Uruguay to Iguassu to Rio to Boston to Home (yay, sob, yay)

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Taking some time off from the difficult life sprawled on Rio´s beaches to update this bad boy.

From pretty, tranquil, rabid-dog infested Colonia, we headed to Montevideo, the spectacular capital of Uruguay. My travelling style of go now, plan later, although offers spontaniety, excitement and flexibility can spectaculary go wrong at times. This began to look like one of those times as the direct bus from Montevideo to Iguassu Falls was something of a convenient transportation fantasy dreamt up in my head and it looked like the whole Uruguay expedition was turning into a complete farce, the logical and universally preferred option of a direct luxury bus service from BA to Iguassu having been foregone for numerous local, national and international buses that we hoped could be linked together to get us there. In the meantime, why not check out the capital!

Plaza Independencia was pretty cool, a Uruguayan Trafalgar Square that once boasted the highest building in South America when it was built in the 1920´s. Now it seems to be some sort of fancy private apartment block with a rather grumpy guard who does not like to be asked in Spanglish or Spamerican (Mike and Sam loved to state that they spoke American, not English, awfully obnoxious) how to get to the top. The capital felt refreshingly relaxed, with Uruguayans sitting along the sea wall, fishing, or with thermos and pot, sipping their Mate. A group of schoolboys were very keen to meet us and we spoke with them awhile and got a big group photo.

After quite a quiet first night having met up with the only other Gringos in town and the 5 of us being the soul occupants of a nightclub for a good few hours, we were pretty shocked to find such a lively Saturday Night in Montevideo. We admired the Uruguayans dancing along to Salsa, Tango and Regaton. A local band, apparently pretty big, played a very entertaining set.... basically 3 black guys rapping some Regaton with some rather scantily clad dancers writhing in the background. It is a truth universally acknowledged that Uruguay females have the creme de la creme of the gene pool on the looks stakes. It is also a truth universally acknowledged that although being a Gringo can get you somewhere, occasionally, stuttered Spanish of Soy Ingles/Americano... Y tu... vives Montevideo... ohhh un ciudad muy bonito.... errrr.... mi llamo Jack/Sam/Mike....ummmm.... Mi gusta bailar.... errrr.... reaps few rewards aside from an enlightening cultural experience.


We headed on up to Salto, the second largest city with like 300,000 people, and our border crossing choice back into Argie. The ride gave me a chance to see Uruguay- definitely flicks the V to its critics, I found it very pretty countryside, green pastures, tasty looking cows, flat with the odd pockets of eucalyptus trees. Old gaucho territory.

We went through all the border shenanigans and excitement of yet another stamp as we crossed back into Arg, and arrived at the nearest town... where luck was definitely with us as we were told we could get a direct bus to Iguassu from there at midnight. The delights of poor planning. Although almost two weeks since leaving NZ, the BA scene did nothing to get me into the diurnal rhythm of South America, and the semi-cama bus, although comfortable, did not lend itself to the sleep fairy still stuck in Auckland.

We got up in good time the next day to go and see what has brought thousands of tourists to this remote part of jungle in the middle of nowhere, right by the borders of Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay. We checked out the superior and inferior circuits first, trying to save the best to last. Each waterfall that passed underneath our walkway (which has to be noted had disconcertingly short handrails) brought a rush of awe from me and Das Americans (although they were more like geee, awesome dude, woah!) and each waterfall we came to seemed to be more spectacular than the previous one. It was not until we hit a clearing that we were all silenced. A spectacular panorama of dozens and dozens of waterfalls spilling over a horse-shoe shaped canyon into a giant river below. Truly spectacular. What then topped this, was splashing out (quite literally) on a speedboat that took us right into the heart of the frantic-frothing of the water below. We. Got. Drenched. Absolutely soaked through. Worse than any ride at Blackpool or Chessington World of Adventures. Worse than spending an evening in a shower. Worse than a moonlit dip in the sea. The blinding spray from the falls soaked us to our bones. And through them. Really wet.

Aside from our waterlogged marrow, it was a really fun 12 minutes, partly as we took the obnoxious American personas on again and got disproportionately excited beforehand, demanding a huge group photo with everyone, and trying to "psyche everyone else up for it".

With all this tomfoolery we worked up an appetite, overstayed our time at an all you can eat buffet whilst playing blindman's discount, finally meaning that it was too late to see Garganta Del Diablo, literally translated to Throat of the Devil, the unchallenged highlight of the whole of Iguassu. After trying several covert operations of sneaking through the jungle past the stewards, somehow repeatedly getting caught, we finally cut our losses and headed home, after a steward played the "family card" giving the Americans a conscience.

Puerto Iguassu gave us a surprisingly brilliant night out, where the 3 of us and David from Dublin polished off a fair bit of ridiculously cheap (cheap as in good value, not cheap as in paint stripper) Whiskey and hit the only club in town... we were the only ones there. However worming across an empty club has never been so much fun, and it just turned out that we were just there a little early at 1:30AM. Come 2:30AM the place was absolutely chock-a-block, and with some friends we met on the bus back from Iguassu, we danced the night away.

We got up in not-so-good-time the next day and decided Iguassu is a once in a lifetime experience and we should go straight to hell if we missed seeing Devils Throat. It was definitely worth going back for. An unbelievably huge cauldron of churning, frothing water, pouring into the abyss right beneath the viewing platform. The sheer power of Mother Nature flooding anyone who sees it into an awestruck state of amazement. This has to be one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World just by itself, and is definitely one of the most incredible and memorable things I have seen on my trip. Just Wow. Wow.

That night we thought we might hop, skip and jump into nearby Paraguay having bought tickets to Asuncion, the capital. I must have temporarily forgotten that I was travelling with two very Visa-restricted Americans in tow. After getting my passport stamped into Paraguay, no problem whatsoever, I had to turn back and see the boys being border blocked as they did not have a Paraguayan Visa. We had been misinformed by ther bus company that they did not need a Visa and thought we would go with there word, against our better judgement. However we had a plan. Sam very slyly flashed a cheeky bit of green (that is the yankee dollar, as opposed to marijuana, I am not too sure Paraguay would be impressed with us trying to bribe them with drugs on the border). This proved pretty futile and the border official glared, abruptly stood up and walked off as if Sam had just burst into his house on Christmas and urinated on his children. So Paraguay is a no go.... surely they should be pleased with any visitor they get?! I did get a stamp though so technically, I got into Paraguay... another country to tick off. It still counts! 4 passport pages left.

My final hours with my American brothers, the frat boys were not the best, but will not tarnish the fun and memories we have created together. We stayed a night on the Brazilian side, dirty room (rather nice by my standards) and stocked up on the free breakfast, now being an old hand at shoving as much fruit, pastries and bread into a bag to last us until the evening. Sam did some pretty hardcore negotiating skills to get a full refund on our bus tickets- customer satisfaction valued much more than I expected. After getting a full load of washing done, a brief panic to sort all our clothes out, and Sam and Mike were on there way back to Buenos Aires, after a couple of manly hugs with me.

The next day I got on the 24 hour coach to Rio, slept probably for about 14 of those hours. Rio was amazing.

I had decided after 10 months of globetrotting escapades and adventure, that my final 8 days would go against the grain a little. I chase change- the floppy torso of a lifeless, stuffed rabbit epitomising the unknown and excitement of pushing the barriers and escaping the comfort zone. Whilst I am the tunnel-visioned, over-excited greyhound excessively salivating in pursuit. This attitude has enabled me to see so much more of the world than if I was merely spectating on the sideline, seeing the opportunity come and go, but never being inspired enough to pursue and grab it in my sloppy mouth. Obviously everyone travels for different reasons, and in different ways. Spending only a couple of days in every location and then claiming I have "done" India or Vietnam would be a real faux pas in the travelling circuit. It is impossible to see a country in so little time, and there is argument (which my sister Kirsty, who has resided in Australia for nearly two years vehemently backs) that you can only truly experience a country or culture if you stay in one place or work there for a few months. I would get restless, and even though I have done some really interesting volunteer placements, that restlessness still creeps up on me, tickling my feet and fuelling my imagination and fantasies of where I am next travelling. Things were differnet now though. Brazil, although still classed as a LEDC, and south of the development line, is rich. And expensive. Bus travel is luxurious, I felt almost extravagant, considering the rat-infested, urine drenched trains of India, or having to hitchhike around New Zealand. So I felt I would "save" Brazil for another time, and there will be another time, when I had the time and money to enjoy it, and for now just settle for a week in the delights of Rio de Janiero, a cidade maravilhosa.

After a bit of hostel hunting, I found my perfect home from home in a small but lively hostel called Ipanema Beach House, located, surprisingly in Ipanema very near the beach. My last week really felt like a beach holiday more than backpacking, aside from the 3 tier bunk beds and grotty showers, lazing around on the beach all week underneath perfectly blue skies and a hot golden sun took up the days thanks to the weather forecast being on our side, and then spending the evenings out exploring the city nightlife, be it samba dancing with the locals, Lapa street party, a very touristy boat party around the bay, unwittingly visitating a Lesbian club (a sign of how refreshingly liberal and cosmopolitaon Rio is) and several other fun-filled nights. I had a lot of fun with people at the hostel, despite the first night we were all together, myself, 5 scottish lads and 5 irish lads, and one of the glaswegians pipes up,

"looks like the wee english bastard is outnumbered.... we should get our revenge..."

I laughed rather nervously and rapidly distanced myself from all things English, declaring that my matriachial blood lineage is pure Scot, and my own tartan and middle name being "Murray", as Scottish as you get! We got on well though after all racist views of their. friends south of the border were put to one side. Kim and Desiree from LA were two other hostel long-termers who stayed for about two weeks leaving the day before me. Kim would draw every male eye by the sea due to her fabulous beach physique and Columbian looks, and we had a lot of fun breaking down the Anglo-American boundaries of humour and suchlike. Desiree had a brilliant name, and was originally from China, yet although a smart cookie I managed to convince I was a professional traveller, out to find his immortal parents, who I lost at the age of 8 in the Mekong river. My parents obviously had wings, attached by lamenones to their shoulder blades, giving this unusual race of humans the name "lamenites". On my quest to find the colony of lamenites where I assumed my parents were living I was in Rio to meet the world expert in this lesser known species of human.

Bless. Some American girls just don't get sarcasm... or wouldn't believe that anyone would find the need to make up such extravagant stories when asked "what are you doing here, why are you travelling?" 10 months of saying your a med student from the UK between 3rd and 4th year and I bet you will be making up some stories like this, or my semi-professional base jumper one.

As for cultural exploration of Rio, the first night I went to a Flamengo Vs Fluminese football match. The football wsn't spectacular, being a nil-nil draw, the Macarena Stadium was only 15% full, but the crowd and atmosphere was incredible. Huge Flamengo flags, smoke grenades, everyone with there own mini red-flag to wave, and the beat of huge Samba drums with non-stop chanting and singing for the full 90 minute duration made the whole experience truly eye opening. Brazilians live for their football. In South Africa 2010 now Scotland are out, after England I am going to support Brazil for the sheer hysteria a win for the country will cause. I saved my last day in Rio to do the standard cultural tickboxing and saw Christ the Redeemer, Sugarloaf Mountain, Santa Monica and The Lapa Steps. All very interesting, and impressive, but my favourite excursion from the beach and clubs had to be the favela tour.

Walking round impoverished streets, peering into homes and pitying the grubby little children playing in the open sewer may sound like rather unethical tourism. This is further confounded by the advice to hide your cameras when any "spotters" walk by with walkie talkie's who inform the drug barrens that control the slums if there are any police about. But the whole experience was interesting and, although I did a similar "tour" in Mumbai, I still really appreciated the experience and the nonchalance of the locals to having tourists twice a day wandering their streets of which profit they see little of. The whole atmosphere was friendly and relaxed, with little kids and busty women in bikini's all posing and demanding photos, and it seems that the chill pill which Rio seems to be metabolising flows through every vein of the city right from the office workers taking friday off to chill on the beach to the care free attitude of the slum dwellers. Considering this was the same slum that a little while before the charred remains of a journalist investigating the drug gangs was found within a set of burning tyres, people have an incredible way of getting on with their lifes and enjoying what they have, when they have it.


I am now pretty sure I could write a book on "how to get really close to missing a flight and then just making it". From one-legged beggar and laundry escapades in Mumbai, flying shoeless out of Bangkok, selling Kitty in the nick of time in Perth, and now Rio De Janiero, well....

(cont'd home safe and sound in Edinburgh)

I set off from the hostel 5 hours before my flight. Well 4 hours, but still, that should surely be enough you say? It was not. I heaved my great mass of baggage down to the promenade where I waited for the not so imminent arrival of my bus, number 2018 to the airport. Nearly an hour later and things getting rather desperate it had never come. Loooooooads of 2016's though, absolutely loads. So cutting my losses, I went about trying to wave down a taxi. A bit of background info.... being the streetwise, worldly traveller and having no faith in debit cards and ATM machines, I am always wary of getting to the nightmare scenario where I cannot access any cash. So usually I have hidden stashes and my moneybelt brimming with american dollars, travellers cheques in different currencies, and an emergency supply of local currency. As this was officially my last day of the whole round the world trip before my connections home I had tried to reduce this emergency monetary nest and at the moment of deciding to catch a taxi had 16 Reals in total (about a fiver) the bus was 7Rs so this should have been more than enough.

"Banco, bank, ATM, tarjeta, dinero, money money money" etc. was said along with what I am pretty sure was fluent Portuguese, but the lovely old taxi-driver with a real Grandad feel to him muttered and gestured something about getting cash out when we get to the airport. Not ideal, but time was a'ticking so I got in the taxi and hoped for no congestion.

There was lots of congestion.

An hour and a half later we get to the airport nearing 8pm. My flight was scheduled to depart for Texas at 21:45....so much for arriving 3 hours early for international departures. Grandad led me through the airport terminal to the banks, after a bit of a song and dance about having to park rather than drop me off as I did not have any money (ahem, I DID tell him). I was greeted by the delightful news that my flight was now departing at 9pm, and the delightful people at Continental Airlines who I had been talking to a mere day before didn't think about mentioning it.

It is 8.10pm, Six ATM machines have been tried, six ATM machines have failed to give me the 50Rs I owe the taxi driver. My flight leaves in 50 minutes. I have not even checked in and only a miracle can stop me from missing the flight. Oh and I have a rather grumpy taxi driver breathing down my neck, quite rightly, as I have not paid him.

My embarassment and anguish is pretty clear on my face when I hand him the 16Rs. He does not look too happy. I then get out my camera (a spare one I got from Argos for 30 quid a couple of years ago, something I carry witrh me so I can hand somthing over in the event of a mugging.) With lots of enthusiasm I show him how it works by taking a picture of those bastard ATM machines. He looks pretty impressed. Bless his heart though, he laughs a little, looks at my increasing desperation and indicates that he cannot take it from me. He signals me to go, and laughs again. Bless this lovely grandad-taximan. I can run and attempt to get through the gate, and feel a lot less guilty.

Miraculously due to the crew-members being stuck in traffic the gate was still open. Huzzah, Huzzah. I checked in 45 minutes before the scheduled international departure and was just about to make my way towards the security gate when, low and behold: "Mr Watson, there is a man here to see you". Brilliant. It is the damn taxi driver again.

As I don't speak any Portuguese, and he doesn't speak any English, I do the whole sorry scenario again, and then try and see if the foreign exchange booth will lend me some cash. Nooo. Finally the air hostess who alerted me of his presence comes over and says "He wants your camera". Ha! Changed his mind clearly, I am relieved and am more than happy to hand it over, with a little Obrigado from me, and a rather sneaky look from him and he is on his merry way. Phew!

Getting back to Blighty was a bit of a marathon, but after all the airport palava the rest was pretty smooth sailing. I had a day to mill around a very hot and humid Boston, MA, where I religiously followed the little red bricks in the pavement (or rather, sidewalk) all the way around Boston. It was called the "Freedom Trail" and was a genius little way of showing all of Boston's, and pretty much America's history in a few hours. Hell of a walk though. I took some time out to watch some live bands in the city square, check out the holocaust memorial, and overhear the thickest Bostonian accents around at the fruit and veg market. Just when eve was setting in I metroed it on over to Cambridge, the area of Boston where Harvard University spectacularly resides. I really enjoyed ambling around the campus in flip flops, bracelets, rather shabby travel-tired clothing and scrufflies, pretending to be a student there for his pre-orientation week. I have to admit, despite the beautiful buildings and cozy campus Leeds still has a bit of an edge. I walked around Cambridge a little, considering it was Saturday night I was keeping my options open of befriending some Harvard geeks and having a few beers with them. Within a few minutes this looked like a highly unlikely scenario, as where within a minute of Leeds campus you have such popular Public Houses like The Faversham, The Library, The Packhorse, The Eldon, around Harvard you have... book shops, and a few restaurants. That. Was. It. Also, the first day of freshers in Leeds everyone had a beer in their hand within minutes of the folks dropping of their stuff and saying the goodbyes, often with the Dad carrying in the big crate for his son. In Harvard people were standing around in little circles doing team building exercises and explaining why they are really, really interested in Computers....hmmm.

I made it back to the airport for about 10 pm, and then had a fair few hours to sleep before my 4 am check in. I found a cozy little corner to nest on down in, just by some automatic doors and a bench, put in the ear plugs, whacked on the bandana/blindfold and was soon in a deep sleep, dreaming of the most amazing trip in my life, the trip I had just done.

A stop over at New Jersey airoport, and my Continental Airlines flight to London Heathrow was awaiting me, to take me back to the United Kingdom, 312 days after I had left.

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