What´s in a name? Well, in Brazil the answer to this question is about 350 km... but I´m giving away the punchline here.
To start at the beginning, arriving in Brazil from Bolivia was like entering a different century - a world of asphalted roads, sleek air-conditioned buses and the most incredible expanse of female cleavage I´ve seen in my life. Yes, it quickly became apparent why El Ultimo Inka had raved about the beauty of Brazil. The acres of flesh on display cannot simply be explained away by the weather - being Brazilian is clearly a state of mind and the women all proudly wear vivid colours and are happy to expose the flesh they´ve got, even when it comes in generous quantities. I felt incredibly dull and dowdy in my shapeless T-shirt and sweat pants, but the rucksack failed to yield any vibrant, bosom-popping alternatives so I resigned myself to being a dusty moth amidst all the colourful butterflies.
Brazil´s modernity does come at a price though and it quickly became apparent that this was stretching the Inka´s budget. He also admitted over dinner on our first night in Corumba, just over the Brazilian border, that the real goal of his trip was Uruguay where he was hoping to see his 10-year-old son from a relationship dating back to his days as a travelling musician and purveyor of Peruvian tat. He has not seen him since he was one. I found this very hard to credit given that the Inka adores children and this feeling seems to be entirely mutual as he is always ready with a smile and a joke or a tune on his flute to keep children amused (I am sure in the UK he´d be on a paedophile register given his behaviour, but thankfully in Peru they can still distinguish between perverts and big kids who are reluctant to grow up). Anyway, how could I resist a mission like this?
With some reluctance, I must admit, I abandoned my dreams of Rio and we headed south towards the Uruguay border, stopping en route to see the Iguacu waterfalls - yes, not one waterfall but about 2 km of thundering natural power (and we were told that we were not seeing them in full spate). As you walk through the park up to the main cascade you feel yourself gradually getting soaked by the spray and the roar gets louder and louder then you get the chance to walk right out on a viewing platform and enjoy the view from below the falls. I´m afraid I could not resist a little "prow of the Titanic" moment, but believe me, I was not the only one.
Utterly elated by the Iguacu trip, we then headed south to Porto Alegre, the capital of Brazil´s gaucho-land. In what seems to be turning into a habit on this trip, we arrived on a public holiday so everything was shut. This rather stymied our plans to flog earrings so, a little disappointed, we decided to enjoy what Brazil is rightly famous for - some football. There were two key matches going on on the evening we were there - Boca Juniors of Argentina were playing a Colombian team to see who´d meet Porto Alegre´s team, Gremio, in the final of one championship then Independencia - Porto Alegre´s other team - were playing a Mexican team in the final of another championship. No chance of a ticket to that match I´m afraid, but we spent a great evening in a little bar opposite the bus station, enjoying the atmosphere and being deafened by car horns every time Independencia scored (they won 4-0 so it was pretty loud).
With a slight beer buzz, we got on our bus at midnight and headed for the Uruguay border, or so we thought. We arrived at 5.30 am and after a quick spruce-up in the bus station, we asked the morning paper seller which way to the border. He gave us directions, warning us that it was a long way and off we trudged. After walking for 20 minutes, we reached the edge of the town and still no sign of the border so we decided to double check at a nearby petrol station. There we discovered that in Porto Alegre, the ticket seller had misheard the Inka and sold us tickets to Ijui not Chuy (they sound pretty similar in Portuguese and we thought Ijui was a bizarre Brazilian spelling). We had, in fact, actually spent the night heading away from the frontier - in fact, 350km away from the frontier.
A kind insomniac at the garage, who overheard our sorry tale, kindly gave us a lift back to the bus station and, after taking advice, we bought tickets and spent the rest of the day doubling back on ourselves then heading for the border... Well, I suppose I did say that I wanted to see more of Brazil and that is exactly what I got to do, although what I saw were immaculate little villages with picture-postcard central squares, complete with white churches and a colourful assortment of locals standing around watching the world go by rather than the frenetic excitement of Rio... Still, I keep telling myself that it is all part of the adventure.
