I´m cured!

Eighty one years past, a young baby boy spent his first two years in the province of Misiones, only for the climate to disagree severely with his asthma, and force his parents to uproot and move to milder climes over 1200km away. That innocent little infant was Ernestito Guevara who eventually evolved into the more familiar sounding Che. Minimal the comparisons between myself and him may be, but still, in that same place, I endured enough sneezing fits and went through enough tissues to last me my whole trip.

For a 42 year old, Rene really does put me to shame. On Monday he was up and dressed by 7.45AM, even though he was due to have a far less consuming day than myself. Shame aside, we both caught the same bus north where he hopped off at San Ignacio an hour away to view the Jesuit ruins and I stayed on for a further two and a half hours in order to get to the village of Caraguatay (pronounced Cara-wa-tie-ee if you fancy saying it out loud). Immediately I was faced with a sign reading ´Parque Provincial Ernesto Che Guevara´. Sorry to those I may offend but it sure sounds more interesting than your average National Trust site. And it was free, National Trust member or not.

After getting confirmation from a mate drinking local, I set out on my 5km walk up a dirt track to the house that Che (well, his dad) built. As hot as it was, the walk did still fill me with great happiness and satisfaction. Midway, I was even treated to my first taste of maté by a local, sitting outside his family shack, watching the world go by.

Sidetracking a touch, for those unfamiliar with the Argentine passion for maté, it´s an extremeley popular form of drink and socialising, especially in the Misiones region where plantations are abundant. I´ve done no research as such but from a travellers viewpoint, you stick some herbs (yerba maté) in a pot, fill it with water, then suck on it with a straw. This isn´t that strange. What is, is that they appear to do this all the time and everywhere. I´ve witnessed the natives consume their sacred brew whilst sat between parked cars on deck chairs, on buses, driving buses and generally alongside anything they happen to be doing. Again, you may not think it´s that daft but besides this, they always carry a huge flask with them so they can keep topping it up. It takes the tea and biscuit.

Let´s get back on track.

After about an hour I reached the casa (house) although this wasn´t before seeing three Che fanatics overtake me on the their motorbikes, ala the Motorcycle Diaries. At the Museo, I was greeted by the Spanish speaking but friendly Diego. Here, he let me roam free in the museum before escorting me down to the ruinas where Che´s first home once stood and where he spent his first two years on earth. Despite my very bad Spanish at present, we did converse quite well. I guess communism is a universal langauge.

After some picture taking and pondering glances at the Rio Parana below, we headed back to the base camp where I enjoyed some coke. Coca-Cola that is. A woman by the name of Mira welcomed me in to what was an educational room but with a fridge. She got some Che books out for me to look at but I went one better by unleashing one of my books which featured a previously unseen image of the young terrorist outside the very house we were stood but metres away from. Diego shared the delight and snapped away at my now cherished artefact.

Two hours had flown and the afternoon was getting tired. I meandered back to the main road but had to endure a further two hour wait before my Posadas-bound bus confronted me. The seat was welcomed but the same can´t be said of the music on board which was something to the effect of ´The Best Argentinian Power Ballads In The World…EVER!´ The maté drinking duo at the front seemed to enjoy it and between them, they gave me a ticket and drove me back to where my day had begun.

I had microwaved pizza and Fanta at the bus station then retired back at the hostel.

Another start to the day with Rene, another early one. Tuesday again was a belter weather-wise and on this day, it was Paraguay we chose to see so bright and clear. After a very tedious border crossing via two buses, we eventually landed in the town of Encarnación. We first got a taste of the old town, down by the river. In truth it was more half and half as large parts were actually in the river due to recent heavy rain. No sursprise, this is where the poor live and try and make a living selling knocked off goods from laptops to flip-flops.

Hungry and thirsty we walked uptown and found a café of sorts at which place I asked for a Fanta and got a litre of the stuff. With the warm conditions, I shamelessly devoured it along with a beef empanada. We had a good walk around thereafter but found nothing, so caught a bus to Trinidad and more Jesuit ruins that seem so popular in these parts.

These were fairly impressive but the winning ingredient was walking into this huge landscape of not so functional buildings and being greeted with classical music from all corners of the site. For those who have seen/declared as your favourite film ever, the Shawshank Redemption, you may get a sense of the feeling I felt.

Appreciation over, we returned to this country of Argentina and had burritos for supper.

Again, where I can save words, I will. A day on a bus fits this bill. I landed at the bus station early on Wednesday to catch the 11.30AM to Cordoba some twenty and a half hours away. The journey went well and it gave me time to read, write, reflect and rest. I landed in the second city at 8AM yesterday morning and then caught a local bus to the town of Alta Gracia an hour away.

Here, in this dry and rural town an infant and his family relocated roughly eighty years ago.

After a glorious shower at my empty hostel, I made the pilgrimage to the home where Ernesto spent eleven years of his childhood, following on from his stay in Caraguatay and this is now known as the Museo Casa de Ernesto Che Guevara. Recent guests here have included Fidel Castro and Hugo Chavez but there was less hysteria for my arrival and so I probably had the better experience of the three.

On show were many pieces of memorabilia, but the highlight was seeing the ¨Mighty One¨, upon which Ernesto and his friend Alberto travelled the length of South America in the neatly named Motorcycle Diaries. I also grabbed a bite to eat next door at a Cuban restaurant and purchased a Cuban Peso note with Che´s face on it to remember my day.

Today I was treated to pastries and coffee for breakfast and being the only guest here, had choice of which chair to sit on. I had a walk round town once more and visited the Sierras Hotel to see if they´d allow me a paddle in their pool. They declined.

I walked down by the river but this was more a stream with a few horses beside it, so I kept my shorts dry and continued. My schedule for the rest of the day will entail waiting for some clothes to dry, visiting a museum and then some gentle relaxation here at Alta Gracia Hostel. Tomorrow, I catch a quick bus back to Cordoba and probably a few more people.

As for now, I´ll cherish my Cuban currency and appreciate that my sneezing has stopped.

The thunder of water

Having generally experienced a fairly wet month in Brazil, what better way to round off my time there with a trip to Iguazu Falls.

The bus departed Sao Paulo last Sunday at 10PM and after two hours of eye-spy with Ciaran and an awkward moment when I walked in on a lady on the coach toilet, I gradually drifted off to sleep. The only real interruption was a spectacular thunder and lightening show at around 3AM which turned the inside of the coach into a dreamy mobile disco, but without the music.

Come 2PM the following morning, we had landed safely in Foz Do Iguacu, the Brazilian town closest to the falls. Not much to shout about, just a dusty town which happens to be close to a major tourist attraction.

There, at the spacious Hostel Bambu, we met Asim from Bradford and soon found the need to grab a bite to eat. We tried to get some local cuisine but they weren't serving until after six so we settled for a foot long Subway and Fanta.

Of all the things on offer in the area, the activity that seemed to get Ciaran most excited was a go-karting trip. I didn't take much persuassion and after a few games of pool in the hostel, we got a taxi to the outskirts of town where we were dropped at a rather dilapidated race track.

Despite the fading light and lack of life, a couple of characters soon emerged from the service area and got us kitted out in the latest motorsport apparel. A few confused conversations were exchanged, followed by a thirty minute wait but then some cars pulled in and suddenly the population had swelled ten-fold. At this point, we had a PC trackside, five race officials and a local karting rookie to compete against.

With the floodlights on and everyone in position, I had a decent qualifying session and finished second on the grid. Twenty two laps and a chequered flag later, I'd maintained that position. During this period, I put in an adequate show, at times giving the local a race, others, just smiling when I got puddle spray in my face. Although I spun plenty of times, Ciaran appeared to think this was the main objective as at most turns, he was generally parked up on the verge and facing the wrong way.

By the end of it, we were both shattered and wet. A few beers and a shower back at the hostel soon put pay to any lingering thoughts of self pity we may have had.

And so to the main event.

Tuesday greeted us and so too did the roar of Iguazu. Myself, Ciaran and Asim were joined on our excursion by the wonderful Jochen, a sixty year old German with the enthusiasm of a sixteen year old.

I knew what was coming would be impressive but my head would never be capable of predicting the scale of what I actually came to see. In all, two hundred and seventy five falls make up this incredible force of nature and with the sun shining, the stage was set for one hell of a day out.

With less to do but with greater views, the Brazilian side of the falls (as opposed to the Argentinian) was the perfect way to meet and greet this beautiful monster. Walking along a hillside path, we were constantly in awe of the overhwhelming size of the falls. Waterfall after waterfall, they just kept coming until a huge blanket of mist greeted us, behind which sat the centrepiece, the Devil's Throat. Initially fearing we may not be able to see this at all, after a five minute stroll, we got behind the cloud and saw it in all it's glory.

Although the water levels were fairly high, the walkway out under it which had been closed off the day before, was now open. Wrapped up in our ponchos and cameras conceiled, we headed out into a storm of wind, spray and sun. The sheer force of it all was immense, Lord knows how they actually built the path, presumably not in these conditions.

Drenched and ecstatic, we caught an elevator up to a vieiwing platform at which point I realised my bigger Canon camera had probably seen more water than I´d thought. I flicked the switch on and off but nobody was home.

On the bus back I opened up my baby to find a slightly horrifying site of water and rusty goo. A girl we´d met on the way round the park luckily had some tissue to hand so I immediately carried out emergency surgery, carefully wiping away as much of the mess as I could. Suddenly, she was working once more.

On our return to the hostel, we met up with a group we'd briefly seen in Sao Paulo and all shared the same enthusiasm for quick trip across the border to Paraguay and the town of Cidade del Este.

A short and simple bus ride took us there and within half an hour, we were at the bus depot but with no currency or knowledge of what to do. Ciaran managed to get some money changed at a decent rate, so with just the right amount, we were able to afford a can of beer each to celebrate our arrival.

Keen to see more of the country, we wandered outside where immediately upon us was a sorry looking football stadium. Again, everyone seemed excited by the idea of checking it out and so of we went. With the entrance gates to the complex open, we strolled in to take a closer look. Our eyes upon entering were first drawn to some girls doing rollerskating ballet to classical music on a playground and then to a football pitch. With no ball to hand, we lay down an empty beer can and proceded with a penalty shootout competiton. Ross from Scotland scored from a rebound but Andy slipped and cut open his elbow, much to the joy of everyone who'd caught it on camera.

Shortly we were being eyed up by some locals from a nearby building, so with rational thought in mind, we trundled over to ask if they could let us inside the stadium for some photos. Like clockwork, stadium attendant Lorenzo agreed and simply picked up a key from the floor and unlocked a door to the stadium. Here we larked around and took photos until Asim, who was trying out his Spanish, told us we had to leave or else Lorenzo may get in trouble. A few other Paraguayans joined in with the enquisition when we left but we just pleaded stupidity and returned to the bus station and normality.

For our evening meal, a large group of us headed to Tropicana for a buffet and beers. The beers continued to flow afterwards at the hostel, as did the stories of our fascinating last day in Brazil.

Ahead of schedule due to the weather, budget and lust for the real Latin America, I along with a minibus full of travellers, made the short trip across the border to Argentina and it's version of Bambu Hostel in the town of Puerto Iguazu. Here, I discovered my Canon camera had once more perished on me.

Regardless, me, Ciaran and a couple of siblings called Marianne and Ross joined us on an afternoon walk up to the point where Brazil, Argentina and Paraguay are all visible. The view wasn't by any means spectacular but it was interesting.

By nightfall, the gang from the Brazilian Bambu had joined us and we headed out for a buffet meal. Things soon derailed however as the food was poor and there was a power cut which meant waiting at least ten minutes for a candle to illuminate our food. Also missing were the free caipirinhas they'd promised. With this in mind, we chose to leave twenty pesos instead of the agreed thirty five. Needless to say, the staff weren't happy but after minor confrontation, we all decide to leave en mass and walked away with our fifteen pesos discount.

A game of poker at the hostel followed, although I was a bit wild and was soon out of contention and reading my travel book.

Thursday brought a packed hostel and therefore an even bigger outing to the falls, this time on the Argentine side. We all signed up to an adventure package which involved a jeep, boat and walking.

Before we knew it, eleven us were perched in a jeep complete with tour guide and heading for the waters beneath Igauzu. After gazing at trees and Ciaran ducking branches, we arrived at the edge of the Rio Parana, where we were given life jackets and waterproof bags for our belongings.

Within ten minutes of the ride we were floating directly in front of the falls and after a few snaps, were whisked to within metres of the cascading falls. Poncho or not, everyone got a soaking and this was repeated a few minutes later as we were taken upstream to another point to get the same treatment. Regardless of this excessive downpour, all I remember was smiling and giggling like a little girl.

The gang disembarked and climbed up past some other falls, posing for more photographs and soggy memories along the way. Soon we found calm and a cafe where I had a pastry and fizzy pop to recharge the batteries.

By now the sun was above us and with spirits high, we caught the park train towards the trail that takes you above the Devil's Throat. Over one kilometre long, the walkway built up an amazing amount of suspense until a billowing cloud of mist once again confronted us and the climax of our adventure. Like in Brazil, aside from the time spent taking pictures of this unbelievable spectacle, most was spent merely looking on in awe.

Spellbound, we left and pressed on towards one more trail that took us above another set of falls which were equally beautiful and humbling as those previous.

To celebrate our days work, we found a local eatery where I uncovered steak in Argentina for the first time. Huge, sublime and ridiculously cheap is the only way of describing it. A pancake and red wine later, we walked across the road to the Rock Bar where a few of us performed a live rock air-band gig in front of several people. I played acoustic guitar and then drums.

My fingers are tired and so too will your eyes, so I shall try not dwell on the prodceding days.

Hungover, people began to surface around midday and by 2pm, we meandered into town where I had a burger and 7UP. As this crowd hadn't seen the Brazil/Argentina/Paraguay viewpoint, Ciaran and myself agreed to take them there. In the late afternoon sun we strolled back there once more and feeling warn out, saw a hotel pool as the perfect place to relax.

Confusion ensued but ultimately, we were granted access for six pesos each (less than a quid). It didn't take long for me Ciaran, Ross and Ben (an Aussie) to find a more secluded pool where we could dive bomb and make human towers to our hearts content.

On the way back, I dropped by a camera shop where I had earlier left them my Canon camera to see if they could bring it back to life. To my relief and surprise, we were in business once more.

As it was Ross' birthday, the evening kicked off with lots of drinks (including what we thought was Viagra for Ross), a big meal and then back to the Rock Bar. By 5AM we were on our knees and sleep inevitably followed.

Before I knew it, Saturday had arrived and so had midday. In a slight rush and tropical storm, I packed my bags, said ciao to my dearest Ciaran and the others, and jumped on a bus heading south towards Posadas.

Six hours passed before I arrived in the capital of the Missiones region, an area dominated by tropical jungles, forests and maté plantations (an Argentine form of tea). I arrived early evening and after a brief consultation with the internet and the information point, I caught the 21 bus towards Belgrano and via a five minute walk, my hostel.

Shattered and without much food, I wandered down to the port, which faces Paraguay and for under a tenner landed two boulders of steak, stir fried veg, mashed potato, an assortment of breads, a litre of chilled beer and a riverside view.

I returned to my room, complete with a framed print of Che Guevara's final letter to Fidel Castro, and drifted off to sleep.

And on to today.

A lie in was deserved and fully appreciated. After sticking my clothes in the wash, I joined the boss Lucas and a Dutch guy, Rene, to watch the Liverpool v United on his laptop. We lost 2-0 but there can be no arguements despite some of the dodgy decisions. More football followed as me and Rene returned to the port to watch the Buenos Aires derby between River Plate and Boca Juniors. We drank Heineken from Man United branded glasses, and ate popcorn and sandwiches. The game finished 1-1 and I returned to the hostel from where I now write.

Tomorrow, I intend to travel four hours back the way I came, to visit the village where Che Guevara was conceived and also lived the first two years of his life. Following his trail was always a part of my plan so making this trip is integral to my journey. A touch inconvenient but it's not as if I'm in any kind of hurry after all. If time permits, I shall also try and visit a Jesuit town called San Ignacio.

My next words will hopefully be typed from the city of Cordoba, another big bus journey away, in three days time.

Going grey

If all the guide books were to be believed, I´d be lucky to be leaving Sao Pualo with anything. Instead, ahead of tonight´s 16 hour bus journey to Foz Do Iguacu, I have all my belongings and more importantly, a whole load of happy memories.

Yours truly and Ciaran set off from Paraty on Wednesday morning, slightly hungover from a few beers the night before, but at least we made the bus on time. We travelled on an ´Executivo´, the middle range form of coach transport in Brazil. The seats reclined almost fully and there was acres of leg room, so I was suitably content despite the 6 hour journey that lay ahead.

The time seemed to speed along fairly quickly and the only real moment of interest was an over-turned bin lorry we passed on our way up towards the winding roads into the cloud covered mountains.

Although I understood Sao Paulo to be a meteorological relative of Manchester, in that it is generally covered in grey skies and drizzle, to my surprise, we were greeted with blazing sunshine and not a trace of rain to be seen.

After finding a map and configuring it to the location of our hostel, we jumped on the metro and headed south to Ana Rosa station. With a little help from some finger-pointing locals, we were soon inside the comfy surrounds of Olah Hostel and the ever helpful owner Rodrigo.

We headed up the road to a wonderful cafe that was both cheap and hospitable, and I sunk three huge pizza slices and a couple of Skols in a matter of minutes. On our return to the hostel, we tuned into Uruguay v Argentina on the TV and enjoyed a comforting mug of herbal tea. When the full time whistle blew, we pondered whether to hit the sack or go risk our lives with a stroll through the city. We opted for the latter.

The first part of our journey involved me sitting half on Ciaran´s knee in a van, as we were taken to a multi-storey car park exit where another kind chap gave us tickets for the Friday practise session of the Brazilian Grand Prix. From here we strolled up Avenida Paulista and eventually landed ourselves in an Irish bar by the name of O´Malley´s. To our joy, we found a pool table and soon we were competing with the finest that Sao Paulo had to offer. I once again held my own while Ciaran upset a few locals and beat most of them, which brought a gleaming smile to his cheeky little face. The forty five minute walk back at 2AM was peaceful and without drama.

On Thursday morning, with the help of Rodrigo, we used a metro-bus combo to find the Morumbi Stadium, home of Sao Paulo FC. As É Tricolor were playing on Saturday night, we promptly bought ourselves a pair of tickets and went for a wander inside the stadium. To summarise, it was similar to the Maracana in Rio but a little smaller and with no roof. What did impress me was the amount of foliage surrounding the pitch. There were flower beds seemingly everyhwere and they even appeared to have there own version of Alan Titchmarsh, working away as we surveyed the impressive sight before us.

I also discovered that in the locality, the great Aryton Senna was buried. For a good forty minutes, we wandered the streets, asking for the `cemitario` and eventually we thought we´d found it. Sadly, it was the wrong one. Nevertheless, we caught a taxi and after an anxious few minutes driving through a favela (minus tour guide and security), we found Morumbi Cemtery and Senna´s final resting place. It was spacious and he looked to have landed the best spot, in the centre and under a big tree.

Our next encounter was with the Sao Paulo transport system, or lack of. The bus back into the city seemed to take an eternity, with both me and Ciaran having decent naps at alternating stages. As their metro system isn´t half as big as it should be, everybody´s in cars or buses, causing huge traffic jams around every corner of the city.

Finally we arrived in the city centre where we located their equivalent of the Empire State Building, from where you can get panoramic views of pretty much the entire state. In order to go up the BANESPA building, you needed proof of ID but being the safety conscious travellers that we are, we´d left our passports at the hostel. We walked away deflated.

With the F1 in the morning, we had a fairly quiet evening with a couple of beers in Villa Madalena.

With Friday upon us, again we headed off on a bus, this time to the Interlagos race circuit. The journey lasted an hour and again it felt like a lifetime. We did make it though for around 10AM and were instantly greeted with the deafening sound of the Formula One cars.

We wandered beside the favelas and police, as we made our way round half the track to find our gate entrance and seats. The weather was overcast and it wasn´t too busy so I had a field day getting pictures with both my cameras. Here we stayed for around five hours, enjoying this rare and exciting experience, all for around the same price as a one way train ticket to Stoke.

The bus back to the city lasted a mind-numbing two hours and we also had the pleasure of sharing a close proximity with a group of giggling Brazilian students. The best part was passing the airport which was probably the most colourful thing I´d seen in the city.

Once more we had tea at the cafe up the road, then we were picked up by Sylvia (a local girl we´d met in Paraty) and she took us to the swanky and pretentious Skye Bar. It was great for views over the city as the bar was on the roof and here we chatted and had a few overpriced bottles of Sol.

Saturday started slowly and we mainly hung out here in the hostel before again getting picked up by Sylvia to take us to the football. Although the atmosphere didn´t quite match the one in Rio, it was still very entertaining. We also had the benefit of a translator this time, so we could understand all the chants, which we endeavoured to join in with when we could. The game itself was a lot quicker than what we´d witnessed between Flamengo and Fluminense and this in part, was probably down to the weather. Although it did lash it down for a while, the rain did stay away for most of the match and the air was pretty cool. The away team, Atletico Mineiro, won the match 1-0, but the home supporters didn´t seem too uspet and were content banging their drums and waving their hands.

To round off the day, we were taken to Favela Bar and another little drinking whole where we downed as many beers as we could.

Finally, today, I´m all packed for this evening´s ride to Iguacu Falls and within a few days, Argentina, where in my mind, this trip will really begin. In the meantime, I´ve had a whale of a time in this grey and dangerous city.