Trains to Brazil...

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So the only way to the Pantanal and Brazil is a 16-20hr train, doesnt sound too bad especially if we splash out and go top class with full reclining seats for a few pounds. Oh those trains dont go til Sunday, we get told, and its Friday so we have to go semi-recline and slightly grubby class, half price.

It all starts going a bit awry at the train station with everywhere being a bit hectic as the strike gets hold and the distinct lack of any tourists/travellers still concerning me. Oh look theres some western looking folk, they are western looking but are all wearing dungarees and trucker caps (not the trendy ones that Gemmas loves, just plain red or green, think Mario Brothers) and they all look identical, kinda a mid-west american country look with piecing eyes embedded in round ruddy faces and hands of old men, basically the stereotypical desert mechanic psycho from many a horror film. We come to the conclusion there are mormons (think Kingpin) or moomins as Matt decides, and they must live out here in nowhere Bolivia. As we board our carriage they surround us and matt has to share his seat with one, their language sounds like a weaker version of hebrew with an american twang, its all getting very odd when one (the best dressed and strangest looking one) starts eating nuts next to me and tom, he then systematically spits out the remains on himself and the floor while staring at a fixed spot on the seat infront, this coupled with his constant spitting and sticking his head out the window by us makes us very concerned for our safety when the lights go out. He continues this for a long time until a train guard tells him to tidy it us, which he does while smiling to himself. I wake up at about 9.30pm and find them all gone, i will never truely know what they were so if anyone has any idead about Mormons in Bolivia please let me know.

On a lighter note the scenery flying us by is amazing, the red of the soil wet from recent rain and the green canopies of the trees stretch back for miles, the train chugs on banging loudly as the carriages clatter together for hours on end. The only sign of life we see are tiny 2 or 3 building settlements with children running aboard to sell us chicken, coffee, jelly or sweets. These tiny places barely exist and the trains leaves each one with a pack of dogs in tow and children staring curiosly.

We are arrive at the border town and get mobbed on the train by people trying to sell us Pantanal tours, they all offer us free lifts everywhere and really end up annoying us more than anything, for the first time English is spoken clearly so no cussing them under our breathes as usual. We run into a normal cab and dart for the border. After passing through there are the same people again hustling us to take their tour, we realised after seeing no tourist for three days now that we must be rare. We accept a free lift in the back of a truck and head into Brazil.

After using one of the guide to get a hostel (which we later find out that an english girl had had her bag gone through while there) we go for food, and guess what there enters the same guy again telling us more about his tour. This guy, this restaurent, this town is strange something isnt right. Its saturday theres meant to be a festival here buts its dead, every second shop is shut like a storms coming and all we see are the same faces from the train, the border, the hostel trying to tell us about their tour. While we finish our meals an old man enters 'have you seen a french couple?´ he asks, ´they were on your train´ he adds. We look confused and say no he then goes onto to tell us he is from Greece and came here for a week ten years ago and didnt leave, oh then he tell us his favourite tour company, everyone is on commission for someone round here.

So it all comes to a head at the immigration office where we have to get stamped etc, after jumping the queue we discuss (while being listened into by all the sales folk as usual) about the one to choose, after a few more questions we jump in the car of one rep and head to his office, its actuall a hostel and he is one of 5 adopted brother in this family run venture. We walk through the courtyard and the old greek man greets us. We have a coffee and get told about the place where we can stay in the Pantanal and the activities we can do, sounds great.

So thats where we are now, in a one horse town with a population of 100,000 and only seeing 6 of them over and over again. Heres to the next four days in a hammock, probably with the old greek man very near by.

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