This ain't Kansas anymore | Foz Iguaçu, Buenos Aires & Montevideo

Well actually it ain't India anymore. How do I know? Because it is fucking cold and not stinking hot, ergo we are not in India anymore. Something I admit I already knew since thankfully fell to our knees as soon as we hit Swiss soil about seven weeks ago. Thanking god for the swiss's swiss-ness and their attention cold hard clean and overpriced detail. I know it sounds odd to thank the Swiss for anything, but back then we were quite happy to leave that overly hot sweaty heat behind us. The thing is now though that I wouldn't mind trading places as here it is fucking cold. I'm wearing more layers than an onion to keep me warm, but still struggle to recreate any kind of heat. The temperatures range from outer space to a balmy "ice age" depending on wether the sun is shining or not. Which at the moment it is not. I'm going to try googling Armstrong's phone number to see if I can get him to lend me his space suit...
The cold started in Iguaçu, which is in Brazil. I might sue the travel agents for selling Brazil as a always sunny partying paradise. I also couldn't have been wetter. I 'evoluted' and grew some gills. That wet. The bags that were inside other bags were wet. That wet. And because we like wetness we went to see a waterfall. That was also wet, well they usually are. I reckon the best thing though would be finding very nice places to stay. In Iguaçu we stayed in the guest room of El Refugio. Owned and operated by Danish Ole and his wife Lupe. You get what you don't get when you stay at the Taj (although admittedly I found that quite agreeable too); a connection to locals. Ole invited us up to their private level in the house and showed us his awesome musical instruments, with the definite star being a Japanese string instrument called Shamisen. It rocks harder than Magnus... Well almost, but keep trying you japanesies! See it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7QAMrzqeDGM&feature=youtube_gdata_player
From Iguaçu we got a ride in Ole's original VW Beetle, driven by his son Casper the friendly ghost, to drop us on the Argentinian side of the border where we off course decided to divulge a dead cow. Sorry you vegemetarians there's no way around it.. If it makes it any easier for you than I can say the cow was very old and blind and when it was just going for a nice afternoon stroll happened to run into a barbecue and fell on it. After which we ate it. Well I did. Sandra, miss I'm not going to eat apples in India because they're not local, decided to have fish. Fish. In Argentina. Land of the juicy steaks.
I made her repair that error in Buenos Aires where we on advice of our good friend Rido took advantage of the happy hour at La Cabrera. 800 grams of fine barbecued beef and nearly a bottle of Malbec later (Sandra also had some sss...okay try again...s-s-s-s...ahem...sa...fuck...saaa...salad! Few. Didn't know I could actually say the word.) I was extremely happy and she not so much. It must have been the salad I reckon.
We spent our time in BA being school kids, trying to pick up some Spanish in the week we were there learning such useful things as "¡mis bolas están por el piso!" and behaving like school kids; cracking badly translated jokes and feeling very naughty when we got to classes late. Thanks Marcelo for all the patience!
We also did some after class activities such as watching the very recommendable “Los secretos de sus ojos” (not the simple special effects action movie that I voted for) and Argentinian wine tasting. Go to the bottle-o and get a bottle of Malbec. That's an order. I will be checking on you!
So to conclude I found BA a quite agreeable city with loads of engrained culture, little bars where you can have a drink and be social (no tv's on the wall ozzy boozebarns), good meat & good pastries, grumpy faces on the streets (did the Swiss ever have an influence here?) and of course fucking cold.
Rn.

Paraty - weekend in paradise

We arrive at Paraty's bus terminal with the promise of finding paradise, a bit like the new evangelists walking for the first time into a church trying to find god and redemption. Michel (a french sailor) was there to great us. French? Yes, sounds odd but he like many others (running away from old and depressed Europe) chooses this place as his last stop before eternity. We were about to start our 3day weekend aboard of Horizonte Azul, an old ship where hot water is inexistent and blankets smell like they had been pulled out of donkeys ass. This however was probably the closest experience to luxury boating we have ever done and we didn't regret it one bit. Paraty has been able to keep the beauty of its streets and relaxed atmosphere, life music seemed to be present in bars and restaurants so much that sometimes you couldn't tell who was singing (either the cheesecake in your bar or julio iglesias in the one next door). There is also the improvised samba on Saturdays where anyone can take part. Given that our dancing skills are as good as a drunken turtle we were trusted a couple of percussion eggs we had to use for background rithm. This was perfect for Arne who could play while looking at those Brazilian arses shaking in all directions (hubbahubba whoot whoot!!!) (I just pretended I didn't see it). The best by far was sailing off and getting to know areas accessed only by boat whilst being totally spoiled with yummy breakfasts on the deck. Arne thinks this is boring but he fairly enjoyed every single bit of it!

Rio - there is more to life than samba

Whilst walking along copacaba beach one may wonder where are these brazilian women we see on tv? Long hair, small brazilian bikinis, hot pants... If I was a dude I would totally lodge a formal complaint to the tourist department. You can't fool a tourist like this! Instead, you will find guys (as big and hairy as a gorilla and as tanned as rabbit dipped in chocolate) playing soccer beach-volley (or whatever that is called) all day long. If you want to look for chicks you should totally consider a visit to Mundial, the local supermarket. There you will find a wide variety (age and style) trying to take the whole supermarket home (those shopping carts were so full you would think they could feed a whole army for a month!). Writing about food reminds me of the best brazilian meal we had in Brazil, awesome BBQ with rice, potatoes and farofa with egg and banana. Arne loves anything with meat but this was something special... We ordered one serve and we got food for 4 people, nnniiiiiceeeeee! We also managed to visit Niemeyer's office (the pritzker man himself), a kind of weird office set up on the ninth floor of an officially eight story building. But the space has an amazing view to the beach and the ocean. Arne said he saw a photo of naked women on Oscar's desk, I say that porn for man over 100 years should have disclaimers (just in case)... or maybe it works better than a pacemaker to keep his heart ticking.

Sao Paulo - finding your way in the concrete jungle

Ah we have arrived! Finally a moment of peace and quiet and a chance to be about as useful as tits on a nun. We decided to blow a few hours and good percentage of our piggybank in a bar on top of Sao Paulo's Edificio Italia (one of São Paulo's tallest buildings) observing the buildings that make you want to call the architect in question to tell him not to drink and draft transform themselves from daylight horror into a magical machine of lights at night. Okay yes sure the caipirinhas & live jazz also helped make our life less miserable. This machine doesn't stop; it seems the local hobby is commuting and let me tell you they like bragging about it these oddballs. We overheard one of those things with two legs, cellphone and laptop bag (whadda you call em again? Employees?) show off by saying she takes 2 hours to get home... Ha! Beginner! I left home two months ago and I'm still not there! Take THAT!Who believes all the stories they tell about Brazil and the omnipresent violence? We do. We got to our hostel and the first thing I hear is a couple of loud bangs. Rest in peace I think as I make a mental note to lock all doors a go hide in the closet for the rest of our stay in Brazil. Then there is my ladyfriend who squeezes my hand to pulp every time she sees something suspicious. Like 30 cops dragging one single homeless woman to her new address (two blocks down the road). I thought I was pretty safe with all those policemen around, but no, my hand is still hurting. Bedtime. I slept perfectly, but if I can believe Sandra our hostel got teleported straight into Baghdad as soon as I fell asleep. All night big bangs outside because of...soccer. The paulistas are on their way to conquer the most prestigious South America cup. All in all Sao Paulo is a big city as safe as any other where if you look and behave like a tourist you really ask for some extra attention. You'd be unlikely to find a dutch tourist here as prices are considerably high; who said South America was cheap? We already miss our 0.65€ coffee, fresh sardines and tasty grilled meat in Castelo! Thank god for the Brazilian cachaça (and the 2.5€ caipirinhas) which help us forget about home. Forget about bargaining as well as here you either pay or you leave or get shot if you happen to find yourself with a debt in a favela, a refreshing concept one should introduce in India... That is the not bargaining part off course...what were you thinking!?