet them in the language of that country. That show, we had people from all over the world, and he got to exercise his language trick that night!

One thing I’ve noticed about Brazil, the music never stops. Wherever you go, if you listen closely, you can hear music. The radio from a group of workers, a distant band, music on the car stereo. We spent the night in the campground, lulled to sleep by the sounds of a multi-kilowatt sound system coming from the campground’s stage (!). And what was the band playing? Covers of American country-western songs interrupted encores of “New York, New York.”

The next day, we took the city tour and did the classic touristy things. First on the “enforced fun schedule”: take the teliferica up the side of the Sugar Loaf mountain and enjoy the view. You’d think an landmark like the gondola up the mountain would be a big, huge extravaganza. But I was surprised to find that this grand world landmark was just down the street from the state School of Mining and that the McDonald’s around the corner had more signs. Oh, well, the guide knew where we were going and it didn’t detract from the total experience. In fact, the lack of commercialization make it seem like we were discovering a little known “secret” of Rio. Well, the vendors hawking T-shirts and necklaces kinda detracted from the whole thing, but….

The view from the top of Sugar Loaf was incredible with the whole city stretched below. The beaches to the north and south, the mountains to the west, and the deep blue of the Atlantic ocean stretching all the way to the horizon. Amazing.

We also took the cog railway up to the top of Corcovado, the mountain upon which the statue of Christ the Redeemer was built. The railway and mountain itself, according to the guide, was once the private reserve of the Prince of Portugal (and later, the King). The railway takes you through a wonderful deep green Atlantic forest and finally deposits you at the top of the mountain – all accompanied by a three piece samba band. Again, the music never stops.

Whoever thought about putting a statue at the top of the mountain was either crazy or a genius. The view was magnificent, of course, and the statue did a good job of guarding the city while still looking welcoming and not morose. But we again fought the crowds to get the view of the city, fought the vendors trying to sell photos and mugs, and fought the lines back to the train – all in the hot sun. Worth it? Yes.

Between Brazil’s strong economy and the preparations for the 2007 Pan-American games, there was plenty of construction and “gentrification” going on. I’ve got a notion in my head that I’ll buy a old row house in an up-and coming neighborhood and refurbish it back to it’s art-deco original. Hey, a house refurb project is what got me on this trip in the first place. I think I found my candidate , though.

I closed out the trip by spending an evening chatting with a kiosk owner and his young lady co-worker. He spoke in some strange combination of English, Portuguese and Italian (!) and I unfortunately only caught every fourth word or so. The gal just spoke rapid and loud Portuguese. It took me twenty minutes to finally figure out she was hitting on me. It took her twenty minutes to say she thought I was “beautiful.” It took an additional half an hour for her to understand where I was staying and how long I was going to be in town. After that much work, she thought I must have had some mental limitation. Now uninterested, she finally closed up the kiosk and wandered off. The kiosk owner, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have as much problem with me not understanding. He talked at me until the air got cold and the wind picked up. I think he was talking about the war in Iraq and George Bush, but he could have been talking about turtles, too, I couldn’t really tell. Man, I am going to have to work on my Portuguese.

But we leave Rio too soon. No museums, no night-life tours. Tomorrow at 4:00am (there’s a 4am?) we leave Rio and head up the coast to soak in more beach culture.

This was more like it! I placed my feet on the red-plastic stack chair in front of me. I leaned back heavily in my chair and smacked my lips. I put my left hand behind my head and raised my right arm straight up. With my raised hand, I waved to the person about 10 feet behind me and he came over.

“Mais um, por favor.” I said. And within seconds, a nearly frozen 1 liter bottle of beer appeared on the stained plastic table next to me, not blocking the view of the beautiful beach (and beach goers) in front of me. I was relaxing in Parati, a small touristy town just south of Sao Paulo, Brazil, directly on the Atlantic ocean. And I was finally getting the hang of sitting on the beach.

As an ex-San Diegan, you’d think that beach-sitting would come naturally. In fact, I’ve never found the beaches of San Diego all that relaxing. You’d wake up early in the morning to be able to fight traffic and find a spot. You’d fight your way across the sand, finding a sopt (perhaps) and it would inevidably be near some stereo-blasting group of kids. The water never got that warm (really), and I COULD never get into surfing. As for raising a hand and getting an ice cold beer, no way. And after driving over 40,000 miles in the last 11 months, just sitting still was a challenge.

But now, NOW, I get it. During the day, put on some sunscreen, sit back, wave off the beach vendors (unless they have something you really want), and relax. Flip through the phrase book and order a beer. Try to figure out what kind of food the people at the next table are eating. Order something, discover it WASN’T what they had, but enjoy it anyway.

Last night, I wandered around the centuries old streets of the town, all tall, uneven cobblestones and closed to vehicle traffic. Little shops, bigger art galleries, larger still restaurants and clubs, and giant churches. Other than the colonial era architecture, there is one other interesting thing about Parati. All those years ago, the city planners set up the city such that the biggest high tide of the month would overflow the dikes and flood the city. This was their way to clean the streets once a month. This design gave the city the nickname “The Venice of South America.” While we missed street cleaning day, the design was evident in the tall stone foundations of every building in the historic quarter of the city. Each building had a high granite step to the door, and even the main plaza was raised. The whole thing really added an unmistakable element to the architecture.

The city itself gained prosperity during the Brazilian gold rush. As the end of the “golden trail”, it was the main shipping point for gold on it way to Europe, kinda like San Francisco in the US gold rush. Just a little earlier. Like four hundred years. Now, the “gold trail” is a trekking route, and should I want to do a Brazilian backpack trip, this would be the one. I was, however, too comfortable (not to mention buzzed) to put any sort of plan together for backpacking up the trail on this trip…. maybe next time.

Next destination – Rio!!!

I’ve lived in a a 10 foot by 12 foot box for the last year, and believe it or not, it is still possible to loose things. You’d think that having the ability to touch all your worldly possesstions without moving your feet would make it difficult to loose things. But anyone who has lived on a sailboat or in an RV is nodding right now. I once looked for my swimsuit for three hours. I ended up finding it INSIDE one of the long sleeve shirts hanging in the closet. I guess it had slid off the shelf in the top of the closet and slid down the neck of the shirt. And this wasn’t just a little speedo (god, forbid), but a full-size pair of jams. Hard to loose, you’d think. Three stupid hours! On another occation, I was looking for a roll of paper-towels I had stored in the cabinet behind the drawers. While I didn’t find the towels, I found a bulk-sized CASE of microwave popcorn that I didn’t even remember buying. So I know that it is possible to have things inside the RV that you don’t even know about. That’s why I wasn’t so surprised when a stowaway was discovered just after we left the southern city of Porto Alegre.

My theory is that she hid behind the shower curtain of the larger motor homes and lived off of tic-tacs for the last two months. Of course, she had a totally unconvincing story about how she was the daughter of one of the couples and that she had flown in from mid-west America to Sao Paulo to meet her parents. Blah, blah, blah.

Actually, that is exactly what happened (her version, not mine). So for this week, we have an extra person on-board. This, of course, had exacerbated a minor problem we’ve been having. I have been the youngest person on this trip by a few decades. Up to this point, it has caused a lot of confusion with the people we have met – the locals don’t quite know what to make of our group. The other people in the group are a little too old to be my parents, and too young to be my grandparents. Am I their kid, or grand kid, or what? But now add a new person to the mix, someone exactly the same age as my mother, and now people just assume that we are a particularly rich family. We are continuously explainging to people that we are just a bunch of tourists – just friends – but I don’t think that they quite believe it. And now that we have three generations, people don’t even ask our relations. Seems I have adpted a new family while on this trip. Sorry, mom!

But enough of that. For now, we begin driving north in Brazil, a country famous for its coastline. Thousands of miles of beaches, some undeveloped, some forming the edge of world-class cites. And our plan, drive until we hit Belem and the mouth of the largest river in the world. We drove around Sao Paulo, a big, dirty and dangerous metropolitan area and pulled into the pleasant (albeit touristy) town of Parati (pronounced “pah uh tchee”). More on that tomorrow!

Okay, this was really neat. The place was incredible, the largest water fall in the world.

We arrived via plane to the city of Foz do Icuaçul, right at the triple border of Brazil, Paruguay and Argentina. Mom, don’t read the next three sentences. This area is a known “lawless” area and is suspected of harboring various terriost groups as the borders are very open. Needless to say, we didn’t drive our high-profile vehicles, but instead flew. Having said all that, the whole trip was pleasant and I felt safe and confidant, even walking around the city at night after dinner. Don’t avoid the falls because of the conditions, that’s for sure.

The falls themselves sit on the border of Argentina and Brazil, and each country has facilities for visiting the falls. The Brazilian side has more panoramic views of the falls, and the Argentinian side has more catwalks and interaction with the falls.

Despite predictions for continuous rain, the weather while we were at the falls was beautiful. Sunny and warm with a few dramatic clouds for pictures. The group hiried a a mini-bus in Foz do Iguaçul (the Brazilian city near the airport). Before we knew it, we had crossed over into Argentina and arrived at the park. As you approach the falls, the immensity of the place hits you, the water, the river, the drop, the noise, the people, the ice cream stands. I’ll let the pictures speak for themselves, but the place was another gem of the trip.

In addition to the water, there was plenty of wildlife. Birds and butterflies were everywhere. While walking along one of the catwalks, I caught a caiman munching on a huge catfish he had just caught. Still wriggling, the fish was torn apart by the hungry little guy. Im between the huge waterfall and the alligators, “No swimming” signs were completely unnecessary.

Two fun things I did while at the falls. First, I bought a ticket for a jet boat tour of the falls. Putting cameras and shoes in waterproof bags, you strap yourself into a 20 person inflatable boat. The skilled captain rockets the boat up the rapids, going near and under the falls, absolutely drenching the passengers. That would include, uh, me! Walking around the rest of the day in damp jeans was well worth it, being that I got an “up close and personal” view of the waterfalls.

Recalling the wonderful time I had at the moonlight walk in the Everglades last spring (was it really such a short time ago?), I jumped at the opportunity to visit the falls at night. The 17th was the night of the full moon, and the park offered a dinner/moonlight train/moonlight walk out to the falls.

Now, I was the only one of the group to have signed up, and therefore, the rest of the group took the chartered mini-bus back. I was assured that there was a bus back to the city at night. Well, I had a few hours to kill, and I ran into some American teachers who were working in Brazil and staying in the hotel next to mine in Foz do Iguaçul. They didn’t know much Spanish, so I acted as translator using my meager Spanish and eventually we all signed up for the evening program. Well, turns out that I should have been more specific in asking about the bus. See, it went to Porto Iguaçul, the ARGENTINIAN city. We were staying in Foz do Iguaçul, the BRAZILIAN city. Bus to Brazil? No chance! I was definitely in the “little bit of knowledge was dangerous” phase of my Spanish, for I had just stranded myself in a foreign country. Worse, I had stranded four other people there too! After some frantic scrambling, I was able to find a pair of taxi drivers that would pick the five of us up after the hike. Whew!

Well, the five of us enjoyed a pretty good dinner, drinking and sharing stories. It looked like it was time to go, as the restaurant was emptying out. When we attempted to leave, however, it turned out we need to exchange our tickets for vouchers at the front gate of the park! RUN, the train is LEAVING! After all that work getting taxis, we weren’t about to miss the TRAIN, too. But we slid aboard the last few seats, out of breath, and took the noisy train through the jungle out to the farthest walkway – the walkway to the dah,dah,dum…Devil’s Throat.

Earlier in the day, I had scouted out locations for good photos, expecting it to be dark. Well, I my preparation paid off. I set up my tripod, set my camera up for long exposure and took, what I thought, were some wonderful pictures. In any case, the roar of the falls, the cool of the evening, the company of new friends (and the buzz of the two bottles of wine with dinner) all combined to make for an evening I won’t ever forget.

We were the last to board the train again on the way out, and after saying out goodbyes, we took our separate taxis back to Brazil. I climbed into my hotel bed that night, and fell asleep with a smile on my face.

Great day!

Epilogue

This story I heard second hand and goes to show that I wasn’t the only person to have had problems with my Spanish that day. The rest of the group was all set to go, and went to the front gate of the park to look for the mini-bus. Well, I had sat in the front seat on the way out, and my friends had a heck of a time recognizing the bus driver from the back of his head. All those dark haired men look alike from the back, after all. Worse, the driver was looking for ME, and didn’t recognize my friends. All those older gringos looking alike from ANY angle. Finally, they stumbled over each other, recognizing each other by the frantic look in each others eyes. But the driver wouldn’t leave without me. He came with five people, and he was going to leave with five people, damn it. HE knew that there was no bus back to Foz do Iguaçul at night and he was looking out for me.

It was then they realized that a Spanish-English phrase book actually covers a very small percentage of the total number of conversations possible. Nothing that they could say, pantomime, or draw on little scraps of paper would convince this man that it was okay to leave without me. My thought that he was an ex-marine or something (“Leave no man behind!”) Finally, FINALLY, they got the friend of his boss, a man who spoke some English on the cell phone. He convinced the driver that these people weren’t trying to ditch me and that it was okay to leave. They drove back to Brazil, with the driver giving them suspicious glances the whole time, I’m sure.

My advice, carry a bigger Spanish dictionary.

My phrase book says that “Brazilian portuguese is notable for it’s complex pronunciation.” If that isn’t the understatement of the year, I don’t know what else is. On paper, it looks fine. Even a little like Spanish. The troubles started, however, with the name of the state in which we entered Brazil. Rio Grande do Sul. Looks like Spanish. However, in Brazil, the letter “r” is sometimes pronounced as an “h”. The “de” is pronounced something like the first sylable in the word “genie.” The final “l” of Sul is also softened quite a bit. So, the state name is more like “Hee-oh Gran-jee do Soo”. Even the currency, the Real, is pronounced like “Hee-Ow”. And don’t get me started on my favorite Brazillian beer, Antartica.

We stayed a few days in the parking lot of a medium-sized RV manufacturer in the city of Novo Hamborgo. As if my troubles with Portuguese weren’t bad enough, many, many people in southern Brazil speak German. We spent the evening with the owner of the company and his wife, playing a “can you say this?” in German, English, Spanish and Portuguese. They’d shoot out a word, say, “cebola,” and I’d try to say it in all the languages I knew. “Cebolla” (Spanish), “Zwiebel” (german), and “onion” English. Fun game, although a bit mind bending. The two liters of beer helped (I think). The evening’s conversation was a strange mixture of the four languages, and it made the Abendessen all the mais bom.

Talking about food. Brazil had more interesting ways to pay for food than I have seen before. Sure, they have restaurants with menus, all-you-can-eat buffet places, little fast food joints. But they also have pay-by-the-kilo places. Fill your plate, place it on a scale at the checkout, pay by how much the food weighs.

My favorite, though, was the rotozia. (“hotozeea”) You walk in and sit at a table. One waiter takes your drink order. You go over and help yourself to a nice salad bar while the drinks come. But sitting down at the end of the table is a small item about the size and shape of a salt shaker, one end painted red, the other green. What happens is that a small army of waiters bring you things to eat on various serving dishes. Various types of pizza, Chinese food, grilled meat, potatoes, even dessert. Basically, whatever the restaurant has ready. The food is hot and good. As long as the green side of the salt-shaker is up, the food keeps coming, and you can have as much or as little as you want. Turn the shaker red-side up to give your teeth and stomach a break. How Brazil isn’t populated by huge people, I’ll never know.

We spent the rest of our time in Novo Hamborgo attending to small repairs and visiting the local German communities in the hills. One of them, the lovely community of Gramado, had a very German May Pole and a fun hedge maze. The maze was made even more fun by the dark clouds that rolled in just as we attempted the maze. Luckily we were able to make it through before the giant rain drops came down, drenching the unfortunate souls trapped inside. The rest of the day was spent exploring the old churches in the area, enjoying the scenery of the beautiful mountain valleys, exploring tall waterfalls, sampling (and buying) the local varieties of schnapps and chocolates, and eating at yet another roto.

Back in Novo Hamborgo, Norm and I stopped into a local “community hall.” The theme, country dance lessons. Now, I have had a brush with the world of country dancing before, and it was fun to see the differences. A man in traditional gaucho dress, high black boots, white shirt, poofy pants, taught the class. The music was traditional as well, guitars, violins, trumpets. But the step was a two-step, no different than I learned back in the bar in San Diego. I think the instructor read the same book on how to teach the two-step as well, the lesson was exactly like I remembered. I did not, however, choose to dance that night, much to the relief of the natives, I assure you.

So, as I slowly forget my Spanish and begin replacing it with Portuguese, I begin the Brazil section of the trip. Only a month to go before we hit the Amazon and head out the north of the country. First, though, a side trip to the world’s largest waterfall, Iguazul.

Ate mais tarde.