Ouro Preto and Brasilia

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The pickpockets of Rio are not worth their salt. Two weary gringos without the gumption to buy tickets for the correct month, in a hustling, run down maze of concrete, passengers and bemused staff; how much do they steal? Nada. The system of catching a bus out of Rio could use some work. In hindsight we were given a range of stops at which our bus could arrive and an 'estimated' time of arrival. Simple, just wait around those stops until the driver writes the destination and departure time of your journey on the front of his bus with white marker pen; if you can't see your bus, don't worry, even if it was due an hour ago you haven't missed it in the commotion, it's just late. We did not know this. Now we do.

We got on the overnight bus to Ouro Preto and found our ( hastily rearranged) seats at the back of the bus. They reclined; nice, there was free water; cool. Bekah popped her table sickness pills, I popped my sleeping pills and off we went. Several hours of interrupted but reasonable sleep later and we were getting near near destination, ' do you have a plastic bag?', Bekah asks. After finding one, she throws up the free water and to add insult to injury, holds the tepid contents for the next 30 minutes until we arrive at the bus station in Ouro Preto, just after 7 am.

We found our hostel using the internationally recognised method of hand signals, an address scribbled on a piece of paper, and a range of passers by. The hostel was called Buena Vista as a consequence of the view from the garden which overlooked most of Ouro Preto. We took a couple of photos, had some much needed breakfast, which was made up of cheese, ham, bread, a variety of interestingly flavoured juices and two cakes. Yes, cake. One chocolate and the other coconut. We made sure that we tried both thoroughly, our brioche / cake incident in Rio looks like it might turn out to be a case of instinctively going native.

We were too early to check in so we headed out to explore. Through a rabbit's warren of narrow streets we wandered in search of photo opportunities. The town square suited this perfectly and after a few quick snaps we consulted the guide book which pointed out a chocolate shop. Bekah was on it. We looked around, found the shop and found it had a cafe. One ice tea for me, one stupidly luxurious yet sickly hot chocolate (essentially liquid chocolate) for Bekah and our check in time had arrived. Checking in, the owner offered us a free upgrade to a private room; yes please. He then mentioned that he'd be hosting a BBQ for guests and locals to watch the Brazil vs Cameroon game; definitely. The upgraded room was decorated with bare chipboard, interesting we thought but the communal bathroom was clean and had hot water so all seemed rosy. Having previously been stung by the cost of food in the Ipanema district of Rio, we were a little cautious about finding a place to eat. We were recommended a local restaurant we had walked past earlier in the day and reassured that it definitely was cheap. It turned out to be a pay by the kilo buffet. You fill your plate according to your hunger and pay after placing the plate on the scales at the counter (you don't pay for the weight of the plate we were relieved to find out). Cautiously we filled our plates with the lightest food we could find and braced ourselves, all good, our cheapest meal yet. It also began a trend we would see continue, lots of rice and beans. Satisfied we were now feeling the overnight bus journey, the early start and the sheer volume of hills in Ouro Preto catching up with us. We retreated to our hostel for a quick rest before the game.

Locals began arriving so we headed into the garden ( with the Buena Vista) and found that the hostel staff had been hard at work rigging up an assortment of garden furniture, cables and TV's. We grabbed two caprihanas and perched on the last couple of seats. The caprihanas did not compare to those in Rio, where they were sweet and refreshing ( clearly for tourists); the local version was essentially straight rum but with added sugar cubes. Bekah took one sip and her face curled up like a hedgehog. I then took the following 90 minute game, with 15 minutes half time to sip half a glassful.

Brazil won comfortably. Even the last minute stumble by an American guest, which pulled one of the cables weaving their way through the garden and halted the reception with three minutes to go (no health and safety in Brazil) didn't stop the celebrations. A local chap with a guitar and amp began singing to keep the party going. We went to bed, apparently an overnight bus, 6 am start, a ridiculous number of hills and half a caprihana makes you quite sleepy by 8 pm.

The next day we headed out with a mission: photograph all the churches in Ouro Preto. The town was the centre of a Brazilian gold rush in the 18th century and rivalry between the local congregations led to the creation of churches that are both ornate and numerous. To add to the challenge Ouro Preto is a town of hills and sunshine. Undaunted we packed our day bag and headed out, we managed to capture 8 churches, one observatory, a counting house ( now a museum of the history of Brazilian money) and the home of the Inconfidencia. These nice people were responsible for keeping the town in order by means on torture and imprisonment. Then implements they used look particularly vicious (though not as vicious as the number of hills, did I mention the hills?) but I guess they needed to be. The town had a population of 110,000, in comparison, Rio de Janeiro had a population of 20,000 at the time; add to this, the majority of people on Ouro Preto were slaves and you can understand why they were inclined to keep such tight control over the goings on in the suddenly wealthy town.

That evening we jumped on our next overnight bus. This was just over one hour late, the family we were waiting with seems unconcerned. The journey was uneventful, no one was sick and some intermittent sleep was had. Bekah did get back on the wrong bus at one rest stop, but the old lady in 'her' seat soon pointed her in the right direction. We arrived the next morning in Brasilia.

Brasilia was not designed for walking. We got the metro to the closest station to our hostel, laden with our bags we traversed six lanes of traffic, followed by two lanes, followed by 6 lanes; it continued. There are very few pedestrian crossings so all this was done in the glaring sun, fatigued, and with oncoming traffic. Brasilia is designed for photos. With a free viewing platform in the central TV tower and large open spaces the views were spectacular. Still, for all intents and purposes it was a mildly more impressive version of Milton Keynes.

There was one great upside. We were here to watch a world cup game. The fact that our hotel (there were no hostels available) cost way over the odds, the city was difficult to get around, the food was expensive and the face painting took an hour to queue for, we were at the world cup!

Entering the stadium the mood was jubilant, the sunshine was beating down and the beers flowing. We had our faces painted, coke's in hand and marched to our seats. The national anthems erupted, every foul was jeered or whistled and every touch by Christiano Renaldo was met with anticipation. His and Portugal's fortunes seemed intertwined. Ghana seemed to give them a helping hand with an early own goal. They equalised but Renaldo struck back, however it was not meant to be, Renaldo missed a host of guilt edged chances and Portugal's chances of qualifying for the next round evaporated with them.

Next stop, Campo Grande; which we now know is pronounced Cam-po Graan-ge following a confused exchange with the check in staff at Brasilia airport.

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