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Can't stop here - it's bat country!
On our third night aboard the M. Montiero, I came down with a fever. My wildly swinging temperature demands coupled with the multitude of insect bites all over my legs led Jim to suspect malaria. The next morning, a far more likely culprit was found: the rather dubious mince that was served at dinner. Of the nine gringos aboard the ship, two others suffered the same food poisoning symptoms as I. Others, like Jim, were plagued with constant stomach pains that would last for the next couple of days. Most of us gave up on canteen meals there and then, turning instead to a staple of Cup-Of-Noodles and cookies. The M. Montiero's first three days of travel were smooth and without pause. From my bedridden fourth day onwards, however, we would make port for several hours each day to offload cargo to tiny jungle villages along the Rio Negro. The more knowledgable amongst our group of gringos suggested catching a speedboat directly to Tabatinga from Friday's destination, Benjamin Constant. Eager to shed the two extra nights of Cup-Of-Noodle dinners, Jim and I were quick to agree. Just past lunchtime on Friday, we farewelled our floating home and set out on a speedboat with seven other backpackers representing France, Canada, Norway, the U.K., and Spain. For 15 reais per head, the journey was an exciting change from the pleasantly slow pace of the cargo ship. Tabatinga is tiny and services are rather sparse. The town is serviced by a plentiful taxi fleet of cheap, motorcycles (called moto-taxis), but often, there is hardly a larger vehicle in sight. A search for a taxi that would take our backpacks proved fruitless, so our seven-person group embarked on a 15-minute walk from the Tabatinga docks to the Brasilian immigration office in the centre of the town. Once officially stamped out of Brasil, we crossed an invisible border on our way to the airport in Leticia, where we obtained entry stamps for Colombia.  Leticia's airport is, bar none, the smallest airport I have ever seen. Neither customs nor immigration checks seem to be well enforced, as all immigration tasks take place in a small, air-conditioned office that is tucked away to one side of the airport - which really just is one large room. A quick enquiry at the AeroRepublica counter in the airport yielded surprisingly favourable results, and we were allowed to change our flight to leave for Bogota two days sooner than planned, and at no extra charge. Once we returned to the city centre, Jim and I split away from the rest of the group to check in to the best hotel our money could buy. In Leticia, this means the Hotel Yurupary, which at US$27 per room per night, boasts a pool, poolside bar, in-house restaurant, and air-conditioning. One thing we did not get, however, was hot shower water. Yet another profanity-spouting shower ensued. Surely I have endured way too many of these cold showers on this trip! During our city centre wanderings later that evening, we bumped into Anja (a Norwegian girl who had travelled with us from Manaus), two others from her hostel, and their Colombian host. When asked if he was native to Leticia, I was surprised and amused to hear the host reply: "No, I am from the mainland." It was only upon flicking through my guidebook that I understood his comment on Leticia's isolation. While it is undoubtedly closer to central South America, Leticia is located in the Amazon Basin, which is a large part of the 40 or so percent of Colombia that is controlled by guerrillas. Under this new light, the town took on more of an air of the surreal than ever. On one hand, manicured shrubbery line and divide wide, well-paved streets. On the other, armed police officers stand guard at every street corner, as if warding off some danger of which I am as yet unaware. Also strange to me was how every man and his dog, so to speak, seems to own a motorcycle in Leticia. The culture makes for some unlikely motorcycle riders, including entire families with small children, pregnant women, and girls who, besides their shoddy motorcycle helmets, were dressed up to the nines for a Friday night date. Then again, I guess helmet hair probably isn't too big a deal in these parts and at this time of year anyway. It is now wet season, which means constant drizzles and sudden storms - as Jim and I witnessed on Friday evening. So much for having a swim in the hotel pool!
Gently down the stream
Gathering all our willpower about us, Jim and I finally left Rio de Janeiro on the afternoon of October 15th. A six-hour-long bus ride took us to Sao Paulo, where we spent two nights in one of the city's best neighbourhoods, Jardim Paulista. We stayed at the unimaginatively named "Pousada & Hostel Sao Paulo", which although relaxed and welcoming, was located a little too far from the city centre, offered minimal facilities, employed staff who spoke Portuguese only, and was home to a rather large cockroach that somehow decided that my right foot would be a nice little area to scamper over. Ugh. Sampa, as the city is nicknamed, is said to have been an immigrant magnet in the 1950s. The result of its rapid growth is a bevy of crime-ridden slums, which we nervously witnessed during a taxi ride towards the airport on the night of the 17th. I was glad to touch down in Manaus just after midnight, where we were meticulously greeted by out hostel transfer and met another new arrival, French-Canadian Bastian. Set deep in the Amazon rainforest, Manaus is a small, out-of-the-way sort of tourist destination with few city luxuries. Even restaurants were hard to come by, so much so that one night had me scouring the streets on an almost desperately hunt for an open diner. The weather too was a shocker, with the heat and humidity driving me to near insanity within short hours of leaving our air-conditioned hostel room. Nights were a little cooler; however, nightfall also came with a flood of mosquitoes which would feed on my poor, scarred legs without mercy. Luckily, our room at the Hostel Manaus was perfect: a bug-free private room with an ensuite, writing desk, ceiling fan and air-conditioner for 65 reais per night. We spent three days in Manaus before boarding the M. Montiero cargo ship to Tabatinga on Saturday afternoon. Having only read reports of rather difficult journeys in overcrowded communal rooms, we were initially wary of travelling via cargo ship. However, the M. Montiero is spacious beyond my expectations. While the lowermost deck is absolutely full of cargo including fruit, electronics, and even motorcycles, the passenger room on the second storey looks to be pleasantly full, with a decent amount of personal space between hammocks.  Being the creatures of comfort that we are, Jim and I have paid for the highest possible class of passenger tickets, which, for 400 reais each, has bought us a good sized, air-conditioned double cabin on the third and uppermost deck of the ship, with an ensuite, private balcony and bar fridge. Perfect! Having already spent two nights on this ship, I can happily say that this has easily been the best 400 reais I have spent on this trip. Our journey so far has been smooth and beautifully scenic. The meals included in our ticket price have been of decent quality, and there is even an onboard cafeteria to satisfy our consumer desires. As I write this, I am seated on the balcony of my private cabin, staring out into the rippled Rio Negro and the Amazon jungle beyond it. The sun is setting in the most marvellous shock of peach in an otherwise blue-grey sky. Oh, beautiful world! 
Copa de Vida
While at a nightclub in Rio de Janeiro, I met an Australian expatriate and his Brasilian best friend who had found each other through the surf. Perhaps what they say is true, and the beach culture that is so prevalent in Rio is largely universal. In any case, Rio de Janeiro is a city that reminds me much of home. We're staying at the very friendly "Stone of a Beach" hostel by Copacabana beach; a location which is, too, reminiscent of home in Bondi. This is especially true during the weekends, when locals and tourists head to the sand in force. Weekend or not, Jim and I were relentless in our pilgrimages to the salty ocean air, and made the effort to walk a 500 meter stretch each day just to feel the sand between our toes with fresh, juicy coconuts in hand.  At 90 reais (45 dollars) a night and with food prices almost equivalent to those at home, our week in Rio has been the most costly this trip has seen. By the fifth night, we decided to bite the bullet for the sake of budgeting, and relocate to the cheapest dorm room there was. Even with 24 people to the room, shoddy air-conditioning and an external bathroom, however, dorm accommodation set us back a shocking 30 reais each. It took only two nights before the pain of sleeping in a dorm became too much to bear, and I took to sleeping in the TV room instead. The party never stopped at our hostel, which was home to a host of cheery staff, gregarious backpackers, and a constant barrage of organised social events. With budgets to consider, we bypassed the usual tourist attractions like Cristo Redentor and tours of the favelas, in favour of witnessing a soccer game at the Maracana, and attending a massive street side Samba party, Touted as the largest soccer stadium in the world with a 95000 person capacity, the Maracana is a must-see for most visitors of Rio. We had the good fortune to be in town for the Brasil cup finals on Saturday, where the country's top team, Sao Paulo, played a local team, Fluminense, which was ranked 6th in the country. It was a very dirty, very exciting game, with a total of six yellow cards dealt out for an array of delectable sporting violence. We attended the game with Pedro who worked at the hostel, and were consequently urged to sit and cheer with the emotionally charged Fluminense supporters. Ole ole ole! Wednesday night's Samba party was another eye-opener, as the samba band that had earned the right to perform at the February 2008 Carnivale put on a spectacular rehearsal-cum-show on the outskirts of the city. Accompanying the show was a rocking street party complete with food stalls, beer vendors, and a tonne of people flooding the streets to the beat of samba music pumping through the many massive amplifiers lining the street. I was initially intimidated by the sea of locals - not to mention the colt carbine-wielding police officers stationed near the entrance of the party - but soon realised that everyone was just there to have fun and get their samba on. On Sunday, Copacabana beach hosted a gay pride parade to promote the criminalisation of homophobia. Having never attended Sydney's Mardi Gras festival, I watched in wonder as float after float of gay men, transvestites, bisexuals, lesbians and transexuals passed us by, leaving a sea of dancing revellers in their wake. But the parade was much more than just another party - each float told the sad story of persecution and even murder in the name of homophobia.  The friendliness and genuine helpfulness of cariocas (Rio locals) has been truly impressive. During our city-centre sightseeing on our third day here, we were approached by a retired high-school English teacher who had noticed our lost expressions and offered to point us in the right direction. Coincidentally, he lived in Santa Teresa - a beautiful cobblestoned suburb to which we were headed - and accompanied us all the way there. Our serendipitous meeting also birthed some stimulated conversation about the political history of Brasil, with our new friend carefully explaining how Brasil might have been much improved had it remained an empire. His views certainly shed new light on the anti-socialist graffiti I had noticed throughout the city, as well as on the bus ride towards Rio. We had some initial troubles in planning how we would spend the rest of our time in South America. Air travel in Brasil is horribly pricey, and being the fifth largest country in the world, overland travel is no small feat. Hostel staff and the backpackers we spoke to were no help; apparently, most people travel around South America in a clockwise direction - opposite to our rather poorly planned venture. We eventually settled for the cheapest possible mixture of overland and air travel, and purchased bus tickets from Rio to Sao Paulo, plane tickets from Sao Paulo to Manaus, with plans of catching a cargo boat from Manaus to the Peru-Colombia-Brasil triple frontier. This certainly will be an adventure!
Onwards to Brasil
We had some initial trouble in finding a hostel with vacancies on our return to Buenos Aires, but eventually found a spot in the very good Portal del Sur hostel. After a week away in the snow and with much more travel planned, our time back in Buenos Aires was spent desperately savouring our last few big city Argentinean meals. Springtime Buenos Aires had transformed, in our absence, from a cloudy grey metropolis to a blue-skied playground. In between sunny walks, we ate at the excellent DF Mexican restaurant, re-visited La Cabrera steakhouse, and Jim (temporarily) satisfied his craving for North American excess at TGIFridays. I had never before seen cocktails or meals that large in my life! Monday was surprisingly - and relievingly - productive. I finally got my mail issues sorted out, and now have fresh new contact lenses! Thanks, Dad! After the post office, we trekked across the road to the Retiro bus station, where we purchased "Super Cama / Tutti Leito" bus tickets to leave for the Argentina-Brasil border town of Puerto Iguazu that evening. The 16-hour journey on a Via Bariloche bus was surprisingly luxurious, with fully reclining seats, blankets, pillows, and privacy curtains, as well as a suited waiter who served up hot meals, wine and champagne. Unsurprisingly, the 220 peso per person bus was populated with young gringos like ourselves - a far cry from the local-filled bus we caught from Bolivia! We arrived at the famed Hostel Inn in Puerto Iguazu the next afternoon, feeling fairly well-rested for the journey. The hostel is located in what used to be a casino, and hence boasts a swimming pool, two bars, a good-sized lounge, kitchen and TV room. Jim and I booked ourselves into an air-conditioned private room, which, to our delight, happened to be close enough to the lounge for us to access wi-fi Internet! Much downloading ensued - movies are such a lifesaver when in transit! Our first evening was spent in and about the pool, brandishing Brasil's national cocktail, the Caipirinha. We awoke the next morning to find that we had missed our pre-booked 9am transfer to the Iguazu Falls. Perhaps a barrage of cold cocktails in sweltering tropical weather wasn't such a good idea after all! At the instruction of hostel staff, we waited 40 minutes or so for a public bus to the falls, but eventually gave up and caught a ride with a very helpful taxi driver, who offered us the very reasonable price of 10 pesos. The genuine helpfulness of our driver renewed my faith in taxis. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for the tour agents at our hostel. The tour tickets offered to us by the hostel were in no way better priced than the exact same offering at the falls - besides the added inconvenience of having to pre-pay for tour vouchers at the hostel. We were already low on cash with no ATM in sight until the falls, so I am pretty disappointed at the hostel staff's insistence that we buy from them. It is a sad realisation that even in an out-of-the-way, seemingly friendly backpacker joint, the only thing that talks seems to be money, and money only. Anyways, back to the sightseeing. The waterfalls in the Parque Nacional Iguazu were spectacular. Many a touristy photo was taken, and I did enjoy myself immensely, despite feeling like I was baking in a sauna the entire time. Our pre-booked tour with Jungle Explorers put us on a boat through the rapids and under a waterfall; consequently, I wandered the park in a drenched set of clothes all day.  After washing off layers of sweat and waterfall muck back at the hostel, we hopped into a taxi in search of a Lonely Planet-recommended dinner venue, only to be told by our taxi driver that it was too expensive and tourist-driven a restaurant. Without being too insistent, he took us past another joint instead. Suspecting undeserved profiteering, we initially refused the taxi driver's recommendation, but relented when we saw the quality of the place he was recommending. Surprisingly, he dropped us off outside the joint without seeming to claim anything from the restaurant. Yet more faith has been restored in taxi drivers at Puerto Iguazu. After yet another day spent lazing by the pool, we decided to take advantage of our location and cross the "Triple Frontera" (three borders) to Brasil and Paraguay on Friday. We engaged the same restaurant-recommending driver at 150 pesos for the entire day, to ferry us across borders and act as our guide. I found the price quite reasonable given his advice on safety in Paraguay, (possibly questionable) methods of getting us into Paraguay without visas, restaurant recommendations, and general conversation. Foz de Iguazu and the Brasillian side of the Triple Frontera was a surprisingly large city compared to its Argentinean counterpart, and I was a little disappointed that we did not have enough time to stay there for a couple of days also. Ciudad del Este in Paraguay was a good jolt back into my Third World stereotype. Frightened by our driver's security warnings, we refused even to take our cameras out of our pockets, except while in the safety of the taxi! That brings us finally to our Saturday bus ride to Rio de Janeiro. As I write this, I've only spent two hours on the bus and it has already broken down once. Surely this does not bode well for the next 20 hours of the journey!
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