Arriving in Bariloche, for the first time in ages we had to dig to the bottom of our packs for some extra layers as the high mountain air was crisp and clear - a relief after the scorching heat of Mendoza. Bariloche, king of Argentina´s lake district region is a middle-sized town, choked with tourists and alpine architecture ranging from the quaint to the ridiculous. The town planning went awry when the town started to grow as although it sits next to a stunning lake, the main highway through the region runs along the lake shore, severing the town from the delights of the waterside. However, none of this quite removes the charm of the town and the cute chocolate shops and cafés compensate for the drawbacks.
We warmed up with a lovely afternoon of kayaking on nearby Lago Gutierrez (where Mike became the only tourist in the history of Bariloche kayaking to fall out of his kayak) before drawing up a list of kit and supplies, strapping José to our day packs and heading up into the mountains for a three day unguided trek in the Cerro Catedral. I will need to delve to the bottom of my plentiful sack of effusive adjectives to describe this trek. It was truly amazing. We started in dense green forest of native bamboo studded with the skeletal remains of thousands of trees cremated in a forest fire a few years back with views back across Lago Gutierrez. Joined by Martin, a friendly and knowledgable Swiss hiker we took it easy on the first day climbing slowly out of the forest and up to our first night´s stop - Refugio Frey, perched dramatically at the edge of a lagoon on the lip of a plunging drop into the valley below and framed by an amphitheatre of jagged peaks. We pitched the tent in the shelter of a rock wall to protect us from the wind whistling down the face of the rocks and across the lake.
We spent the evening in the cosy refugio, crammed full of hardy climbers and hikers, and tucked in to steak and mash and played cards before we settled in for a chilly night in our two-season sleeping bags with woolly hats on and all of our clothes piled up on top of us for extra warmth.
The next day began with an extremely long, steep ascent up the jagged peaks that had towered above us the previous night. It was tough going, using hands and feet to haul ourselves up to the top with our heavy packs, but the view from the top was ample reward. Mike climbed off to sit on a rock and admire the view and he formed a tiny dot on the wide horizons of steep peaks and lush green valleys and lakes below. From there we had a couple of hours of scree hopping down into the next valley, a very tiring activity where every shred of concentration and thigh power was needed to keep you upright in the ever-mobile scree. We eventually made it to the valley floor where we lounged in the sun in a grassy meadow and ate lunch. Studying the contours on the map it dawned on us that we had repeat session of the morning to reach the evening´s rest camp - straight back up the next mountain and another few hours of navigation down the scree on the other side with screaming muscles and tired feet. By now there were four of us hiking together but on the scree it was every man for himself and no time for chat and we all chose our own path down, eventually reaching a babbling stream in the valley floor where Mike, fastest of the four of us, was already perched on a rock soothing tired feet in the icy water.
We arrived at Refugio Jacob, again perched next to a sparkling lagoon, wrapped up warm and snoozed on a large flat rock next to the lake in the afternoon sun. The evening was spent enjoying homemade pasta by candelight in the bustling refugio.
The next morning we awoke early and were first out of the camp for an 18km sprint back down the valley to catch an early bus back to Baricloche. It was all down hill and fairly easy-going but our muscles were exhausted from the night before and it was a hard slog to get back in time for the bus. Somehow we made it and rewarded ourselves with a tin of cat food and some dry crackers at the bottom.
From Bariloche we picked up a car and headed off on the ´Ruta de Siete Lagos´fabled as Argentina´s most scenic drive past seven beautiful lakes. I am not sure who was doing the counting as there were way more than seven lakes, but who are we to argue. As we headed off the sky darkened and the clouds drew in. Before long the rain was lashing down and the dirt road turned to a quagmyre. We were very tired and aching and very much in need of a warm bed and a hot shower, but this proved to be harder to find than we had hoped. After several u-turns looking for campsites described by the guide books, but no longer in existence, we eventually found a cute little campsite in a farmer´s field. We pitched José in the lashing rain and howling wind, soaked to the skin in seconds. The evening ended well with a boiling hot shower, some lomitos (steak sandwiches) and an Andes Negra (local dark beer) in the farmer´s front room-cum-café. We awoke in the morning to snow in the hills all around us.
Back in the car, and wearing every possible layer we owned, we drove along the route - our views limited by the thick clouds and mist. We stopped for some breakfast at a campsite further on and spent a thoroughly pleasant hour drinking mate with a lovely couple from Buenos Aires before we pushed on through the boggy roads to St Martin de Los Andes, a cutsey alpine-style town with chocolate shops and parrillas (BBQ restaurants) a-plenty. We pitched the tent on the shore of the lake and treated ourselves to a gigantic steak dinner and a lovely bottle of Malbec.
The next day the sun broke through the clouds and as the temperature slowly inched upwards we snaked back to Bariloche along a little-used road past yet more lakes, now sparkling in the sun, and through a stunning deserted valley of enormous phallic rock formations just in time to catch the afternoon bus to the Welsh valleys. The Welsh valleys? More about that later....
Saturday, 21 February 2009
Monday, 16 February 2009
First class to Mendoza
I never really thought I would find myself opening a blog entry with description of a bus journey, but until this moment I had never had the unparalleled experience of travelling first class on the night bus in Argentina. It´s almost like flying first class. Slightly camp and enthusiastically attentive trolly hombre? Check. Fully reclining leather seats? Check. Unlimited drinks? Check. In-´flight´ Bingo? Check. OK, I am perhaps running out of parallels with Emirates 1st class, but you get the picture. This is bus travel as you´ve never seen before. We were given bibs to put on while we ate our food, we were given a tray of sandwiches, cakes and salads, and scoffed the lot before realising that this was just the starter and we would also receive hot food and a pudding. All in all, in the safe hands of Diego we arrived in Mendoza 14 hours later feeling remarkably fresh and well rested.
Argentina is no longer the land of plenty with 5 dollar steaks the size of a baby´s leg and cheap accommodation in cosy guest houses. Prices in 2005 were a fifth of today´s prices and prices have doubled in the last 12 months. This put paid to our original plans as double rooms in hostels were suddenly out of our price range so we went back to the drawing board and acquired José, a replacement for the much-loved Oh Vee which we left in London when we popped back in December. José is slightly more palatial than his predecessor. You can sit up in him, and roll over - sometimes it´s even possible to sleep.
So with José lashed to the side of Mike´s bag we set off around Mendoza province in a tiny hire car. First stop was the small spa town of Cacheuta which was quite frankly bizarre. A dusty dead-end town with not a scrap of shade where the 40 degree sun burned the red earth and a brown river snaked through a deep gorge. Gusts of wind whipped the dust into mini cyclones and wild dogs chased each other up the main, and only street. Argentine holiday makers were not to be deterred. They coughed up four quid each to squash in to barbed wire pens along the riverside with hundreds of other holiday makers, eat picnics and swelter. We didn´t linger.
We headed on to Potrerillos a small town in the foothills of the Andes which had had a recent surge of popularity when the river was dammed to create a huge and beautiful azure lake. We found an amazing campsite with a babbling stream and green grass sprinkled with daisies swaying under heavily-laden apple trees. A bay pony mowed the grass while puppies frolicked around its feet. We were immediately mobbed by the children of the owners who gave us the impression that gringos-under-canvas are in short supply. A pretty, rosie-cheeked imp called Abril followed me around for the 2 night of our stay chattering in spanish and the few words of english that she knew. Paradise in the Andes.
From there we drove higher and higher into mountains through expansive landscapes of multi-coloured rocks and trekked to the base camp of Acocagua, the largest mountain outside of the Andes. The base camp at over 3400 metres was a challenge in itself as the climb was steep and the sun unrelenting and we had nothing but respect for the climbers waiting at camp to acclimatise before attempting an ascent to the summit at almost seven thousand meters. From there we spent the night in Upsallata, once graced by the great Mr Pitt whilst filming for Seven Years in Tibet. I am not sure if he stayed in the same campsite as us which was carpeted with spilt rubbish and lorded over by a pack of overly-friendly stray dogs.
From there we zoomed to the a town called San Rafael, a few hundred kilometres of Mendoza and a successful wine growing region where we were yet again the only gringos in the local campsite. We pottered around the countryside, tried ´cool river´ in the local rapids (basically it´s you and a life jacket with an inflatable boogie board to hang on to bouncing down the rapids), we swam in some stunningly beautiful lakes and drove in the scorching heat through the stunning Canon del Atuel past amazing rock formations. We also managed to fit in some time to quaff some of the local wines.
After that we whipped back up to Mendoza for an afternoon´s wine tour around some of the regions best bodegas before hopping on to a night bus to Bariloche where we were treated to an incredible electric storm over the Andes.
Argentina is no longer the land of plenty with 5 dollar steaks the size of a baby´s leg and cheap accommodation in cosy guest houses. Prices in 2005 were a fifth of today´s prices and prices have doubled in the last 12 months. This put paid to our original plans as double rooms in hostels were suddenly out of our price range so we went back to the drawing board and acquired José, a replacement for the much-loved Oh Vee which we left in London when we popped back in December. José is slightly more palatial than his predecessor. You can sit up in him, and roll over - sometimes it´s even possible to sleep.
So with José lashed to the side of Mike´s bag we set off around Mendoza province in a tiny hire car. First stop was the small spa town of Cacheuta which was quite frankly bizarre. A dusty dead-end town with not a scrap of shade where the 40 degree sun burned the red earth and a brown river snaked through a deep gorge. Gusts of wind whipped the dust into mini cyclones and wild dogs chased each other up the main, and only street. Argentine holiday makers were not to be deterred. They coughed up four quid each to squash in to barbed wire pens along the riverside with hundreds of other holiday makers, eat picnics and swelter. We didn´t linger.
We headed on to Potrerillos a small town in the foothills of the Andes which had had a recent surge of popularity when the river was dammed to create a huge and beautiful azure lake. We found an amazing campsite with a babbling stream and green grass sprinkled with daisies swaying under heavily-laden apple trees. A bay pony mowed the grass while puppies frolicked around its feet. We were immediately mobbed by the children of the owners who gave us the impression that gringos-under-canvas are in short supply. A pretty, rosie-cheeked imp called Abril followed me around for the 2 night of our stay chattering in spanish and the few words of english that she knew. Paradise in the Andes.
From there we drove higher and higher into mountains through expansive landscapes of multi-coloured rocks and trekked to the base camp of Acocagua, the largest mountain outside of the Andes. The base camp at over 3400 metres was a challenge in itself as the climb was steep and the sun unrelenting and we had nothing but respect for the climbers waiting at camp to acclimatise before attempting an ascent to the summit at almost seven thousand meters. From there we spent the night in Upsallata, once graced by the great Mr Pitt whilst filming for Seven Years in Tibet. I am not sure if he stayed in the same campsite as us which was carpeted with spilt rubbish and lorded over by a pack of overly-friendly stray dogs.
From there we zoomed to the a town called San Rafael, a few hundred kilometres of Mendoza and a successful wine growing region where we were yet again the only gringos in the local campsite. We pottered around the countryside, tried ´cool river´ in the local rapids (basically it´s you and a life jacket with an inflatable boogie board to hang on to bouncing down the rapids), we swam in some stunningly beautiful lakes and drove in the scorching heat through the stunning Canon del Atuel past amazing rock formations. We also managed to fit in some time to quaff some of the local wines.
After that we whipped back up to Mendoza for an afternoon´s wine tour around some of the regions best bodegas before hopping on to a night bus to Bariloche where we were treated to an incredible electric storm over the Andes.
Monday, 19 January 2009
Tangling with tango and the pedigree pooches
In Brazil, especially in Salvador, we felt we had one foot in Africa and one in South America. Brazilian culture is synonymous with African rythms, food and faces. Just a short hop to Buenos Aires and the landscape changes - that foot is wrenched firmly away from Africa and planted daintily in Europe. The wide, leafy streets and exquisitely ornate buildings have a Parisian flavour, the art galleries are packed to the gills with Rodin, Picasso and Degas, the effortlessly stylish and snooty ladies who lunch with their pedigree poodle poms-poms trotting beside them would be right at home in Milan or Madrid.
You could, for a moment, be fooled into thinking you were in Europe, but for the unmistakable sound of a Latin heart pumping beneath a thin veneer. Under the sophisticated surface you find sultry, melancholic tango on street corners, political grafitti etched onto every available wall, decaying buildings and dilapidated pavements symbolic of a turbulent economy and a lack of public funds. But, for us, this only adds to the allure and intrigue.
We rented a little apartment in the Palermo area and were supposed to stay for a week, but we have extended for a second. The city has seduced us. We have spent the mornings studying Spanish and the afternoons wandering in the sun through art galleries, leafy streets lined with crumbling villas, cute little boutiques with original and creative homewear, clothes and accessories and parks full of stray cats.
We have spent two consecutive Sunday afternoons in San Telmo wandering through flea markets and antique stores and stopping to listen to street performers - one band had the whole street hopping and everyone dancing in the late afternoon sun. We met up with the friends we spent new year with and went to some trendy Palermo bars for drinks and then on to (at 2.30am as the club don´t even open until 2am!) a rather surreal Brazilian club where people were line-dancing to an odd mix of samba and rock in front of a large projected image of hot-pant-clad cow-girls gyrating around a guy in tight, white, lycra trousers with unfortunate VPL. We visited La Boca, a poor docks area where all the houses are painted bright colours with left-over ship paint, and did a tour of the Boca Juniors stadium where the infamous Diego Maradona cut his teeth. We braved a tango class and stayed for the milonga afterwards, watching accomplished locals glide around the dancefloor with their heads stuck together and their eyes closed.
There are just two small things that we don´t like about the city, both unfortunately conspire against Mike. As we stroll along, his architect´s eyes are drawn ever upwards towards the dazzling fenestration. Every now and again I realise I am walking alone and turn to find Mike a block back either sprawled on the pavement after falling into one of the many pot holes, or wiping his havaianas on the curb with that unmistakable look of disgust that only a close encounter with a dog turd can elicit.
The havaianas may never recover, but for Mike and me these small things cannot detract from such an amazing city.
You could, for a moment, be fooled into thinking you were in Europe, but for the unmistakable sound of a Latin heart pumping beneath a thin veneer. Under the sophisticated surface you find sultry, melancholic tango on street corners, political grafitti etched onto every available wall, decaying buildings and dilapidated pavements symbolic of a turbulent economy and a lack of public funds. But, for us, this only adds to the allure and intrigue.
We rented a little apartment in the Palermo area and were supposed to stay for a week, but we have extended for a second. The city has seduced us. We have spent the mornings studying Spanish and the afternoons wandering in the sun through art galleries, leafy streets lined with crumbling villas, cute little boutiques with original and creative homewear, clothes and accessories and parks full of stray cats.
We have spent two consecutive Sunday afternoons in San Telmo wandering through flea markets and antique stores and stopping to listen to street performers - one band had the whole street hopping and everyone dancing in the late afternoon sun. We met up with the friends we spent new year with and went to some trendy Palermo bars for drinks and then on to (at 2.30am as the club don´t even open until 2am!) a rather surreal Brazilian club where people were line-dancing to an odd mix of samba and rock in front of a large projected image of hot-pant-clad cow-girls gyrating around a guy in tight, white, lycra trousers with unfortunate VPL. We visited La Boca, a poor docks area where all the houses are painted bright colours with left-over ship paint, and did a tour of the Boca Juniors stadium where the infamous Diego Maradona cut his teeth. We braved a tango class and stayed for the milonga afterwards, watching accomplished locals glide around the dancefloor with their heads stuck together and their eyes closed.
There are just two small things that we don´t like about the city, both unfortunately conspire against Mike. As we stroll along, his architect´s eyes are drawn ever upwards towards the dazzling fenestration. Every now and again I realise I am walking alone and turn to find Mike a block back either sprawled on the pavement after falling into one of the many pot holes, or wiping his havaianas on the curb with that unmistakable look of disgust that only a close encounter with a dog turd can elicit.
The havaianas may never recover, but for Mike and me these small things cannot detract from such an amazing city.
Sunday, 11 January 2009
Where are we?
The beaches are world class, the architecture breathtaking, the people stylish. Gorgeous little patisseries dot every corner. People walk the streets drinking mate - a herbal tea drunk from a cup with an ornate silver straw, and serve up giant steaks from the BBQ. There are cowboys, and lots of sheep. The people are friendly and the grafitti is interesting. The population is 80% white with a smattering of other races but barely any indigenous people.
Yes, you guessed it (or probably not) Uruguay!
There is something fantastic about going to a country you know absolutely nothing about. You have zero expectations and therefore have very little reason to be disappointed. Not that we had any reason to be disappointed anyway, as it happened. Our four day jaunt across the mouth of the Rio Grande from Buenos Aires was thoroughly pleasant in every respect. The capital, Montevideo, was by far and away the quietest, most laid back capital city we have ever visited with tumble weed blowing down the main streets at night and a sleepy atmosphere during the day.
Colonia del Sacramento, a short hop along the coast, was a cute-as-a-button little colonial town with cobbled streets and charismatic restaurants such as the wonderfully named ´El Drugstore´, imaginatively decorated with a fantastic menu. We watched the sun set lazily behind the Buenos Aires skyline from the top of a jauntily painted lighthouse, then dined on a delicious cheese fondue while the live band dished up Sting, Elton and Bob Dylan covers in a dodgy English accent. Ah, Uruguay.
Yes, you guessed it (or probably not) Uruguay!
There is something fantastic about going to a country you know absolutely nothing about. You have zero expectations and therefore have very little reason to be disappointed. Not that we had any reason to be disappointed anyway, as it happened. Our four day jaunt across the mouth of the Rio Grande from Buenos Aires was thoroughly pleasant in every respect. The capital, Montevideo, was by far and away the quietest, most laid back capital city we have ever visited with tumble weed blowing down the main streets at night and a sleepy atmosphere during the day.
Colonia del Sacramento, a short hop along the coast, was a cute-as-a-button little colonial town with cobbled streets and charismatic restaurants such as the wonderfully named ´El Drugstore´, imaginatively decorated with a fantastic menu. We watched the sun set lazily behind the Buenos Aires skyline from the top of a jauntily painted lighthouse, then dined on a delicious cheese fondue while the live band dished up Sting, Elton and Bob Dylan covers in a dodgy English accent. Ah, Uruguay.
Monday, 5 January 2009
Don´t mention the war
As a postscript to today´s post:
We met three Brits this evening who were also denied access to Argentina today by someone sounding suspiciously like our man at border control. His reason? The Falklands War. The one word that Mike and I did pick out was ´island´and we had thought there was some confusion about Northern Ireland which appears on the cover of our passport. I have written to the FCO in Argentina and await their response.
Thatcher has a lot to answer for.
We met three Brits this evening who were also denied access to Argentina today by someone sounding suspiciously like our man at border control. His reason? The Falklands War. The one word that Mike and I did pick out was ´island´and we had thought there was some confusion about Northern Ireland which appears on the cover of our passport. I have written to the FCO in Argentina and await their response.
Thatcher has a lot to answer for.
Sunday, 4 January 2009
Please let me in Argentina
After a lovely last day in Salvador sunning ourselves on a schooner touring some islands in the bay we arrived in Foz do Igaucu yesterday for some waterfall fun and games. We spent the afternoon looking at the thundering Igaucu falls on the Brazilian side and this morning headed for the Argentinian side where you can get up close and personal with some of 175 waterfalls and stand above the devil´s throat, a mesmerising arc of relentless water. Well, that was the plan.
We cruised out of Brazil, crossed the river to Argentina whilst I sang the first of many refrains of ¨Don´t Cry For Me Argentina¨(this will replace ´The Girl From Ipanema´ which has been on the internal duke box for the past three weeks) and presented ourselves at immigration. The guy in the kiosk stamped our passports and we passed to the next guy who was checking cars for imported electronics, drugs, pet monkeys stored in the boot etc. After a brief chat with him in which we understood not one word but in which we bleated repeatedly ¨soy britanico/a¨ he issued a word back in portugese which I did understand ´voltar´. Go back.
Our taxi driver, without comment zoomed back towards Brazil and handed us some re-entry forms. At this point we began to protest to him to take us back again. ¨But we are British¨, we said indignantly to each other, as the British do so well. The taxi driver reluctantly turned around and went into the main office to argue our case. After lots of shouting and waving of arms between our taxi driver and a guy on the desk the manager was called and he waved us through saying of course we could enter. We got in the car and tried again. We were refused. We were given no explanation. He didn´t even find the monkey.
Mike and I, international refugees in the making, came up with a cunning plan to circumvent the system. The taxi driver could drive through and we could simply walk through and meet him at the other side. It worked. We spent a day in Argentina as illegal immigrants and successfully made it back to Brazil for dinner in one piece. We are going to Argentina again next week, via the slightly circuitous route of Paraguay and Uruguay and we can try our luck with the Argentinian immigration officials once more.
And the falls? Amazing. The sun shone, the water sparkled, we walked for miles to see the many little falls that make up the whole. We stood awestruck peering down into the devil´s throat, we took a boat up the base of one of the falls and got sprayed with a huge wall of water which wet us through to the underwear in seconds. We had a blast. Tomorrow the Uruguayan border - wish us luck.
We cruised out of Brazil, crossed the river to Argentina whilst I sang the first of many refrains of ¨Don´t Cry For Me Argentina¨(this will replace ´The Girl From Ipanema´ which has been on the internal duke box for the past three weeks) and presented ourselves at immigration. The guy in the kiosk stamped our passports and we passed to the next guy who was checking cars for imported electronics, drugs, pet monkeys stored in the boot etc. After a brief chat with him in which we understood not one word but in which we bleated repeatedly ¨soy britanico/a¨ he issued a word back in portugese which I did understand ´voltar´. Go back.
Our taxi driver, without comment zoomed back towards Brazil and handed us some re-entry forms. At this point we began to protest to him to take us back again. ¨But we are British¨, we said indignantly to each other, as the British do so well. The taxi driver reluctantly turned around and went into the main office to argue our case. After lots of shouting and waving of arms between our taxi driver and a guy on the desk the manager was called and he waved us through saying of course we could enter. We got in the car and tried again. We were refused. We were given no explanation. He didn´t even find the monkey.
Mike and I, international refugees in the making, came up with a cunning plan to circumvent the system. The taxi driver could drive through and we could simply walk through and meet him at the other side. It worked. We spent a day in Argentina as illegal immigrants and successfully made it back to Brazil for dinner in one piece. We are going to Argentina again next week, via the slightly circuitous route of Paraguay and Uruguay and we can try our luck with the Argentinian immigration officials once more.
And the falls? Amazing. The sun shone, the water sparkled, we walked for miles to see the many little falls that make up the whole. We stood awestruck peering down into the devil´s throat, we took a boat up the base of one of the falls and got sprayed with a huge wall of water which wet us through to the underwear in seconds. We had a blast. Tomorrow the Uruguayan border - wish us luck.
Click here for photos of Brazil and the falls
Friday, 2 January 2009
Happy New Year
Ah, New Year in Brazil, there´s nowhere quite like it. When your average quiet Tuesday night out ends at 5am doused in sweat and ten lecherous men in a samba club it must be difficult to raise the stakes for New Year. But yet they managed it.
We spent the evening in the Barra district of Salvador at an all night street and beach party. The evening began at about 8pm with a few round of caipirinhas at the hostel with three lovely Australians - Noonie, Kate and Nancy - and a brilliantly bonkers Austrian called Sven. Mike and I had entered into the Brazilian tradition of wearing white and as we headed out to the streets we joined throngs of revellers also dressed in white. Hundreds of street stalls were set up, music pumping from all of them and we tucked into the second of many (I forget how many, funnily enough) rounds of caipirinhas from a dancing topless bartender-street vendor (a man -sorry boys).
We meandered up the street towards the lighthouse where a massive stage was set up featuring, amongst others, big names such as Mariene di Castro, samba legend. We danced on the streets with the locals until midnight. As we samba´d into 2009 a huge firework display erupted out at sea and we were pushed along in a wave of people heading down onto the beach to jump over seven waves, as is the tradition. The beach was floodlit, yet more cocktail bars were set up - complete with tables and chairs. The music pumped, children and adults splashed in the water, couples canoodled on the beach - the atmosphere was amazing. We sat with our feet in the sand, sipping caipirinhas and sucking it all up. What a night!
Hope you all had a fantastic new year´s eve wherever you were and all the best for a happy and healthy 2009.
We spent the evening in the Barra district of Salvador at an all night street and beach party. The evening began at about 8pm with a few round of caipirinhas at the hostel with three lovely Australians - Noonie, Kate and Nancy - and a brilliantly bonkers Austrian called Sven. Mike and I had entered into the Brazilian tradition of wearing white and as we headed out to the streets we joined throngs of revellers also dressed in white. Hundreds of street stalls were set up, music pumping from all of them and we tucked into the second of many (I forget how many, funnily enough) rounds of caipirinhas from a dancing topless bartender-street vendor (a man -sorry boys).
We meandered up the street towards the lighthouse where a massive stage was set up featuring, amongst others, big names such as Mariene di Castro, samba legend. We danced on the streets with the locals until midnight. As we samba´d into 2009 a huge firework display erupted out at sea and we were pushed along in a wave of people heading down onto the beach to jump over seven waves, as is the tradition. The beach was floodlit, yet more cocktail bars were set up - complete with tables and chairs. The music pumped, children and adults splashed in the water, couples canoodled on the beach - the atmosphere was amazing. We sat with our feet in the sand, sipping caipirinhas and sucking it all up. What a night!
Hope you all had a fantastic new year´s eve wherever you were and all the best for a happy and healthy 2009.
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