Where's Jonny?

My year abroad - Statistically speaking

jonnygo — Wed, 21 Nov 2007 03:13:00 GMT

Below are the stats on my travels over the last 9 months

Favourite country - Vietnam (phenominally rich in culture, colours and people)

Hippest city - Rio (a natural wonder)

Hottest girls - Brasil and Vietnam (quite different but both stunningly beautiful)

BLINGest city - Miami (straight out of a 50 cent video)

Most dangerous animals - Australia (even the plants can kill)

Culinary epiphanies - Cambodian and Brazilian food (watch out for new trends in the UK)

Most missed - English tea, bacon, my Tweed suit

Longest period of constipation - 14 weeks (whilst in Argentina)

Most dangerous town - Salvador, Brasil (amazing architecture but very rough)

Best Hotel - Raffles, Singapore, The Scarlet, Singapore

Least professional massage in a hotel - Every hotel in Saigon

Biggest lie to other travellers - That I discovered a new species whilst in the AmazonScariest moment - too many to mention but flying into Sydney in gale force winds made me shake

Best scenery - New Zealand (South Island)

Most amazing wildlife - Australia

Most amazing national phenomina - Iguacu falls (Argentina)

Friendliest people - Vietnamese/Malaysians/Thais

Most hated travelling companions - mosquitos

Most disappointing food - Argentina/USA (surprise surprise)

Most challenging animal to photograph - bats (they just wont stay still)

Cutest critter - Red pandas in China

Most stray dogs - Santiago

Most polluted city - Santiago, Xian, China

Favourite gift for people at home - Pirhana teeth, Brasil football shirts, pan pipes

Most expensive country - USA (despite good currency rates with the pound)

Best photo - Rainbow lorikeet feeding at Noosa beach, Australia

Travel ethos - pole vault your comfort zone

Most trustworthy piece of kit - Merrel trekking shoes

Most overrated pieces of kit - anything Colombia (poor quality build, the zips are terrible)

Best excursions - The Amazon and Fraser Island

Deadliest drink - Pisco sour (three will have you on all fours and crying like a baby)

Favourite beaches - Camps bay in Cape Town (white crescent shape, just don't swim as the sharks are rather large) Maya beach - Koh Pi Pi Lay, Thailand (the one from the film)

Best cigar - Montecristo No.4 (don't buy in Miami as they will be fake)

Favourite Airline - BA Business (best place for nervous passengers is upstairs on a 747-400 you cannot hear the engines)

Worst airline (- American Airlines (domestic) (meals non existent in Economy and very poor in business, staff rude and unattentive, charges for any changes.)

Biggest regrets - spending only 1 week in Peru, not whale watching (despite opportunities in New Zealand, Argentina and Boston) Failing to discover a new species, renting my flat to a psycho called Emma (beware anyone in London renting a flat to a girl of that name)

Best wines - Pinot Noir (NZ) Malbec (Argentina) Sauv blanc (NZ)

Biggest achievements - writing, photography, getting on 27 flights when I fear flying, learning to speak Vietnamese in only 2 weeks (joke)

Noel is here....and its only October

jonnygo — Mon, 5 Nov 2007 08:26:00 GMT

A tropical storm warning was issued for south east Florida the day we were due to fly to Los Angeles.

Flying in calm conditions makes me shake like Elvis Presley, so there was little chance I was getting on an aeroplane with Hurricane Noel on his destructive path from the Carribean.

Days earlier and the typically light breeze that keeps everyone cool on Miamis south beach was bending the palm trees over.

My round-the-world ticket could easily be changed free of charge, but Marias (advanceed fare ticket) had a tough penalty for any date changes. Unless the airline (American Airlines) issued a storm policy for that day, she would be charged an extra 220 dollars. Her ticket cost under 200.

When the CNN newscaster announced there would be a chance for TORNADOES to hit Miami we had to take action.

Visiting the American Airlines office in Biscane, Miami, I asked at the desk if a storm policy had been issued and explained my lack of courage.

"No sir," replied the lady, "all our planes are taking off today."

"Do you employ kamikaze pilots?" I enquired, wondering why planes would be taking off in such blatantly poor conditions.

"Sir, I cannot help you until there is a policy in place or you give us 14 days notice of a date change." There WAS a policy for Kingston and later the Bahamas.

"There was no bloody hurricane 2 weeks ago though was there?" I retorted.

"Have a heart," I pleaded. Please let us travel a few days later and waive Marias fees as I would like to fly with her to LA.

The witch behind the desk was unrepentent.

"Can I speak with a supervisor please," I asked, irritated.

There was no supervisor at the office so she put me on to a lady called Dorothy at Miami airport.

I explained my nerves.

"Can you assist me?" I asked hopefully.

"I am sorry but I cannot." she replied.

"Do you know anything about tornadoes," I snapped.

"Well," she replied calmly, "when I was a little girl......."

Miami Marathon Man

jonnygo — Sun, 4 Nov 2007 08:23:00 GMT

I only wanted a cheap pair of running shoes but was sneakered into purchasing an, "intelligent" pair of Nike's. I can't really afford them but in Miami its all about looking the part.

Silver trims, ipod transmitter under the sole and side impact cushions that Volvo motors would be proud to install. They were more Bling than a 50cent video. I was going to fit in well on Miami beach.

Jumping beds, cities and countries every few days for the last 9 months had knocked my routine for six. So running along a dramatic stretch of south beach each day was going to ease me back into life before I returned to work in England. That said, I have no idea what I'm going to do when I return??

After a crash course in culture spanning 6 continents; 2 weeks of unashamed shallowness seemed fitting.

Before departing London a typical day looked like this....

wake up - eat toast on the toilet - run for train - walk in fumes - 15min lunch at PC eating sandwich - worry - fidget - panic - run for train - eat dinner - watch TV - try to sleep - REPEAT

My new "Miami" routine is similar but you'll notice some subtle differences...

wake up - eat bagels on the beach - run along the sand - walk in Atlantic breeze - 2hr lunch in Latin district - swim - sunbathe - nap - watch "snapped," factual programme about murders in the USA - dinner at Joes stonecrab - cigar - sleep like a log, REPEAT

There's only 5 days left before I return home and I am writing from white sands where a constant, cooling breeze brings well deserved comfort.

I reflect on the last year, Africa, Asia, Australasia, Latin America and North America. So many experiences, cultures and ways of living a life. Now the cash has gone and I must think about a new career.

I glance across from my sun lounger at beautiful bodies, show-offs on jet skis and people under navy parasols being served cocktails. Its bottled hedonism. - but I love it!

There's one lady with a bikini in SHOCKING rhodamine pink. Its so bright that you could sell it to cyclists who wish to ride at night. Money might buy you a lot of things here, but taste is not necessarily one of them.

The Ritz Carlton's loungers are just to my left. There are double loungers for lovers, tent-like parasols and iced buckets of champagne. A tall, muscular man wearing white shorts and T-shirt with the words, "Tanning Butler," wanders amongst the longers. Around his waist is a utility belt containing several bottles of tanning lotion, sprays and oils. Like a cowboy in a western film, I watch (jaw agape) as wealthy ladies with model-like figures summon him to performs his duties.

It suddenly occurs to me what job i need to be applying for.

Gallery: Miami - Call me Bling Crosby

jonnygo — Sun, 4 Nov 2007 08:03:00 GMT

Ultra cool, ultra latinultra shallow, but I love it

A cracking Birthday

jonnygo — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 02:16:00 GMT

The fog in Ogunquit, Maine, was so think that the local diners were using it to top their sundaes. I peered outside, barely able to see the maple tree which grew next to the window. This was dense.

Despite the visability of a James Herbert novel I was determined to celebrate my 35th birthday by cracking into one of Maine's most famous crustaceans.

I don't look 35 by the way. Hell no. According to the liquor store in Cape Cod, I look well under 21 and had to provide all manner of legal documentation before they would allow me to walk away with a small bottle of cider.

So I took my age-defying face to the harbour at York with a rented fly rod, two feathery lures and a large bucket of hope.

A brown-freckled seagull sat assessing my efforts, unintimidated by the rods action. The strangely calm sea was erupting into activity as shoals of baitfish broke the surface. Huge patterns were created by thousands of tiny leaps, all identical. Something below was driving them upwards.

The stumpy lighthouse let out long trombone notes as I cast into the splashing fish. As I allowed the lure to sink into the depths, graphite- grey gull shapes emerged one by one from the fog. The cold moisture left itself on my skin but, encouraged by the diving gannets I cast again, retrieving the line slowly through thumb and forefinger.

Before I left home, two target-orientated business colleagues (you know who you are) challenged me to catch a fish in every continent. My trip was about food and the discovery of a new species, so catching fish was not essential.

However, pondering alone, surrounded by thick fog I began to drift......

FLASHBACK - I felt the humidity of the Amazon where I had caught Pirhanas using chunks of meat, - FLASH - I remembered casting upstream into glacial aquamarine currents in New Zealand for rainbow trout, - FLASH - I was chest deep in the peat stained waters of the Spey, Scotland and hooking an Atlantic salmon.........and now........

......a sharp tug on the line, the rod doubled over. It felt strong, very strong.

A long silver bar flashed from the clear depths below me. Careful not to slip on the seaweed I took another look. It was a striper! My first striped bass. What a birthday present.

Content with my efforts at the harbour I caught up with Maria for my Birthday dinner. "Roberts restaurant," looked the best of the bunch despite the faux lighthouse (this is America)

From the menu we ordered an eclectic mix of shells, valves, tubes and clawed creatures. There was also, "kalabasa," - a chunky, smoked sausage that apparently went well with lobster.

Three kinds of native oyster arrived on a bed of ice. All fantastically fresh. In fact AMAZING. A brief word on oysters. Like so many things that Americans like to ruin (the environment, our health, our language, free enterprise, the world, etc etc) my oysters arrived with pots of piquant sauce, mayo and other ghastly abominations. DONT DO IT. LEAVE THEM ALONE.

Squeeze on a little lemon juice and you'll be transported to the sounds of clacking shells being tossed aboard small vessels in the salty breeze. A delicate ruggedness in your palm, the zincy metallic freshness and soft juiciness, the taste of natures most sensual harvests. The best oysters I have ever eaten.

I have never been a lobster lover, no, the sweet taste of crab has me shelling out, however, the lobsters of Maine are indeed well worth tasting. Just keep it simple.

The fog was ebbing away as we left the restaurant and a full moon began to emerge.

Halloween displays on every porch were cast in an eerie pearl-like light.

I glanced into the rear view mirror and noticed a change. Was it the light or were there more hairs than usual on my face?

"Where have all the hairs come from?" I asked Maria.

"It's just your age," she replied, "I'll get you a nose trimmer when we get back to England."

Maybe the guy in the liquor store thought I was Teen Wolf?

A poem about New England

jonnygo — Mon, 29 Oct 2007 02:03:00 GMT

For months I swhirled around the world

but needed time to mellow,

Soothing tides and leafy drives

with trees of golden yellow.

------------------------------------------

White towns of wood and pointed spire

defined New Hampshires facia,

Whilst lobstermen of coastal Maine

were catching sweet crustacea.

------------------------------------------

Pumpkins peered from porches near

Their glowing faces calling

the children of Vermont to play,

as crispy leaves came falling.

--------------------------------------------

Brake for Moose! screamed yellow signs

there's suicidal creatures

Black bears, skunks and striped chipmunks

Could end up roadside features.

---------------------------------------------------

Six counties swathed by panetone shade

Presidential mountain views

Sand dunes shift as tall yachts drift

on Cape Cods emerald hues.

===============================================

Gallery: New England - The Fall

jonnygo — Thu, 18 Oct 2007 23:47:00 GMT

astonishing shades (and I'm not talking about my Pradas)

A big kids party

jonnygo — Wed, 17 Oct 2007 05:34:00 GMT

American food never fails to make me smile.....laugh actually. It's just like a kids party without the balloons.

We're struggling in New England.........Nachos on EVERY menu, fizzy re-fills, (in restaurants touted as "fine dining") cheese, cheese and more cheese, bacon bits that never came from a pig, burgers in portions designed to kill, death by CINNAMON, maple syrup thats not really maple,.......huge subs, smoky rubs, buffalo wings, onion rings, seafood soup, creamy gloop, dips with cream, nothings lean, milk shakes, corncakes, pumpkin pies - supersize, pecans, ruined clams, rib racks, pancake stacks, heart attacks.

Spotting a moose in New England is far easier than spotting a chef who can cook but I'm hoping that the fabled seafood of Maine fares better.

Manhattan like London, did exude an amazing array of restaurants, diners and whole food shops, but all at a price. We left after only 2 days, fed up of rude, obnoxious, "I think I'm in a TV drama," New Yorkers.

Hiring a V6 Dodge Avenger in gunmetal grey we took our money north through Conneticut, Massechusets, Vermont and now New Hampshire where the trees were dressed in astonishing shades.

The attitudes were better in Boston although it was also darn expensive (38$ just to park the car overnight) An undisputed area for the elite.

Woodstock in Vermont was very pretty and poplar (joke) with "leaf peepers."(presumably, the art of watching leaves.)

Finding a place to stay in Vermont in the fall was extrodinarily difficult. We tried Inn houses, Boarding houses, outhouses, Guesthouses, Townhouses, B&Bs, R&Bs, Hotels, Motels, Resorts, courts and forts...but nothing.

After many hours of driving around we found a well-lit hotel with unusually small rooms that advertised, "vacancies." It was not until we tried to check-in that we were informed it was a, "Doggy hotel and spa." Ooops.

We finally found ourselves in Jackson, New Hampshire, after a night in Lebanon(!) The B&B is located on Windy Hill and offers views that photographers pay airline tickets for. On the hill, a million leaves flutter like the stars and stripes on Independence day.

Its great here. The wildlife is phenominal, the rivers clean, the valleys green. A slice of the good life with all the milkshake you can drink.

The white house on windy hill

jonnygo — Tue, 16 Oct 2007 06:01:00 GMT

We drove through great washes of red, orange, green and yellow towards a B&B called, the White House on windy hill....

The "drive through," bank in Conway had a digital thermometer, but I didn't have to read the number to know the temperature was dropping in New England. The decidedly icy notes that crept into the wind prompting some trees to turn their foliage red, began doing the same to folks faces.

Migrating geese knew the score weeks ago, taking to the air in well co-ordinated, "V" formations. Hunters no doubt lay in wait.

The white house on windy hill was a typical wooden construction of long flat planks, many windows and an open porch with rocking chair. From a bay window at the front there were wonderful views of purple hued mountains.

Grassy pastures surrounded the building like a clearing in the forest. Then, after the grass, where cows grazed alongside deer and wild turkeys pecked at dawn, the green abruptly stopped.

Beyond the grass were miles of tightly packed trees so dense that passing between their silvery trunks it immediately became night.

In contrast, everything above was a paintbox of vibrant colour.

Blotches of colour continued over hills and far into the distance, only diminishing through perspective, or darkened by the cast of long shadows from above.

Chestnut, oak, sycamore, poplar, aspen, elm, hackberry, birch, hickory, cottonwood, cherry and of course, maple offered an enticing pattern of variation.

The lady who lived alone at the white house did several jobs. Apart from renting three bedrooms she did accounts, was a community fire officer on call and every October on Friday and Saturday, she became a spook. That is, she dresses in a ghoulish costume and frightens children half to death.

Before the snows arrive to coat Mount Washington and the surrounding hills, making them, "the White Mountains," the ski club allows the chair lifts to operate. Groups of children and adults sit in rows of two or three and ascend Cranmore Mountain at dusk in the hope of a chilling experience.

The "Ghoullog," as it is known involves the village community dressing in horrific outfits and placing themselves at strategic points at the mountains summit. They lay in wait until dark to strike. The lady from the white house is one such ghoul.

So on Saturday 13th October 2007 following directions from the Welcome Centre, we took the Black Mountain road towards the White house on windy hill.

Things began going strange around 6pm as night fell. Two children in checked shirts were picking berries by the roadside. It was so cold. As they flashed by, I noticed they had abnormally contorted heads. "What the Hell? Did you see those kids, Malsie," I asked worredly.

"They're just pumpkin people," said Maria, looking relieved herself.

As the road became narrower and the houses fewer, we took a sign for "Windy Hill" to the top of a gravelly drive.

It was now very dark, and, as we approached habitation there appeared to be a large outhouse building of grey, brown wood. The white house mysteriously appeared on our left as if from shadows.

There was one small porch light on at the white house. We sat for some time deliberating. Glancing around articles were catching my eye. Old farm machinery, a pitchforks prongs, a scythes edge, a rusty hanging chain.

Someone had heard the car.

Another light came on.

We exitted the car with our hand luggage and proceeded to where the light shone.

We of course, knew nothing of the, "Ghoullag," or our hosts vocation each October.

As we peered though small panes in the door, all the lights went off.

A silhouetted hand with long fingernails rose up to the window and a dark form moved suddenly to the panes.

There were no eyes, just a long, boney nose.

Maria screamed. Her bag dropped on the gravel with a crunch.

The door began to creak open.

AAAGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

echoed around the hills.

"WELCOME," came a polite voice.

But it was too late, Maria was already in the car and I was not far behind. We were off to the Marriott and bugger the cost.

Care for Guinea pig?

jonnygo — Mon, 8 Oct 2007 12:53:00 GMT

Cuy al horno (roasted guinea pig) must be one of Peru's most famous or notorious dishes depending on your viewpoint. It is however, a delicacy found mainly in the Highland regions, so don't go ordering it in Lima unless you want to eat some kids pet.

The national dish of Peru is Ceviche, which is actually a method of cooking without using heat. Typically using fish, the "meat" becomes lip-smackingly tender using acidic fruits like lemons, limes and oranges. A common dish is, ceviche a la trucha (trout) or closer to the coast, using scallops, kingfish or crustacea.

Peru's climate combines a long coastline with huge, tropical zones and arid, mountainous areas. This makes for a distinct, interesting and varied cuisine.

In the mountainous areas of Cusco, Puno and Arequipa you can try Alpaca (Lama-type animal) the wool of which is used in many knitted garments. Delicious cooked, a la parilla (barbecued) or a la plancha (griddled) it is reminiscent of pork and beef. The sierra is also the place to try, Pachamanga, an ancient Inca method using a hole in the ground and layering meat, vegetables and potatoes on top and covering for 4-5hrs.

Starchy foods are common here and explain how the peoples manage to work in such harsh conditions. Many meals come with two carbohydrates, for instance, rice and potatoes or fried yuca, a dense, translucently white root, similar to a yam.

Of course, Peru is famous for potatoes. There's an institute in Lima with over 4000 varieties, but the most popular is Olluco, a small yellow and purple tuber which accompanies many dishes.

Observant European shoppers will have noticed that Peruvian Asparagus is available for many months of the year. Both green and white are grown and used in soups and salads and make your urine reek.

Sweetcorn is the other vegetable used extensively across Peru. Like potatoes there are many varieties. You can eat the choco (yellow variety of huge kernels) simply boiled. It has little sweetness, a thick skin and more starch than a laundrette.

Tamales are found everywhere in Peru and come as a pocket of smooth, starchy corn, bits of chilli and a meat filling. Sometimes the Tamale will be reformed to resemble a sweetcorn shape and wrapped in the husk.

A must try is Chicha (sweetcorn beer) there is a type that looks like Ribena (chicha Morada) but actually uses purple a sweetcorn variety whereas the opaque, Chicha Jora uses yellow types. Seved in a glass with a handle you will see many Peruvinas getting lashed on the stuff. If thats not your thing then try a Cristal beer, the cerveza del Peru.

There are some red and white wines produced in Peru although not as well established as the stuff from Argentina and Chile.

Cancha, tiny dried sweetcorn kernels coated in salt are often served with ceviche or as a bar snack.

The tropical zones provide all types of exotic fruit. Gigantic Papayas, bananas, passion fruits, Grenadillos, custard apples, melons and strawberries are typical.

Even more exotic fruit and nuts like Camu Camu and Cocona can be found in or near to the jungle.

Deserts are good too. Try Crema Volteada if you enjoy a light creme caramel or try one of the many cake on offer. Interestingly, simple cakes can be seen at breakfast time and eaten with the coffee.

Train journey to the sky - Machu Pichu

jonnygo — Mon, 8 Oct 2007 07:55:00 GMT

I've never shyed away from exercise. I have even been known to drink Lucozade sport - but when offered the choice of a gruelling 4 day hike over mountains that make Lamas groan OR a spectacular train journey through the Andes, I opted for the latter.

Our destination, Machu Pichu, was 4 hrs by train from Cusco and covered some of the most breathtaking scenery imaginable, even from the carbon filled, "Backpacker Class."

Slowly descending into the Sacred valley from above is like lowering your body into a hot bath after a hard day. Admiring those hardworking Peruvians (every one in Traditional dress) dig terraces at impossible heights into the mountains defies medical belief. They are fit. very fit. If there was a mountain digging Olympic sport, they would undoubtedly win gold. (maybe they did, but the Spanish took it from them)

The other reason we decided to take the train with the over 60s club was our health. Ok, ok we are both young and well, but I felt something call to me from the large, glass-fronted humidor in Lima airport.

"Jonny, come and smoke me," whispered expensive cigars from inside balsa wood boxes.

"I taste so good," came a smooth accented Cuban.

In a trance, I entered the room, and as clouds of white humidity encircled my frame, I grasped a box of Montecristo No. 4s.

By the time we reached Cusco airport my lungs were rendered useless. My legs were jelly as I walked to the luggage carousel, then things became fuzzy and dizzy then blurry. OHHHHHHHHH my head.

YES.....BUT......I had not smoked a single cigar.

No, the thumping cerebral sensations I was experiencing were linked to Cusco's altitude. At 3500 metres above sea level it commonly causes altitude sickness in people of non-Inca extraction. Walking a few feet is like running a marathon.

Puffing and panting like a dog with asthma, I was offered a cup of the local remedy, "Mate de coca." It looks like hot water with bay leaves although the colourfully dressed peoples of Cusco swear by the stuff. Altitude sickness was also an excellent excuse for Maria to eat as much chocolate as she desired.

Disembarking from the train near Machu Pichu, we took an organised mini bus along precarious cliff edges and winding roads so steep that the driver carried oxygen. Someones handbag even began to float mid-air in the bus. There was a small white box with a red cross at the front, and, as we climbed beyond the clouds, I wondered if it contained a parachute.

At the top we took a small trek along narrow, stoney paths until we reached the famous Inca ruins.

It was well worth the 4 day trek here, errrrr, I mean 4 hour train ride. The site was remarkably well maintained, impressive beyond words, with a truly beguiling history and symoblism. (The heavenly associations of the condor feature repeatedly in their designs, although I failed to see one of two pairs nesting there)

Our guide was hugely knowledgeable, sharing all sorts of facts that made us want to buy a book on the place. Although one fact slightly surprised me. It was the nationality of the man who discovered Machu Pichu.

It turns out that a chap called Dr. Hiram Bingham discovered Machu Pichu in 1911 whilst searching the area for the lost city of the Incas.

He was an American!!

It seems that the USA is not just famous for discovering the Big Mac, Mickey mouse and "the diner."

I take everything back.

Anyway, I may have to at immigration. My next stop?

......New york City!

Completing Darwins work

jonnygo — Sun, 7 Oct 2007 04:22:00 GMT

If any place on earth held the secrets to life, it was here.

Hidden deep within unexplored regions of Amazonia lay the answers.

My time was precious, yet I yearned to discover a new species;

a plant, an insect, maybe even a human?

4 separate flights from Sao Paulo and a time zone difference took us to Manaus, a busy port town on the Rio Negro whose splendour had diminshed since the rubber boom.

Maria had never shut up about spiders since Argentina so it was a miracle we ever arrived in the worlds largest rainforest. I needed a sneaky plan that would get us on a river boat to Iquitos (Peru) before Maria screamed, ¨spider,¨ ¨snake¨ or ¨stick insect.¨ So I booked the ¨Best¨ Western for two nights relative comfort before dropping into dinner conversation that we would be going where no man (or woman) had gone before. It turned out to be a huge mistake. The food was abhorent, the phone out of order, the internet broken, the staff dismissive and there was no spa for her ladyship.

We were so badly overcharged for our laundry (120USD) that I was forced to contact the tourist police. Surprisingly, a policeman turned up at 9pm on a Saturday night, his wife waiting patiently for him in the car. He came with Gero, the man who was organising our trip. Now, there was obviously some politics going on at the reception desk, but we still gained a 50% reduction in the price and a sparkling pair of pants for my trip.

I ended up compromising on the trip. With every intention to sail from Manaus to Peru, the 3 week journey, cramped conditions, river pirates and bad santitation just failed to appeal to my anachrophobic partner.

So we embarked, none-the-less enthusiastically, on a 4 day adventure to the, ¨interior,¨ which promised the company of pink dolphins, pirhanas, colourful birds, insects and indigenous tribes. Our guide was a ¨Caboclo,¨ or river person and had extensive knowledge of the Amazon and its animals. So Maria was safe and I had a chap who knew how to deal with jaguars.

The first of two boats took us to across the, ¨meeting of the waters¨,¨ an amazing natural phenominon wherein the tar coloured Rio Negro merges with the Rio solimoes (Amazon) and the two colours remain for miles. Itls like watching black treacle run into milky coffee.

Next was a bumpy ride across red soils in a VW van to smaller vessel capable of navigating the narrow river channels.

I watched the Guiness-like liquid flow rapidly beneath me and froth white as it left the outboard motor. An Irishmans dream.

4 hours later and we arrived at our wooden lodge somewhere just back from the rivers edge. It was a simple affair but there was a shower (that worked occasionally)

Tarantula reports from another cabin didn´t go down well with Maria and I can´t say the thought of standing on one on my way to the toilet excited me either. However, the jungles charms intoxicated me the moment I arrived. The sounds. Like nothing I have ever heard, although at night time its worse than a nightclub as insects, howler monkeys, splashing fish and wild things compete for air space.

Day 4 was the most memorable. We moved in silence using a wooden canoe and journeyed far into a tributary swept by overhanging trees.

The mesmorizing flutter of moths the size of birds distracted our attention from a large caiman which lay motionless above. Invisible on the steep bank he suddenly sensed us and dashed head first into the dark water with a huge SPLASH. Maria yelped like a pupply as the ripples tapped our boat gently.

After hours paddling in what felt like a steam room we glid to a stop. Our guide disembarked first from another canoe and led us on a single track into the green soup.

The place was ALIVE.

A toucan observed our movements from above as army ants marched into war. We tramped slowly over rotting trunks, under creepers, into muddy streams and up leaf strewn banks. Our guide stopped us and pulled out a machete. Cracking open a jungle nut he poked out a fat white grub and placed it into my palm.

¨Eat,¨ ¨Eat.¨ he demanded, his leathery face impressionless.

Pausing momentarily, I closed my eyes, threw back the brub and chewed quickly. It burst in my mouth and coated my tongue in a gooey white liquid. To be fair, it did taste like unsweetened coconut milk but I would have preferred it cooked.

A further 3 hrs trekking in choking heat and I stumbled upon an large creamy, yellowish fruit of soft exterior lying on the ground.

Could it be?

Yelling at my guide who was ahead (no doubt looking for napping snakes) I picked up the fruit.

¨What is the name of this fruit,¨ I enquired excitedly.

The guide took it from my hand and examining it closely replied.

¨I have never seen this fruit before.¨

EUREEEEEEEEEEKKKKKKAAAAAAAAA!!!

I had discovered a fruit that the world had never seen. It would be called a, ¨Jonathan Delicious.¨

Taking photos and keeping the sample we headed back.

3 days later and we were traveling back to Manaus on a steamer-type boat of two decks. There was a large congregation of Eurpean travellers on the top deck all with different stories from around the Amazon.

When I began to recall my story of the fruit there was sudden hush around the deck and more and more travellers came upstairs to hear.

Clearly impressed, I wasted no time explaining that I was to name the fruit after myself. I even took a question and answer session at the end.

Just as I was explaining to the now huge group of international travellers about my new discovery and old fisherman tapped me on the shoulder.

¨Si Signor,¨ I said wondering if he realised the significance of my find.

¨Zis fruita you hold,¨ he croaked in a heavy Spanish accent.

¨We call Cupuaçu.¨

¨I beg your pardon,¨ I replied, as faces around me tried to conceal emerging smirks.

¨Its a cupuaçu. In Manaus we have, Suco (juice) Cupuaçu, Torta (cake) de Cupuaçu, helado (ice cream) de Cupuaçu, Its very nice.¨

I slid away like a python and threw the bloody thing in the river where it belonged.

Gallery: Perusing Peru

jonnygo — Mon, 1 Oct 2007 05:21:00 GMT

In search of Guinea pigs

Full-on football - Rio´s fanatical fans

jonnygo — Mon, 1 Oct 2007 04:52:00 GMT

I´ve never been a voyeur - well, not when it comes to sport, so football matches are not really my thing. However, I was interested to test just how fanatical the Brazilians were about the game by attending a derby match at their famous Maracana stadium.

Donning colourful T-shirts we boarded a minibus crammed with other people of international intrigue and headed across Rios busy streets. There were already groups of people congregating in outdoor cafes and children waving flags.

The match was between Flamengo and Vasco de Gama. The Flamengo fans seemed to be everywhere and were easily identified by their red and black, ¨Denace the Menace,¨ shirts. Vasco wore white and although outnumbered on the streets were just as loyal and had a passion typical of Brazilians.

As we neared the stadium the sounds and crowds were already overwhelming and I pondered momentarily on whether we had made the right decision.

No time to think, we were ushered from the van military style and into the grounds. Guided by an organiser to an area of neutrality (so we were told) we were actually right in between two warring sets of fundamentalists!

As we took our seats we could only watch as 25 mins of pure taunting took place using signs that any nationality would understand. Red glowing fireworks ignited on the Flamengo side and I was unsure at one point if the stadium was actually alight such was the smoke.

All of a sudden. BOOM, BOOM, BOOM. Did someone smuggle in a rocket launcher?

Explosions usually confined to sandstone quarries were rocking the stadium. The whole spectacle and intensity of sounds around us was so deafening that we failed to realise the match had been going on for 15 minutes.

Thousands of fans chanted in unison, ¨MEN-GOOOOOO¨ ¨MEN-GOOOOOO¨

We felt small and insignificant here. Should we follow a team? If we cheered for the wrong one would we be lynched? There was a fair peppering of Denace the Menaces in our stand so we tried to blend in.

Back in the game and someone was fouled. In fact there were many fouls in this match. There appeared to be a set procedure when someone is fouled in a Brazilian game.

1. The ref whistles, runs over and points in the direction of the fouled side.

2. Every nutcase on the side of the fouler runs down the centre of each stand and goes bezerk, then threatens to kill the referee.

Its quite incredible to watch. Remind me never to take a job as a ref in Brazil.

As a Mexican wave began on the Vasco side a gigantic red and black football shirt began rippling over the Flamengo fans in the top stand. Not to be outdone, the Vascoeans (?) pulled their gigantic white shirt up in defiance to ear-piercing whistles and hoots from the other side.

Taking our eyes off the football again, we watched in awe as thousands of streamers burst simultaneously from the stands in a phenominally well choreographed throwing.

By half time Vasco had scored a goal and it seemed that the whole place might erupt into violence. Maria was edgy and with due cause. To say that the Flamengo fans were, ¨unhappy¨ would be the understatement of the year. They wanted blood.

In Vasco´s defence, they had passed well and showed great flair with the ball. It was however a relief for us that Flamengo pulled it back in the second half.

A one-all-draw meant fewer casualties and as we were whisked away I wondered what had made more of an impact. The football or the fans?

Are favelas safe?

jonnygo — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 04:14:00 GMT

We ascended Rochinas narrow streets with real apprehension. Rio's largest favela has a notorious history of drugs, shootings and extreme poverty. The guidebooks advise against going alone.

Luckily we had a guide, Alfredo, who was keen to change the poor perception of favelas by inviting people to visit the inhabitants. But were we safe?

Apparently so, the drug barons whose authority preceeds that of the law, approved of our visiting and the gangs who were most likely to rob or mug us were away working the touristy areas!

Beginning our walk high above Rio's beaches and in sight of places like the jockey club below, it seemed bitterly ironic that the poorest of people had such spectacular views, yet few of the comforts.

Words like ghetto and slum are often associated with favelas but were these terms justified?

Alfredo thought not as he pointed out all the developments that were happening. Essentially, there were small businesses bringing positive change to the community and we picked up a real sense of friendliness in the people we met.

However, there was no getting round the fact that favelas are still run by drug lords and that the peoples of the favela are descriminated against purely on account of their social status. This is all the more disturbing as 1 in 5 people in Rio live in a favela (in other cities such as Salvador its as high as 70%)

Are all these people criminals?

We heard stories about children with guns and how they used to fly kites to warn drug barons of approaching police patrols (these days they use mobile phones) Despite this, we met young people in Rochina wanting to portray a different image. There were some doing paintings depicting favela life, some selling jewellery and one man selling his music on CDs. Others worked as moto-taxis drivers, a local solution to the lack of Government funding for a proper transport system.

There was some evidence of a discernable infrastructure. We walked down a "high street," serving the community that contained some shops, a butcher, a clinic and even a cyber cafe. I don't agree with one Engishmans view that, "It looked really quite nice and not that bad." The snap shot we had of the community would be misleading if considered independently. I think some nights on the favela would be very scary indeed.

In 1993 Rochina was given neighbourhood status, but its still has its problems (a proper sewerage system being one) although I believe this is probably one of the better favelas.

I was pleased that the money we paid went towards funding the local community centre for educating children (which we visited)

The second favela, "Vila Canoas," had a system of backstreets one-person wide running through its core. We walked between roughly constructed buildings of stone, wood and concrete to the dimly lit interior. Occasionally, someones front room became an improptu shop or bar selling things to the community. We did not feel intimidated during the day but again I felt it must be uncomfortable for children growing up in such a jungle of danger.

Amongst long lines of intertwining cables we witnessed how the electricity had been tapped directly from an official power line in the street. This was one of many creative solutions used.

A friendly middle-aged lady who watched us climbing crumbly concrete steps towards her shouted down at Alfredo. We later asked him what she had said.

"She was saying how pleased she was that we visit her neighbourhood," said Alfredo, "she wanted people to know that there are good people living here."

Getting into a stew

jonnygo — Sun, 30 Sep 2007 02:16:00 GMT

"Feijoada," could be classed as Brazils National dish. A rich pork and bean stew traditionally eaten at weekends, it reminded me of the Sunday roast Brits used to sit down for.

Even today, many restaurants only serve the dish on a Saturday, although "Casa de Feijoada," a specialist restaurant in trendy Ipanema, Rio, serves the stuff all week.

After cycling along two beachfronts to the place, I could have eaten a pig whole (which would become ironic later) but Maria, on a health mission, was proposing to stick to salads.

As we were led across the dinky restaurant by our bow-tied waiter, Maria suggested she like some lettuce and tomatoes. There was a short elapse of time as the waiter decided if he had heard correctly.

"Malsie," I said discreetly, "they serve one thing in Casa de Feijoada, and I don't think its salads."

The diet was officially on hold and a brief exchange of Portuguese, French, English, Italian and sign language ensued. There were no menus, just conversation to establish the meal. We reckoned we'd ordered dishes containing the words, traditional, molho, hoof, bean, pork and rib.

Pickings of green olives and strangely unsalted, herby feta arrived on skewers followed by tiny teracotta cups of red bean soup. It was the first of many bean concoctions. We lifted up the cups to capture the porky morsels which had sunk to the bottom. Delicious.

Dishes began to emerge from all angles and placed on our white-clothed table like a small banquet.

There were orange slices, red chillis in oil, a basket of crostini and then sizzling cubes of crispy pork straight from a cast iron pan.

A waistcoated man with excessive paunch and breathing difficulties wandered over with two colourful liquors. I thought it a touch early for the hard stuff, but I'm all for tradition, so I indicated I'd like to try the maracuca (passionfruit). Zingy, viscose and alcoholic its sharp-sweet balance was very pleasant. The waiter then suggested it was good for depression! Did he mean it would give me depression?

After two jugs of "suco" (squeezed lemon and orange juice) served with sugar, we were already enjoying an interesting meal.

However, when the "piece de la resistance," was ceremoniously brought over, we were overwhelmed. The man with excessive paunch was proudly carrying a large steaming clay pot. It contained 2 types of pork sausage, smoked pork loin and beef ribs swimming in a thick broth of dark maroon beans. This, is turned out, was just for Maria. He had other plans for me.

On his return with another huge pot, I noticed that one of his waistcoat buttons was missing. It came as no surprise; pressure had been building for some time.

A clay pot of bubbling bits was laid next to me. Laying, as if in wait, under the salty, savoury skin that was forming on the surface were gluteny pigs trotters complete with black hooves and boney tails. This was the "traditional dish." Oh well, man or mouse?

As I delved into the chocolate coloured sauce, more accompaniments made an appearance. Thinly sliced celery mixed with tiny kidney beans helped alleviate some of the richness, whilst delicate pork scratchings in another bowl gave textural contrast. There was sandy coloured "Farhina" (manioc flour), shredded kale and white rice all in separate bowls.

Another huge bowl of thin soup was placed in the middle of the table. It contained......... yes you've guessed it, more beans. It seemed that beans, means...Brazil, at this stage.

As I slurped some of the soup I crunched down hard on one of the beans. Maria looked up concerned I had broken a tooth. Glancing at the offending article on my spoon, I realised it was not a bean at all.

It was a waistcoat button! Maybe I should have given it back but it would only have ended up in someone else meal.

Collectively we found the meal to be comforting, rich and satisfying. Surprisingly, it was not too fatty or heavy. The dish reminded me of the slow-cooked, Spanish dish, "Fabada," which contains white beans, chorizo and morcilla.

We left Casa de Feijoada full of beans.

The wind in Rio blew that night and the trumpets played loudly in Copacabana.

Gallery: Brazil NUTS

jonnygo — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 02:55:00 GMT

Hot latin action found here

We`re Brasil NUTS - Notes from Rio

jonnygo — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 01:44:00 GMT

I`m sick of cities. I rarely spend more than 3 days in one, before moving off to where green things grow and pigeons have only two legs.

Pollution, noise, smells, crime, stress, sewage, crowds, rats, cockroaches, traffic, congestion, black snots, attitudes.......

Rio has ALL of these in abundance, except it is incomparable with anywhere else.

The city, famous for carnivals, Caipirinhias and Copacabana has something else. Without doubt, set in the most naturally beautiful landscape of any city in the world, I have fallen in love. (and not just with the G-stringed stunners on the beaches - woof!)

Squadrons of sharp-angled, frigate birds float like children’s kites above the sweeping arc of Copacabana. Curvy tanned bodies are everywhere and the blokes don`t care much either, choosing the shortest of shorts, whilst kicking footballs on the beach.

We rented bicycles and headed towards the no-less extraordinary beach at Ipanema for lunch. We were keen to sample Brazils national dish (Feijoada) at a specialist restaurant. Our inaugural meal in Rio had been chargrilled galeto (poussin) served with salad of palm heart, washed down with Guarana juice.

Having spent 3 weeks beef-munching in Argentina, we had begun to grow udders, so the sight of exotic fruits and plentiful salads (oddly absent in Argentina) made us smile. My arteries were happier too.

Oddly, we were only able to purchase two apples in Argentina and they were confiscated by the fruit police at a checkpoint - true.

We pedalled along Ipanema`s bike track towards tropical towers of rock. Stopping at point 9 (apparently an area where intellectuals ponder life) I strapped the bikes to a palm tree and headed off to sample classic Brazilian fare.

Returning from an incredible meal of trotters, beans, salads and stews I unzipped my trouser pocket to find the key to the bike chain. There was some loose change but no key.

Repeatedly checking each pocket, I dug deep for 5 minutes trying to find it.

Nothing. Nada.

We walked some distance back to the bike shop in sweltering heat, although the views were even better at a slow pace. The curl of the waves breaking near to the beach, Sugarloaf mountain in the distance and to our left, over hills and tree canopy, high on a prominent rock, the outstretched arms of Cristo Rendetor - the most famous of all Brazilian landmarks.

As we entered the shop, our heads hung low in shame, I explained to the unshaven man with oily hands and scruffy T-shirt what had happened. He looked me up and down, and as I talked using drawings to explain our predicament, his wrinkles steadily deepened. A smile emerged as the blundering Englishman attempted Portuguese.Errr Esque vous uma sparo keyo segnor?

It was with some trepidation that we set off down the beach brandishing the tools of a bike thief. A small group of Ghetto kids scanning the beach did double takes when they saw what we were holding. They must have thought we were competition.

As we arrived at the palm tree, I noticed another bike was also strapped to the other side of the trunk. Without hesitation and with Maria as lookout, I knelt down and began having a go at cutting off the chain.

I began snipping the rubber housing, doubting if I`d ever get the damn thing off when Maria tapped me on the shoulder.

Ignoring it, I continued in my attack of the metal tube within. This was easier than I thought.

I was reasonably quickly through this, although my knees were beginning to hurt on the tiled pavement. A thickly-twined steel core of wires lay at the centre. Tricky.

Maria was tapping on my shoulder again.

¨What?¨ I snapped, trying to focus on the wires. ¨Just pass me the hacksaw¨

Nothing came. ¨Hacksaw please!¨

Still nothing.

I cranked my head up to see why I was being ignored.

Standing either side of her were two men wearing baseball caps, tight-fitting cream shirts and darker beige trousers. Attached to their waists were truncheons as long as my arm and large guns in holsters. They looked decidedly unamused.

To make matters worse, the guy who had his bike attached to the same palm tree arrived and began pointing at me and the chain. He was telling the police all sorts of stuff in Portuguese that I didn’t understand.Did we look like bike thieves?

Luckily for us, he appeared to be telling the police that the two bikes were rented and that the stupid Englishman must have lost the key. I felt like Mr. Bean.

We saw a change in their eyes and the kind men of the law began to help us remove the chain.

We departed from the beach on our bikes, free and thankfully, nothing was locked up.

I demanded, throwing my arm upwards for the implement.I said, purposefully. His head shook. Passing me a pair of wire cutters and a hacksaw from under the counter, I clearly understood what he was proposing. He had my passport and 300 dollars. I had nothing.

Beef a La bus

jonnygo — Tue, 18 Sep 2007 01:22:00 GMT

The British transport system is shocking. If it was a child, the parents would be imprisoned for neglect. Our trains are dirty, crammed and rarely on time and its been proven that cattle in transit for slaughter have more favourable conditions than commuters on the tube.

Our coaches are only slightly better with many in need of nupgrading, friendlier fuels and any type of innovation.

By contrast, Argentinian coaches could be likened to London cabs. They are worldclass, although you wont get a cockney who knows celebrities driving one.

Journey times in Argentina can be long to say the leastowing to the size of the country, but once inside aluzury coach and 17 hours becomes remarkably bearable. Our SUPER-CAMA journey from Igacu falls to Buenos Aires featured 180 degree beds (far more comfortable than at the hostel), flat screen TVs (with recent movies) a 3 course meal, champagne, sweets, coffee, after dinner drinks anmd a teddy bear (not really) Now thats my kind of bus.

On an excursion to Mendoza (17hrs by coach) the girl on reception booked the wrong coach and we ended up on a SEMI CAMA. No I dont do anything SEMI unless its tomatoes so I was disappointed that the seats only reclined part way and there was no champagne this time. However, it was still very comfortable and where they lçacked in luxuries they made up in entertainment.

You see, on this trip they started a game of Bingo!(in Spanish of course) Luckily we had a young chap behind us who was able to translate. As the announcer shouted out the numbers an echo in English came from behind.

The caller was saying more than just the numbers though. He appearedto be making quips in Spanish that were not being translated.

As he called, there was some chuckling on board and the occasional finger poked in our direction.

I still have no idea what the caller was saying but suspect it went something like this......

45 - Its one long drive

Number 4 - Brits on board

Number 3 - were serving tea

Number 10 - Its beef again

Number 9 - who wants wine?

Number 20 - Bet the Brits drink plenty

32 - The drivers new

36 - were in the sticks

16 - cracked windscreen

88 - Mendoza state

Now why dont British rail do something like that? They might even start the game on the platform.

Grape expectations

jonnygo — Mon, 10 Sep 2007 03:21:00 GMT

Americans would hate red wine tasting. Swirling a staining liquid around those pristine gnashers would render the, "Hollywood smile," useless.

That said, Napa Valley in California could well be next on my wine trail after South Africa, New Zealand and Argentina. Like big reds to oxygen I've opened up to new world wines.

Being a foodie I've always favoured old world pairings, Riojas from Spain, Chianti from Italy and Burgundy from France. Not anymore. There is no better example than Argentine reds with red meats.

Anyway, why is Argentina new world? They have been making wine here since 1500.

Our journey to the wineeries or bodegas started with a 12 hour bus trip from Buenos Aires across some truly arid zones.

Mendoza is the burgundy-red heart of Argentinas most important industry and its led by the reds, Malbec being the most famous grape grown here.

Hiring a bicycle is one way of dying errr I mean touring the wineries. I would not recommend this option unless you have the calves of Lance Armstrong the navigational skills of a homing pigeon and speak fluent Spanish.

We drove around in a hire car on the same basis that Bill Clinton took Cannabis. (He only tried it in his mouth but did not inhale)

Some of the worst signposted, badly tarmacced, oddly-routed roads I have ever driven on are here. So a 1hour journey took several and although it was winter a low sun shone through the car windows we created our own unique fermentation on our bodies.

We had gone through the wine area at least twice without realising. This is partly due to the area being dusty, barren and unremarkable. (and quite poor in parts)

In stark contrast to wealthy, hilly Stellenbosch or the lush valleys of New Zealand this was very, very flat. The "hills" in the distance were pretty spectacular though!

Luckily the wines were anything but flat and the hospitality was intoxicating.

As we didn't make it until lunchtime we started with the medziadia at a place called, Jaques Francoise. (could there be a more French name?)

There we ate mud oven rabbit, an all-in-one dish of succulently tender meat on the bone with peas, onion and potatoes. Maria had chicken leg cooked in a similar peasantty way. This was the first time we had eaten anything that was not derived from an animal that went, "MOOOOOOO"

Postre (dessert) was queso e alcayota e nuestro (cheese with ALCAYOTA???and walnuts) Keen to find out what in the hell alcayota was I summoned the waiter. Pronounced AL-Cay-ODA it sounded like a terrorist organisation that George Bush wants to catch.

After many unsuccessful attempts to describe the stringy, sweet, viscose marmalade that adorned my queso, the waiter brought one to the table. Its a cross between a white melon and a squash although the texture and the fact it must be cooked, point to a type of squash. Apparently common in the area.

In the afternoon we visited two boutique bodegas in the area. the first, Carinae is owned by a Toulouse family who acquired it in 1998. Named after a star constellation its an enterprise producing only a select number of wines. We tried several easy drinking malbecs such as the 2005 (strawberries, hay, cherry, tannin, dried fruits) - Octans 2006, cab sauv/malbec another easy drinker -

There were two specially aged reds. "El Galgo" (the greyhound) 2004 Gran Vintage, fudgey, soft, oozes vanilla, long notes. My favourite was Carinae presige 2005 combining cab sauv/malbec/syrah, a full frontal of fruit mmmm

We next headed to another bodega, also run by a family, this time it was the Italians. The Di Tomassi family.

Est. in 1869 and originating from Triese in Friuli region (a town I have visited) this was my favourite bodega.

Huge brick vats and temperature controlled cellars more than made up for the lack of greenery outside. Who better to provide Maria and I with a personal tour than a member of the famiglia di Tomassi?

We learned about malbecs and a white grape called Torrontes which is grown exclusively in Argentina. We also learned about the characteristics imparted by using American or French oaks and what constitutes the classifications, reserva, gran reserva etc.

Two crackers from this visit were the 100% cab sauv, not harsh or oevrly cassisy, full fruit, unique flav, classy. (oaked)

The Malbec 2004 (Roble) had utilised fFrench and Americans oaks for 6 months each to develop subtle layers of flavour. Delicious.

The great thing about the wineries here is that the tours and tastings are often free if you purchase a bottle at the end although theres no obligation. However at 20 pesos (3.50) it would be rude not to.

At the end of the day the only down side was that my smile looked like a Victorian wench. Then again, I never did have a Hollywood smile.