Viña Del Mar

The next morning arrives a little too early for me, the night being full of the drunken hippies making ridiculous amounts of noise and mess. But with my bus going back to Sanitago later in the afternoon, I force myself to take one last trip up the lifts to see the ‘Gallery in the Sky’ – an open-air display of art. But call me stupid, or call me blind, because I once again find myself stumbling around, finding nothing.

The streets in town still aren’t really busy, despite being a Monday, but lots of students are moving around, hopefully doing something. Wanting to make the most of the coastline, I decided to take the train to Viña Del Mar, but it seems you need a card to travel, and they are a little too expensive for just one trip. So I jump on a minibus and let the warm sun melt the chill in the air as I make my way there.

I watch as a young boy hangs from the front door of our ride, shouting out our destination and trying to get more passengers for his driver. He can’t be more than 15 years old, and I wonder if this will be the start of a career, or just a way of avoiding school. We zoom along at break-neck pace and in no time at all, I am thrown me out at the main square where I walk up to the Palacio Vergara.

I think that it must be seniors’ day though, because the grounds have been filled with bus-loads of them who are moving about slowly. The main building is of course closed, being the first day of the week, but there is a strangely modern amphitheatre behind, that fills in some more time.

Known for its plants and greenery, Viña is dotted with plant pots and trees, but it is also home to a fair share of tin-shaking beggars who line the river crossing (well, that’s what it looks like on the map, but actually there is no water below, just a crude dusty carpark). Horse and carts follow me up the 12 blocks to the main stretch of beach and as I turn onto the waterfront, I instantly think of Port Melbourne and St Kilda.

High-rise apartment blocks wait silently for the summer again, with a handful of markets stalls and a wooden boardwalk winding a path along the back of the sand. I soon stop to grab some lunch, realising that there is not much else to see here, and think that a nice salad and some reading might calm my tired nerves. But the first place I visit, despite its extensive menu, only has ham and cheese toasties, cakes, and ice cream on offer, so I am forced to move further up after only one drink.

Aptly named “Enjoy Viña Del Mar”, the next restaurant is probably the only place that you will do such, this time of the year. Its slick stainless steel and white décor makes it stand out from its position on a tiny inlet, and I order what turns out to be the biggest latte I have ever had. I gladly let it run down my throat as I read my book in the sun and consider that some places are probably only best when enjoyed in warmth.

Sleepy Sunday

Setting off on one of the city’s brightly coloured buses, I soon realise that BA breeds a different kind of bus driver from Rio. More concerned with an ongoing conversation with a passenger standing right beside him than concentrating on the road ahead, he is all wild arms and gestures. Perhaps that is why he has six rear vision mirrors, covering every angle or maybe every lane.

So it seems that Perth and BA at least have one thing in common - almost everything is shut today because it is Sunday – all except the markets. Heading towards the old end of town, San Telmo, I intend to check out the famed antique and collectors one, and although it feels a little seedy as I venture off the bus, I persevere down to the main square.

Closed to cars for pedestrian trade, the cobbled street Defensa is full of over-priced but gorgeous armchairs, chandeliers and designer furniture. But the main activity is happening at the end – where stalls have been set up to sell all sorts of vintage trinkets, phones, jewellery, newspapers, even soft drink bottles. It is by far the best antique pick-up place I have been to.

I stroll down towards it, but can’t help pausing to listen to the animated sounds of eight-piece group “Hormigas Negras”, whose cds I buy a little too easily. A little overwhelmed by all the goods on sale, and all too aware that my bag is much more than its 16kg humble beginnings, I sit down to watch people and an impending tango show. People begin to gather around in anticipation, watching on as a suitably angst-ridden girl sullenly stares back in her scarlet skirt and bustier.

Her partner calmly tries to make technology a part of their routine, but it takes a long time to settle his ipod into song. The music cuts in and out, and when it stops completely, a homeless guy takes over singing and launching into a solo dance. Thankfully the situation is quickly recovered by an older couple keen to show they still have the moves. Sadly their moves last a little too long, and I leave before the lady in red makes her debut.

I walk back to the bus via the Historical Museum, which is being renovated for century celebrations of Argentinean independence, and witness a little of the internal struggle that has shaped its more recent past. But it is all a little heavy and has too many holes to make sense on this sleepy Sunday.

Wonderful, Water-full, Waterfalls...

(I think this deserves a two-photo comparison)

I decide it best to leave Curitiba on the overnight bus, and so spent some of the following day at the Rodoferroviária across the road – which houses both a big shopping centre, and a unique train museum – and the rest trying not to annoy the hostel receptionist who repeatedly frowned on my semi-reclined position on the only couch available.

In keeping with the previous trend of taxi drivers, I of course get another dodgy one to the bus port, and as I sit in my seat, he instantly enquires if I am married, like he has even half a chance. To this I of course answer “yes”, to which he further questions why my husband has left me to travel alone. And it’s times like this that being a writer comes in handy, and you can just smile and say that you are away for work.

The bus ride is ok, although I am a little miffed about not getting a snack-pack this time, and also by the rocks that smash a window at around 3am. Apparently they are just bored kids, in the middle of nowhere, but I am not completely convinced that it is as insignificant as our driver makes out, when the guy sitting next to me reappears from a toilet break with a bullet-proof vest on, and a visible revolver.

Thankfully I arrive in one piece early the next day at my new home and decide to spend it beside the pool, catching up on some more reading and writing. It is a welcomed break, after many days of continual movement, and I figure the beauty of the Falls can wait 24 more hours. The next day I awake to find the familiar face of a friend from Ilha Grande arriving. Swedish Martin has spent the last day and a half en route from Florianpolis, and is quickly swept along with my plans.

We set off after a piece of cake (yes, it is served everywhere here for breakfast) and a strong coffee to conquer the Brazilian side of the Iguaçu Falls. Famed for its amazing number (275) of waterfalls that make their way 80m down to the Rio Iguaçu, they are nestled between Brazil and Argentina, and have been filmed on many well-known movies, including the latest Indiana Jones adventure. Unfortunately though, our quick passage is foiled at the bus stop when we make an error in trusting an American, and end up at the border of Argentina.

Without our passports in hand, we turn back and make it to the Brazilian side of the Falls just before lunch. It is busy with tourists of all ages, but foreigners are definitely outnumbered by Latin Americans. A double-decker bus shuttles us along to the main part of the action, where we take in the spray and the view. I can’t help but be jealous though, when I see a collection of historical photos at the end, and see how visitors were able to climb out onto precarious edges, and swim in the water, before large-scale tourism took over, and introduced safe paths, bridges and even an elevator.

Heading back into town, and stopping for my hundredth chicken burger, we take another bus out to the biggest dam (well, that’s what they told us, and Wikipedia is still not sure if it is this one, or the Three Gorges in China) producing hydro-electric power in the world – Itaipu. Named after the “Singing Rock” that sat in the river between Brazil and Uruguay, which was sadly one of the first things to disappear in the excavation process, the dam was begun in 1971, but only became fully-operational in 2007. It now produces about 20% of the power needs of Brazil, the only limit being the plant’s inability to store excess energy it produces.

Putting on our bright orange hard-hats, and our nasty black school shoes (flip-flops just won’t do), we get onto the bus, and are taken across the 196m height of the dam, and into the control centre below. It is here that we can firmly place one foot in each country – my third country for the day – and watch as a completely 50/50 team from each side keeps the operation on track. It is a bit of a Simpsons’ moment: think Homer at his desk in the power plant – but just replace the coffee doughnuts with some alfajores (sweet Argentinian biscuits) and mate (herb tea).

Carnaval Has Been...and Nearly Gone

(Hence why I have not posted for a few days)

But finally on the fourth day of public holidays, and what I thought was the last of Carnaval, I decided that it might be best to avoid the 250,000-person-plus crush of the beaches and head to cleaner pastures.

Dragging along my newfound friend from Sydney – yes, you have to travel halfway across the world to meet your neighbours – I set off to find Niteroi’s famed Museum of Contemporary Art. Trying to avoid the deep end, I had already contrived a bus and ferry route to follow that would land us there in enough time to have lunch and move further north to the more localised, less crowded, beaches.

However it soon became clear that finding the actual stop for said bus was going to the first of our many challenges. I quickly remembered something I had read about the kindness of Brazilians in always providing answers or directions for tourists. The only problem was that this information rarely correlated to reality, despite all their good intentions. Three ‘advices’ later, and a trip around the block back past the hostel confirmed that it was on the next street. Easy. Well, until you have to make the bus stop. Hurtling along Rua Barata Ribeiro at about 100km/hr, the 415 to Placa XV was certainly not accepting passengers who didn’t put up a good fight. So putting myself clearly in its path, and halfway across the main road, I took it on, and thankfully won.

Finally inside and we were instantly ushered through a turnstyle (don’t ask me how they got that inside the bus) and thrown into our seats as we climbed once again to a bullet-like pace. It was like a scene from the movie “Speed” as we were slammed forward into unrelenting bars, slid into each others hips, and jolted suddenly back up again. God only knows how we managed to meet the ferry in one piece, but we did, and had the calmest cruise across the harbour to Niteroi. We sat peacefully snapping away at the impressive 15.5km bridge and arrived only minutes later to face another bus to the museum.

Unfortunately though, it seems Rio is perennially geared to force you to go to the beach, and being a public holiday, Oscar Niemeyer’s ‘spaceship’ was closed. We were still lucky enough to gaze at its strange exterior (and I can quote Lonely Planet and say that the exhibitions “aren’t always notable”) and sneak a look downstairs at the rather pricey restaurant, making good use of their toilets, and their unique dental floss and mouthwash service.

Finally it was off to the beach at Itaipu where we finally got to snack on some fried bacalao (salted cod) and chips and watch the locals watch us. Yes, about an hour away from Copacabana, we were definitely off the tourist trail.