Don’t it always seem to go that you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone

I’m a little concerned that the tone of your blog and that of your e mail to me don’t coincide my Occasionally Nefarious Friend wrote to me in his last e mail. I understand completely what he means but it’s a tricky one to answer. It’s the close to impossible task of explaining an experience that is both taxing and rewarding.

We have just over three weeks left in Ghana: two in Paga. Some days can be so difficult that the early bed times are a relief. I spend my working days testing a stream of sick people hoping that they will get the treatment they need and deserve. We reuse everything in the clinic apart from needles. Slides for blood samples are all washed and reused until they barely resemble anything that was made from glass. Containers for urine samples likewise. When a stool sample is to be tested I have to dilute it with a solution before stirring it with a twig which I then use to transfer some to the slide for analysis. And that only happens if the electricity is on. Power cuts here are more regular than commercials are on TV at home. With no power we cannot use the microscopes and the sick people simply have to wait, in the oppressive heat – hoping that they’ll get some sort of result which they can then take back to the consultant who will decide if there are drugs available for treatment.  Most of the people are sick with Malaria but there are also many cases of typhoid and other mysterious illnesses that we haven’t a hope of guessing given our resources. Seeing so many pregnant ladies and very young children horribly ill with a disease like malaria that will continue in this area for far too long into the future is depressing beyond words.

Amid all this I am working with three wonderfully upbeat, friendly and competent people. The best I could wish for really. Their jokes and the fact that I can make a wailing child giggle by just producing a lollipop can often make up for just about anything I may be feeling.

I come home and then face more and more rice for lunch and dinner before taking a ‘shower’ with a bucket of cold water. Some days, depending on my mood it can be invigorating, other days it has me cursing – in Dutch just so as I don’t offend anyone within earshot.

I check my kindle constantly for e mails from friends or comments on my blog and these give me more energy than you could ever expect. It’s not that I am lonely here. You are never far from anyone in Paga and they are genuinely the friendliest people I’ve met in all my travels; so welcoming and open. But of course they aren’t my people and I know I’ll be leaving them shortly. Contact with home or a reaction on my blog grounds me so well, helps me remember that I have great friends and family all of my own just waiting for me to return.

A short while ago after a particularly tough day when we had both been ill and had experienced all sorts of difficult situations I reminded My Very Own Newfoundlander that there were only three weeks left. We’re on the home stretch I chirped encouragingly.

I know he replied with a straight face, it’s the ‘stretch’ part that I worry about.

And I know only too well that as much as I cannot wait for a hot shower, a washing machine and a well stocked supermarket that I will miss so much of this place – most likely as soon as I touch down in Europe again. I will miss the two goats always outside our house. The male is just getting over a cold which caused the cutest goat sneezes imaginable. The female is pregnant and getting bigger by the day. I was scandalised to learn that her partner couldn’t have been the father as he had been neutered. My very own soap opera outside my window. Who needs a television?

I will miss Weja who cares for us two like a mother – despite being a young man who should have thousands of other things to occupy his time rather than looking after two needy foreigners. I would love to have the chance to take him to Ireland some day and repay his kindness and generosity. It makes me horribly sad to think that the likelihood of this ever happening is close to zero.

I will yearn for the amazing greetings I receive here, always with a big smile and an extravagant welcome. Or how whenever anyone sits to eat they look at you, smile and say you are invited, which means you are welcome to share their food, no matter how little they may have.

I know I will be thinking about my little prince as I sit at home in Ireland wandering if there was enough rain for the crops to feed his family or if the rumour that they will finally get electricity has materialised. I will miss his wonderful eager smile whenever he sees me, the one that never ceases to produce the mirror image in my own expression.

I will not miss how unorganised and chaotic things can be at times. How there isn’t always enough food or medicine and how goddamn difficult some people’s lives are here How when it rains people just don’t bother going to work. Or how those sick people have to wait so long to get treatment.

And I think everyone knows where I stand on food, showering, laundry and belly aches.

So it’s a complete mixture of thoughts, experiences and emotions. It hasn’t been easy. Has it really been all that hard for me? Not by a long shot– it’s just far too easy to moan. You don’t miss what you never had and the problem is that I’ve had a very blessed life up until now. If I had had any doubts beforehand, living here has made that remarkably clear.

One particular day will stick out – which in a way encompasses how many emotions spin together for me in Paga. I found out through a text message from home that my aunt had passed away. I was on a minibus coming back from the village where my little prince lives. While it wasn’t out of the blue as she had been ill for a while now it is always a shock. I kept my reaction at bay until the bus brought me to my bike and I began my cycle back to the house. As I raced down the hill I couldn’t hold back the tears any longer, remembering how she made me a special Christmas pudding for the first Christmas I spent away from home. How I always looked forward to her and my uncle’s visits when I was a kid. Imagining how she would once have played with my father as a child. My Aunt, Uncle and my Dad all no longer with us.

As I sped along on my bike through my watery eyes I noticed I was being greeted on both sides of the road – Hello White Man on one side, Welcome White Man on the other all waving and beaming at me. This continued for my entire journey back interspersed by groups of laughing children who would ran after me waving and singing Fella Fella Good Morning. By the time I had reached my door I honestly didn’t know if I was laughing or crying any more. I certainly wished I could have been with my family but I was also comforted by the fact that while that wasn’t possible – this was really not a bad alternative.

Certainly not for this lucky white man.

Daniel you’re a star

Each night, just before sleep the last thing I ask My Very Own Newfoundlander is what his most surreal moment of the day was. It’s telling that I’m only looking for one – the most standout of the day – because you can be assured that there will have been a number to choose from. He then returns the question and happy to have exchanged that day’s top stories we can finally sleep.

One night it was about the crazy man, dressed in flowing black robes who tried to high kick him while walking down the main street in the nearest city, Bolgatanga. Like a crazed crow the man had fluttered his arms, let out a slow yelp and raised his leg high enough to reach MVON’s arm. We managed to scare him away, without sustaining injury but with a good answer for that day’s anecdote.

Another was about the foreign exchange office we had visited. To our bemused confusion we discovered that they offered different exchange rates for different denominations of the US dollar: 50s having a better value than 20s. We tried reasoning with him that a dollar is a dollar no matter what president’s face is on the note but he wasn’t having any of it. As his was the only exchange office in town we had to reluctantly concede. There was a government notice on the wall stating that the office was obliged to offer the official rate advertised. This was clearly used only as decoration as they had their own unique concept of the financial world.

My latest surreal moment, like many others, occurred in a taxi while driving to the city’s internet café. I sat in the front, saying private prayers to whoever might listen as the vehicle trembled and shook along the road, at speeds far beyond what could be expected of an antique without any mirrors, dashboard, handles or upholstery. To take my mind off the road ahead and the real terror of goats aimlessly wandering out into our path, I gazed out at the passing savannah lands and ditches where tired locals sat under the shade of enormous trees, calabash bowls at their feet brimming with eggs they hoped to sell. When the driver twirled the dial on the radio, and finally choose a station playing music at deafening volumes my attention was yanked suddenly back to the moment. It sounded just like…no, it couldn’t be….did the singer just sing about Bundoran and Donegal? Holy mother of tea parties. Daniel O’Donnell was blaring at me, in the northern tip of Ghanawhen Irelandcouldn’t have been further from my thoughts. I sat in shock, for the first time not worrying about surviving the car ride. The song ended and went straight into another – this time it was Galway Bay. I was suddenly incredibly excited, in a Ghanaian taxi shared with four other locals. I couldn’t help myself – this is about my country – I proudly announced. The driver raised one eyebrow and somewhat unimpressed, asked which country that was. Ireland! I sang out wishing that they acknowledged just how odd this all was, at this moment, in this place, in this bone rattling taxi. He simply lowered his eyebrow and said Oh…, in a most unimpressed tone, clearly not interested in pursuing the conversation. It being Daniel O’Donnell I suppose I can’t blame the poor man’s disinterest, especially when two more of his songs were played before the station went into a newscast. This is even odder to swallow considering that this is the very first ‘western’ music I have heard inGhana, anywhere.

When I finally arrived in the city the first person I met was a jolly man fromNigerwho informed me that he was collecting scrap metal. Apologising that I didn’t have any to offer he instead gave me a hearty handshake and wished me a good day. Still reeling from the strangeness of my morning I sat down in front of the computer ready to post my latest blog post. I plugged my USB stick into the computer tower and immediately received an ugly, sharp, electric shock.

Having not even made it to lunch time yet I was going to have some job picking the standout moment later on that night. Plus there was another hectic taxi ride ahead of me just to get back to Paga, with goats, motorcycles, egg sellers and lord only knows what music to contend with.

You don’t have to take your clothes off, to have a good time

Ghana is probably the most religious country I have ever been to. In the north where I am it’s a hefty mixture of devout muslims and enthusiastic Christians – of varying denominations. Apparently the followers of the church attached to the school I’ve been volunteering in speak in tongues. I haven’t been to a service yet – partly because I’m already struggling with the established languages of the region without adding this to the mix. The main reason however is that I simply cannot seem to get my act together to make it up the hill that early on a Sunday morning.

People of all ages listen to Christian songs blaring from their phones and use colourful pictures of Jesus as their screen saviour (sic). Inexplicably, as all over the world, Jesus is always portrayed as being white.

Even the shops proudly advertise their faith by means of the name painted on wood over the entrance. The Irish shop names pale in comparison to their Ghanaian equivalents: which include ‘God is Patient Enterprises’, ‘Allah is never wrong grocery shop’, ‘Jesus Can Do It Better Phone Shop’ and my all time favourite ‘Is God Stationary’, selling, yes, stationery. The lack of punctuation and the particular spelling has me wondering if they mean ‘Is God? – Stationery’, or are they really questioning his movements. Either way it’s my favourite shop name ever – competing only with a barber shop in Tralee called ‘Barber Eile’ a joke only an Irish speaker and fan of the bizarre 60’s sci-fi film will enjoy. With all this godliness about I was becoming increasingly concerned of late that it was simply a front for a seedier element in the society. I kept on hearing whispers about cases of flashing in the area. I simply couldn’t imagine it here – just north of the middle of nowhere. Where exactly was it going on? I had visions of lurid men jumping out from behind the tall corn fields to shock the women into unbalancing their loaded heads. As I heard of more and more occurrences I began to seriously worry about this little town I’ve grown so fond of.

And then today it happened to me; at work of all places. I was getting ready to leave, had said my goodbyes to my colleagues, wishing them all a pleasant evening when as I was just out the door the head technician shouted out at me ‘Conor, I just flashed you!’. I was rooted to the spot and slowly turned around, in terror, not knowing what to expect amid the blood samples, lancets and microscopes. But he was just standing there smiling at me, fully dressed with his jacket nicely buttoned up. Seeing my obvious confusion he explained to me that he had just rung my phone and hung up so I’d have his number. It’s called ‘flashing’ he continued, if someone doesn’t have enough credit to ring you they’ll dial and then hang up before you answer. That way you can call them back. It means you’ve been flashed.

I cycled home in relief, happy to know that god isn’t as stationary as I had feared. And then I wondered who I could flash…

Funkier than a mosquito’s tweeter

Operation Malaria Watch began even before I left Ireland. At least half the weight of my bag was on account of the litres of 95% Deet I was importing with me. In Canada you cannot legally buy a concentration above 35% so already I was feeling I had a distinct advantage! It also thrilled me that I had the power to melt just about any material with just one squirt. I tried not to think about what on earth this lethal liquid would be doing to my skin.

Touching down in Accra I began perspiring from the minute the plane doors were opened as waves of tropical heat attempted to flush out the stale cabin air. I had read that Accra airport had recently been renovated which had me puzzling my puzzler as to what the peeling walls and crumbling roof looked like before that. The lines for immigration were worse than the US and they had certainly taken a leaf out of their book as they required photos and finger prints of every digit! As it took close to 40 minutes before I made it to the top of the line I had plenty of time to wonder if Ghana had a large enough immigration problem to justify such a complex arrival procedure.

When I was second in line the lady in front of me turned around and informed me in no uncertain terms that she refused to go to the lady customs officer as last time she had been so mean she had ended up crying. You go instead she said and I’ll wait until the man is free. Having no real choice I agreed and took my place in front of scary immigration lady who barked at me to hand over my documents. How long are you staying she snapped.

Two and a half months I replied through my forced smile hoping to win her over by charm. Why have you only put a town’s name for the address where you will be staying? she then accused, scrunching up her eyes to indicate both suspicion and annoyance.

I’m not sure of the exact address just yet I squeaked while looking back at the queue and watching the lady behind me studiously avoiding eye contact knowing full well this was all her fault.

Well then, I will keep your passport until you know the address the agent spat at me impatiently.

I told her that there was someone waiting for me in the airport who might know and asked if there was a way to contact him.

Just go through, find him and come back with the address she said with a tone that clearly indicated her boredom with me. She subsequently dismissed me with a nod to the next in line to begin their ordeal.

And so I entered Ghana without a passport, without a stamp, without handing in my customs form or landing card. All the officials I passed asked me why I still had all these cards and no passport and time and time again I explained that I was in search of an address. Of course they all replied as if they had already guessed my problem.

Now the arrival hall is about a ten minute terrifying walk from the nasty immigration lady and by the time I found the Ghanaian man who was expecting me my legs were shaking from anxiety and from the awful bizarreness of it all. I blurted out my story to the poor man by way of introduction and got him to write an address – any address – on my form and began racing back in search of my passport. Except this time all the officials were stopping and asking me why I was going in the wrong direction. She has my passport – I have an address – we are going to swap I blurted to each in turn. Eventually I made it back to her just as she was leaving the now empty arrivals area. I waited a very very long time for you here she said and I apologised profusely with sweat pouring off my head. I was prepared to perform Swan Lake dressed only in treacle for her at that moment if it meant I would get my passport back.

Remind me, how long are you staying in Ghana she asked. Almost three months I replied hoping that that indicated a sincere desire to learn about her country rather than simply a quick boring holiday. Her reaction however was a simple Hmmmm… and with a determined look stamped my passport with heavy ink declaring that I could stay in Ghana a maximum of sixty days. I had read that this is a common problem in Ghana, no matter how long your visa is for you will end up needing to request (and pay for) an extension after your stamp in the airport. I wonder where all this extra revenue is going.

When finally everything was sorted, passport returned and I was sitting relaxed and legal in the arrivals hall I took a long breath and looked around to finally take it all in. I glanced downwards and there it was – my first mosquito bite – only minutes into my three month stay.

Their necks crane as they turn to pray for rain

I’ve been back in Ireland a month now, armed with an arsenal of vocabulary I have no need of. Whatever about the inuit people having a hundred words for snow it seems your average Canadian can easily match this. In Newfoundland my daily conversation was peppered with exotic terms such as flurries, blizzard, scad, squall, weather bombs, snowpocalypse, snowmageddon, and others I have long forgotten. Try as I might there’s just no use for them in Kerry in March.

Unemployment has left me scrambling for any shreds of motivation – thus the lack of blogging action. I spent the first couple of weeks pining for Newfoundland. I had such a wonderful time there with My Very Own Newfoundlander and family. I also met the legendary Wise Web Woman and left with a slight feeling of envy at her life there in her own slice of paradise. As I was leaving she told me that I was taller than she had expected. Which left me pondering the notion ever since that I must write like a short person.

Since arriving back in Kerry I have resumed living with mammy and watching so much television that I’m beginning to view my life as some mind-numbing reality show. My car-crash fascination with Come Dine With Me has got to the point that my mother now rates my dinners out of ten every day.

When I’m not watching television I am struggling to persuade the world that I am a little bit brilliant. Nobody has fallen for it yet although I did have one interview in Dublin this week. My stomach was a washing machine for days before – it was years since I’d had to do an interview. In solidarity with my tummy my voice sounded like I was sitting on said machine for the 2+ hours the interview lasted. At the very end of it they offered me six weeks work. Six weeks? That was practically the same length as the interview! Needless to say I had to confess that six weeks just wasn’t enough to entice me away from my reality tv show starring an inert traveller and his mammy.

Inspired by Newfoundland I had planned to develop a new arsenal of vocabulary to describe Irish rain but even that hasn’t gone according to plan. It’s been warm, dry and sunny since I got back. 18 degrees here today if you don’t mind. Just can’t rely on Irish weather can you?

So instead I have to focus on spreading the rumour that I am a little bit brilliant and that the best way to improve anyone’s life would be to pay me to sit in the corner of their workplace and shine. Maybe I should amend my CV to include the rare talent of being able to write like a short person. Who knows, that might be what’s needed to float me to the top of the torrent of Irish job seekers; all a little bit brilliant and all struggling to get noticed.

The Irish been coming here for years, Feel like they own the place

I landed at Newark airport and there was my Newfie waiting to take me to Manhattan – the way the locals do it he told me! No expensive taxi or direct shuttle bus. Nope, we’re world travellers now – it’s easy – we just find local bus number 62 and then a quick transfer to the PATH train to the World Trade Centre. And then maybe another subway trip to bring us to our Hotel. All for the ridiculous price of $3.25.

About as long as my transatlantic flight later we stumbled into our hotel room exhausted and puzzled as to why any local would wish to spend so long on public transport. It’s for the conversations you can overhear my Newfie explained convincingly. He had overheard two breakups and one business proposal on his way there. Sadly everyone on our journey was napping or simply gazing out at the snow wondering if Snowmageddon was about to hit the city again.

In no time at all we had thrown off our own sleepiness and were walking those streets that make you feel both tiny AND like you can do anything you want if you set your mind to it. It was my third time in the city and it had yet to loose its sheen for me. So many possibilities and choices. And bagels. The discovery that you could get an ‘everything bagel’ with all the flavours rolled into one must have saved me three hours of accumulated bagel ordering time alone.

Being unemployed travellers balancing precariously on the poverty line our choices were somewhat limited. In an attempt to do something for nothing we went to the Guggenheim and MOMA on the evenings when they were free entry only to find the entire population of Oklahoma also lined up before us. Both times our solution was to substitute art with another more specialised creative outlet – cocktails. Okay so the poverty line was a little thicker than I’ve made out – but still…

For Christmas my Occasionally Giddy Sister had bought me tickets for a Broadway show (La Bête) staring Joanna Lumley, Mark Rylance and David Hyde Pierce which was both hilarious and a joy to watch. To top it all off Rufus Wainwright was sitting in front of us! During most of the play I kept an eye on him wondering just how I was going to convince him that he NEEDED to record a duet with me. The quality of the acting did eventually make me forget all about Rufus’ musical proposal. That and the fact that while technically he was sitting in front of us – there were also twelve odd rows of people between us. It’s how you tell it isn’t it.

But Rufus wasn’t the most exciting person we ‘met’ in NYC. My ex-occasionally better half and his boyfriend were also in town and we met up them for more cocktails and pretended we were in an all male remake of Sex and the City. I also met up with my favourite New Yorker, a wonderful Aussie we had met in Argentina, and some friends of my Newfie. Knowing so many people there made those daydreams of living in NY all the more attractive.

The night before we left the snow began to fall thick and heavily and we reacted by praying that our flight would be cancelled. Maybe it will be postponed for a few nights we suggested in hope. Maybe it’s a new ice age that will have us stranded in NYC for months and months… We kept clicking refresh on our e mails in the hope that the airline had notified us of our extended stay. But instead we became an unusual phenomenon – people who were severely disappointed that their flight was on schedule.

Not that I wasn’t looking forward to Canada, Newfoundland or St. John’s, I was. Plus I would finally get to meet my Newfie’s mother. And so we boarded, said goodbye to the big city and started looking forward to what the next month would bring on the most easterly point of North America.

 

Mama don’t take my Kodachrome away

So what are you going to do next? seems to be the only sentence that anyone can muster upon hearing my travel tales. In order to prevent an inevitable panic attack I usually try and distract them by assaulting them instantly with another story – Oh but did I tell you how I befriended an entire Chinese village and ended up dancing with them on a stage in Lijiang? Or how about the time I went swimming with sharks and rays?…

When I’ve asked myself the same question I found it harder to avoid. Harder but not impossible. I reassure myself that I’ll start thinking about all that properly when I have more time. I had my sister’s wedding and a trip to Berlin to occupy myself, followed by a few weeks seeing all my friends in The Netherlands. Sure I couldn’t give my future the time and attention it properly deserved.

But now I am living at home, just my mother and me with nothing to distract apart from what seems like twenty-four hour coverage of Coronation Street. I’ll start dealing with my serious life issues when I find out who has been killed in the tram crash I told myself. I can’t think clearly worried that Rita was going to smoother underneath all that pick ‘n’ mix. And after my fears on that score were assuaged there was the fact that the country is bankrupt and not even one of our politicians is competent enough to pass an audition for the Muppet Show. Eventually I ran out excuses, even the most feeble  or imaginative of justifications.

And then it came to me in a glorious moment of crystal enlightenment. I’ll become a photographer! I love taking photos and I already have an extensive portfolio from my travels. Qualifications? Sure why would I need them when I am obviously a natural and can just send my pictures to the on-line stock photography websites and earn a small fortune when they sell them to newspapers, magazines and countless other high profile media who will be crying out for more Conortje originals.

I hunkered down and set up profiles with a few agencies and sent off my samples that they insisted on reviewing before they would sign me up. I waited impatiently for their acceptance so I could begin sending them the hundreds of photos I had decided would make me the most money.

Within days the various companies got back to me. Inside of singing my praises and offering me a fortune they regretted to inform me, one after the other that my white balances were off or my photos had limited commercial appeal or they simply thought I was a rubbish photographer. I was gutted. This meant that not only would I now not become the internationally famous artist I had always dreamed of but I would, again, have to sit down and decide in earnest what I was to do with my life. Where was I going to live? What job could I reasonably expect to get? What did I actually want to do?

So here I am, asking you the same questions while I wait in hope for someone to arrive mysteriously  at my door and offer the job of my dreams. In the meantime did I tell you about the time I befriended a python in Vietnam? Or even better how I briefly and accidentally became a representative of the communist party in Nepal…

You already know how this will end

Our days in Ouro Preto were relaxing and sunshine filled. It’s a gorgeous town built on a series of challenging hills which we happily conquered as we struggled up and down merrily in the sun. We explored the lanes, artisan shops and cafes of this picturesque UNESCO World Heritage Site. For added energy boosts we tucked into bowls of delicious Açai which is a frozen snack made from a berry that grows in the north of Brazil. It is ubiquitous in Brazil having gained a reputation not only for making a delicious ice-cream-like dish but for being ridiculously high in anti-oxidants and vitamins. It is also unparalleled for giving you a cool energy blast when the sun has zapped all your energy. Lazing on the beach can be exhausting too you know.

Despite the wonderful green hills that surround the colonial town and its charming centre, what I will remember always about this place is the shower in the hostel we stayed at. On the first morning I was happily showering away when I saw, in utter horror, worms crawling up from the drains. If you heard a high pitched far-away shriek in the beginning of October the chances are that you witnessed my most manly reaction to this horrific nightmare.

After our few days in Ouro Preto it was time to forget about hills and worms and so we made our way to our final destination in South America – Salvador da Bahia! Salvador is Brazil’s fourth largest city and also the home of my Occasionally Polyglot Friend. For over a week he and his husband opened up their home to us and showed us their city. As a final destination on my epic journey it was such a treat to finish off being spoiled rotten and not having to make any decisions or worry about where our next accommodation would be.

We also got a unique chance to experience real Brazilian life by going to see a favela and a Candomblé ceremony (which involved adults being possessed by spirits of children and racing about with soothers in their mouths as they played and fought with each other). We went to museums, ate at the city’s best ice-cream parlours and frequented the best beaches the area has to offer. As we sipped delicious caipirinhas we tried our very best not to think that this was the end of our adventures. Most of the time we succeeded, delighted to be in the company of my OPF – a person who manages to entertain and inspire with an effortless flair.

But eventually our inevitable last day arrived and denial was no longer an option. With an incredibly heavy heart we had to say goodbye to our friends, to Brazil, to the sunshine and heat, to the beaches and blue skies, to the adventure of a lifetime, to a year that has without a doubt been motivating, stimulating and a pure delight. It also left me smothered in questions; where do I get a new job? what kind of job will that be? where do we want to live? why does it have to be Winter in Europe now? why can’t I just be paid to be a blogger and travel the world?

But at least I was returning for a good reason. My Occasionally Scientific Sister was getting married and a good old family party was waiting for our return. Whether or not it was enough to distract us from the cold and rain was yet to be seen but my god do I have memories and stories to keep me going for a long time.

But not forever that is for sure – I am not finished with travelling just yet. It may take some time to organize and a spell of dipping my toes back into reality to replenish the empty bank account, but I have made a promise to the world. I will be back.

Don’t go anywhere.

Her name is Rio and she dances on the sand

Gone was the super service we had received on the Argentinean bus and back were the screaming babies on our final overnight bus trip in South America: from Iguazu in Argentina to Rio De Janeiro! Even worse was our fellow passenger, an old man who eerily resembled Mole in Wind in the Willows. He must have been 90 going on dead and clearly ecstatic to still be around, whistled loudly and constantly as he added rhythm to his ‘music’ with his walking stick. And I am not exaggerating when I say CONSTANTLY. He didn’t stop. Even for 5 seconds. Knowing that this would lead not only to lack of sleep but quite probably to a murder charge we asked to move seats to the busier section upstairs.

Almost as distressing was the realisation that after five months we had left Spanish speaking environments behind. Not that we were ever made it to fluency but we were  more than able to get our message across and get by without too much stress. All of a sudden we weren’t able to understand a word – not on signs or menus and certainly not from the lips of the Brazilians (none of whom seemed to speak any English or Spanish).

But what made up for that was the weather. Big warm blue skies greeted us as we drove into Rio. We quickly made our way to our hostel, checked in and initiated ourselves into the country in the only acceptable way – we made a bee-line for the beach. On Ipanema we stood all white-skinned and mouths open as we took in the famous views we’d known and dreamed about for years.

We spent a few days in Rio taking it all in and juggling our language cocktail of confused Spanish, English and madly pronounced Portuguese. We began our research into the country’s best Caiparinha and found our place in the sandy beach that we called home for the duration of our stay. It was hard not to feel obese on the beach there as each body that passed by was more perfect than the other. Instead of becoming disillusioned with ourselves however, we just lay back, put on our sunglasses and enjoyed the show!

We also had to time to visit Jesus to make up for any impure thoughts we may have been guilty of on the beach. Christ the Redeemer has been declared one of the seven wonders of the modern world bringing the total visited this year to four after the Taj Mahal, the Great Wall of China and Machu Picchu. Nowhere near as impressive as those, Christ’s real beauty lies in its location. On a tall hill overlooking the city you get a view as impressive as in any city in the world. It’s the classic Rio image and I had to continually pinch myself when I was there as it hardly seemed real. The place itself was an anthill of tourists and religious folk all racing around imitating Christ for their holiday photos while  the rest prayed and shook holy water on the masses as if watering plants – all the while as the richer tourists flew about the top of the statue in helicopters. The whole circus was hilarious and we were more than ready to return to the beach after a quarter of an hour or so.

On the morning we left Rio the skies had clouded over and the rain began. Perfect timing to head inland. We headed off to the picturesque colonial town of Ouro Preto leaving behind the sea to concentrate instead on culture – at least for a few days.

Stand back Buenos Aires, because you ought to know what you’re going to get in me

We spent almost an entire week in Buenos Aires having been warned to do so by just about everyone we met who had been there. BA also had a European feel to it but then with the added twist of an exotic Argentinean flavour. We spent most of the time just wandering the streets and walking for hours and hours each day – breaking into Evita songs every five minutes of course. The Argentines are obviously still under her curious spell as you can buy Evita posters, badges and postcards all over the city. We even found time to visit the Evita museum – a whole building dedicated to her memory – and her glamorous dresses. And of course I managed to get myself to that balcony and I had my moment, but perhaps the less said about that the better…

More interesting was La Recoleta Cemetery where she is buried – not particularly for her tomb, but the cemetery is like a town in itself whose inhabitants were the rich and elite of BA. Each tomb is an elaborate monument trying to outdo the next. Some were the size of churches and others had clearly been long forgotten and were a pitiful, dirty, crumbling mess. Regardless of how much money they had when they were living though it was comforting to remember that they were all in the same state now – no matter how their earthly marker looked.

As big as BA was it certainly is not a heaven for vegetarians. The Argentineans love their meat. They put it on and between everything. This is a country where they put meat on meat! We managed to find pizza and pasta that was flesh free and we may as well have been in Italy for all we knew cuisine-wise. But of course we made up for that by sampling the exquisite national wines.

After a week of big city life we were looking forward to getting out of it again and made our way, once again on an overnight bus, to the famous waterfalls of Iguazu.

We boarded our bus ready for the usual gang of crying babies and snorers only to find half of the seats empty and a few very well behaved quiet passengers. A half hour into the voyage the steward (yes long distance busses in South America are not like we know them!) came around offering everyone a glass of whiskey on the rocks. Then came the trays of food  (so much that people could only make a dent in the offerings) followed by a selection of wine, beers and soft drinks. After the second glass of wine we were reclining at 160 degrees with our heads on soft pillows and wrapped in blankets, in disbelief that this was actually happening. Argentina could quickly become our favourite place we decided buoyed up by the gallons of free alcohol. In fact we were fast thinking that this particular bus might be our favourite place in South America. At that point we heard a pop from the front of the bus and looked at each other and spluttered out at the same time that sounds like…. It couldn’t be…. We peaked our heads up to have a look and sure enough there was the best steward in the world pouring out glasses of champagne. It was as if we had died and gone to bus heaven. Bus Eireann in Ireland has an awful lot to learn.

In Iguazu my Newfie had to organize a visa for Brazil (Europeans are exempt because clearly we are better) and while that was being processed we headed off for a day at the falls. I have never been to Niagara or any big falls so didn’t know quite what to expect. But what I certainly hadn’t anticipated was the almost theme park complex of waterfalls. It covers an enormous area with an almost never-ending series of enormous waterfalls at different elevations, sizes and shapes. We spent the entire day going from one to the other and just as it was time to leave spotted two tucans on a tree overhead who had popped by to say goodbye.

As a farewell to Argentina it was perfect. We spent such a short time in the country but loved every minute of it and I’m already looking forward to the day when I can go back.