Poo tickets

No poo paper in the pooper please, we're Peruvian.

One thing that struck us as particularly odd about Peru is the issuance of the poo ticket. We know this is not a savoury topic, but if ever you travel to Peru, you deserve to be prepared.

Apparently the sewers aren't particularly robust, and cannot reliably dispose of non-organic waste - ie. toilet paper. Instead, one must dispose of the stuff in a bin in the bathroom. An open bin. That was not necessarily lined.

Kara's Mother has, on occasion, made reference to the Australian slang 'not worth a pack of poo tickets' (at least, we think that's how it goes). And now we know why.

It's not that we're squeamish, but in this instance - ugghh. You're travelling, you may have picked up a spot of giardia along the way, mix that with a few unusual foods, and a couple of belts of ye olde pisco sour. The result is not pretty.

You have been warned... check out other funny signs we've seen on our trip.

Cusco meets Pisco

Cusco represents the historical heart of the ancient Incan civilisation, and as the starting point for the Inca Trail (the challenging hike to Machu Picchu), it was groaning under the weight of travellers during peak tourist season.

Even catering for the large numbers of gringos, the odd thing about Peru is that it looks so - well - Peruvian. We're not just talking about Cusco itself, which is a city straight out of National Geographic, with cobbled streets and tremendous stone walls, graceful cathedrals, and plazas and fountains, all girdled within the protective embrace of an encircling mountain range.

It's also the people, many of whom are in some form of local dress. Women with braids and brimmed hats carrying children on their backs in colourful woven blankets. Or the furniture, the most basic of which is often beautifully worked and intricately carved.

We checked into our hotel which had been built on Incan ruins, and featured stone walls, lofty ceilings, and peaceful courtyards. Complemented with helpful but hopeless staff, inadequate heating, and a generous single jetstream of what we came to call 'lukecold' water in the shower. Ah well. I'm sure the staff thought lesser of us too when Kara protested at check-in that she wasn't a fella, mistaking "nombre" (name) for "hombre" (man).

Offsetting the cultural serenity of the place, though, are the local touts, who are perversely persistent in the face of a polite rejection. "No, gracias" was frequently met with swift rebuttal "why no?", and would eventually devolve into a lengthy discussion the local boys were prepared to endlessly pursue. Walking away only encouraged them to follow, and if you were very unlucky your hanger-on would attract others, until you had a small crowd flogging religious artefacts, paintings, or a shoe shine for your Nikes.

It was Matt who first happened upon a happy solution to this problem. Rather than declining the offer of a good or service, he'd return a nonsensical answer. The pesterer would pause, considering the gibberish for just long enough for the pesteree to beat a hasty retreat. Kara's favourite response to "you want painting, madam? Madam, painting, painting, Madam" was a fond smile and an indulgent,"ask your Father". Matt often plumped for "Robert is my brother's Father". We were soon on the lookout for touts to try out a new phrase, competing with each other for the silliest, the funniest, the most obscure. Of course, all the while soberly absorbing the magnificent architecture and blood soaked history of this important historical city.

Unfortunately not all our cultural confrontations were so easy to solve. We'd originally flown into Cuzco from Lima, withdrawing a reasonable sum of Peruvian currency from the ATM on the busy airport concourse. On arrival at Cusco we attempted to pay the balance of our guiding fees for the Inca Trail using our Visa card and discovered there were insufficient funds in the account. Further checks revealed that somewhere between Lima and Cusco, Matt's Visa card had disappeared, as had $2,500 from the travel account.

And so, to the local constabulary. It was dinner time, we were tired and hungry and thirsty, and just wanted to file the police report, get fed, pack for the Amazon, and hit the sack in preparation for the long trip to Bolivia the following morning. If only it were that simple. The 'tourist police' insisted their job wasn't to file police reports for tourists (despite the mission statement on the wall attesting to the contrary) spoke in Spanish at length in front of us, and gestured and pointed to make it perfectly clear who the delinquent subjects of their conversation were. They were reluctant to file the loss as a theft, since that would mean investigating the case. Too damn hard. Maybe we gave the card to relatives in Lima who withdrew the funds on our behalf? Eventually Kara left at 10pm to start packing, but Matt didn't make it out of there for at least another hour. They concluded Matt's card had been phished and then the 'real' card used for over the counter Visa transactions. Nonetheless, the 21 year old constable delivered a stern lecture to Matt about being more careful with his property, just to cap the proceedings off nicely. We finally hit the sack at around 1am (after finally getting dinner at midnight), for a 5am start the next day.

Unhappily, this proved not to be the end of the saga, with additional payments to be made for photocopying and faxing, more documents to be filed - and on and on. Visa weren't helpful either. Matt spent half an hour providing the information over the phone to the USA, but the promised pre-filled form never arrived. Two more emails, another two phone calls, and finally a blank form arrived via email. We wonder if God was delivering a gentle jab to Mr Online Banking (Matt) and Ms Online Insurance (Kara) about the perils of internet enabled customer service?

Great news, though - six weeks after the incident the money was refunded to our account. Phew.

Fortunately Cuzco held many engrossing pursuits to divert our attention from such matters. We visited the Sacred Valley for a day, and also spent a day on a tour around ruins near the city. Add in a few days of rambling around on our own, and we were experts (we thought) on all things Incan.

The fabled 10 faceted stone drew barely a second glance when we'd seen the 12, the 14, even the 17 faceted stone. 10 was for beginners, we agreed. The massive ramparts of an ancient defense system were trifling compared with the fort we saw yesterday, we sagely observed. By the time we completed the Inca trail, we had been there, done that. Such an insufferable pair we were. Fortunately we've matured a great deal since then, and won't inflict the endless details of the Incan empire on you. Just the pictures.

To really round out the cultural experience, we sampled the local delicacies - alpaca and guinea pig. Alpaca tastes a lot like lamb, and the guinea pig was much like a small, very finely boned fowl. Kara had a little trouble starting the dish, since the guinea pig is delivered whole, complete with tiny little teeth exposed in a mouth drawn in a rictus of terror. Hombre! Pisco sour, por favor!

Check out the photo library of our time in Cusco. There are also photos of the countryside and the Peruvian people.

Bolivian Oblivion

From Santiago in Chile, we flew to Cuzco in Peru for a single night, with a flight to the Amazon (Puerto Maldonado) scheduled for the following morning.

One thing you immediately notice about Peru is that distinctive whiff of disorganisation that often pervades developing nations. It's as though the act of rushing around with serious intent is sufficient in itself to produce a predictable outcome (anyone who's ever been to India will know exactly what we're talking about).

Passengers are required to check in for domestic flights two and a half hours prior to departure. So we found ourselves at the airport at the ghastly hour of 6am. On arrival at the destination airport of Puerto Maldonado an hour later, we discovered the remainder of the party were on a later flight than our own, and we were to await their arrival before being transported to the lodge by boat - how we bemoaned the loss of those additional hours of sleep.

And it was hot. Damn hot. 39 degrees, with the sweat sliding down our backs and pooling in our boots. Three long, agonising hours before the rest of the group arrived. Galvanised by enthusiasm for a remote location (easily acquired whilst happily ensconsed in home comforts months in advance of the trip) we'd opted to travel in a bus to the edge of town, and then three hours by canoe to the most remote jungle lodge we could find, crossing two rivers and one national border in the process.

Hoping to put a cheerful spin on the situation, we chirpily informed our guide, Oscar, that at least our 3 hour boat ride would be a cool one. 'Oh it's only 3 hours in the wet season' he breezily replied. 'Since it's now the dry season it will be 6 hours - and if we get stuck on a sandbar you'll have to get out and push'.

Sadly, he was not joking, and 6 hours, a Bolivian passport stamp, half a dozen crocodile sightings and a single bush toilet stop later, we arrived at the Heath River Wildlife Lodge. It was well after dark, and the trip we'd expected to take up to 5 hours had stretched to 13. When the welcoming party assured us of the lodge's remoteness, we were inclined to believe them.

Fortunately the lodge turned out to be comfortable. There is no electricity in our hut, but the mosquito netting over the beds, and the candle powered lighting lend a romantic feel. If you ignored the fact that we were dirty, sweaty, bitten, and sunburnt, and had been liberally basted in what could have been kerosene, but was supposed to be mosquito repellent (we could only hope it the insects found the vile stuff as repellent as we did).

The main lodge offers fresh water to replenish our water bottles, and electricity during the night time. Better still, we discover a stash of Concha Y Toro's Diablo red to accompany the delicious evening meal. These wilderness people really know how to tame the savage beast of hunger, with lovely light fresh treatments of South American cuisine. We were starting to hope that perhaps this place was not so uncivilised as we first thought.

Oscar eats with us, and as we stagger off to bed at what feels like the wee hours, he happily informs us that he'll see us at 5 for tomorrow morning's excursion. This would be our fourth 5am start in a row and we were beginning to wonder when the 'holiday' part of our sojourn would be comemncing (fortunately we didn't yet know that 5am would constitute a sleep-in during our stay here).

Still it proved to be worth getting up early for the morning's adventure at the avian 'clay lick'. Deep in the Amazon jungle wild macaws and parrots congregate at clay walls which rise up from the rivers. They eat the clay which is intended to neutralise the strong acids found in their fruit diets. Recent theories suggest that it also serves a second, more social purpose. Both parrots and macaws mate for life, and this theory suggests the clay walls also act as a meeting place for the young, with parents shepherding their teen progeny to meet other youngsters of the opposite gender. In short, it's a singles bar. Cool. Only Mum and Dad come along too. Can't be so cool if you're trying to score with a chick.

The birds have many natural predators - jaguars, ocelots, monkeys - and startle easily. Hence we were to view from a 'blind' - a floating hut anchored in the river opposite the walls, with a long horizontal viewing slit along one side from which to spy on and photograph the birds' mating rituals. Perverts.

After an hour long wait, our patience was slowly rewarded as first the parrots, then macaws flocked to the walls, chittering with each other, pecking at the clay, jostling for position, and generally creating a noisy, colourful hullabaloo. They'd posted sentries higher in the trees and a couple of times a squawk from the guards would shatter the scene - 'Monkey! Monkey!', they'd screech, and the morning light would be briefly filled with the brilliance of a mass exodus of macaws. Then the process would begin once more. Enchanting.

The following few days were filled with activities centering around the jungle. Boat rides past the jungle. Walks through the jungle. Night time walks through the jungle. Looking for animals in the jungle. Walking through the jungle to the pampas grass or savannah on the other side. Back through the jungle, checking out the plants.

Funny thing about the jungle, though. Perhaps it's the result of too many movies, but there was an expectation that the Amazon would be the deepest, darkest, most sinister jungle on earth. There'd be the hot, loamy smell of feverishly churned earth, with millions of tiny insects, grubs, and microlife rustling beneath the leaf litter. The massive boles of ancient ferns thrusting towering umbrellas of dripping greenery overhead. Sinuously twisting vines, thick as a man's arm, strangling vegetation in every direction. The eerie feeling of being watched, of an ecology gripped in a vicious competition for life. Then, in the distance, the drums would begin...

Perhaps overly romanticised, but the reality was the jungle itself was little different to the rainforests of far North Queensland. Or of Papua New Guinea, or Borneo, or other places we'd visited with similar ecosystems. It felt strangely familiar.

However, much of it was different too. The animals in particular. Anacondas and tapirs, and the world's largest rodent (about the size of a large dog) the capybara - which we were fortunate enough to see a couple of times, its flattened snout and large hairy slow moving rump lending it a slightly comical aspect.

Our guide had an amazing ability to ferret out any creature from the concealing jungle canopy, staring intently at nothing for several seconds then pouncing on something. Oscar is an acknowledged expert in - of all things - frogs. He knew every frog on sight, by genus and species. His year was made when we happened upon a frog he'd never seen before, and after consulting the reference books back at the lodge, he pronounced it was an undiscovered species. We had photos of the little creature, I hope one day we can claim to have been there when the 'Oscar' frog was first found.

We also visited a Bolivian village on the last day, travelling an hour downriver by boat to do so. Oscar mentioned there were several villages in the area, but these villagers had the proud claim of being the laziest. They didn't rear animals, they planted nothing, relying on a pure hunter gatherer existence. And occasionally flogging overpriced seed necklaces to tourists from the Heath River Lodge to trade for sugar and tobacco in the township. Oscar claimed they would hunt only occasionally, then smoke the meat. Most homes stored no fruit or vegetables to their families to serve with meals as the other villages did. Instead they'd hang a whole smoked monkey in the hut, and hack off off a hand or a few toes or another tasty morsel whenever hunger struck.

Eventually our stay at the jungle lodge drew to a close, and we awoke at 3am on the final morning for the 6 hour boat trip back to Puerto Maldonado and the last flight to Cuzco that day, at noon. Candelit inspection of the hut revealed a visitor in the night had littered the floor with droppings. We wondered if it was the same critter that had kept us awake on a previous evening with the persistent sound of crunching, right next to Matt's head as he slept on oblivious through most of the ruckus.

The return trip was quite an unpleasant one, with wind and driving rain lashing the open boat and its miserable passengers for most of the journey. No more did we laugh at the airport shed's proud sign, "Puerto Maldonado International Airport". In many ways, it was good to return to civilisation.

Check out the photo library from our time in the Amazon.

Swillin' and Chillin' in Chile

We'd been assured that a visit to the wineries during our stay in Chile was a must.

Unconvinced, we had visions of the Australian wine tour equivalent - unsuspecting tourists dumped by the coach load upon the 'tasting room', where unctuous staff drizzle miserly droplets into your thimble and solicitously enquire after the experience...'will that be one case or two? We do have a wine club.' No thank you.

Nonetheless, we hired a car to visit two of the best known and largest wineries, Concha Y Toro, and Cousino Macul.

We were advised Concha Y Toro was about 20 minutes south of Santiago and so we departed more than an hour ahead of time, planning to stop for lunch along the way. Which was fortunate, because we pulled into the vineyard exactly 1 hour and 20 lunchless minutes later, making a mad dash to join the small tour group before it departed.

Concha Y Toro is a substantially sized vineyard set on beautiful grounds. We strolled past the family mansion and chapel, both dating back to the early 1800s, and were shown how the wine was produced by hand in the early days of the vineyard. We surveyed the vines, the ducks, the horses, we ahhh'd and ooh'd over figures of grape production, and gathered together for the obligatory gulping of the red.

Mmm. Wine. A full glass too. Yummy. No lunch - woozy. Giddy.

And then, to the cellars. Or perhaps more accurately, what felt like a truly massive, ancient dungeon, redolent with the musty smell of ages and vintages past. Oh so carefully we swayed down a steep, long set of stairs deep underground, our way lit only by guttering candles set in old iron brackets down the stairwell.

Acres of oak barrels filled the cavernous depths, and we were treated to stories of the family's history. We were told the first winemaker had a secret cellar of his best wines, which he noticed was being steadily pilfered. As the rate of theft increased over a period of months, he put word out that his cellar was haunted by the devil, and frequently snuck down there to moan and howl and assist the circulation of the tale. The locals were a superstitious lot and in short order his bottled stash was secured for his own enjoyment once more. Hence the best known Concha Y Toro wine label, 'Diablo', or Devil.

A second tasting ensued, of their premium wine. Rich, syrupy, and dripping with booze, it was almost enough to send Kara to the land of nod on the spot. 'That'sh niiishhhee woooiiine', she told blearily confided to Matt.

Fortunately, the Filkins constitution and superior body weight was up to the task of transporting the slightly befuddled duo to Cousino Macul, which was located on an estate right in the heart of Santiago.

Another set of beautiful parklands, another tour, and another cellar - this one above ground with truly massive oak barrels at least a storey high. The lissome young guide assured of the wine's anti-ageing properties and revealed her true age to be 67. Pass the red.

More tasting, and Kara was swaying on her feet. 'Geeesh I really LOVE Shantiago', she shaid.

And so back to the hotel. After hours of driving, Matt finally felt truly confident behind the wheel on the 'other' side of the road. So it was, after casually hanging a right that we found ourselves ploughing headlong into oncoming traffic. A split second of indecision had Kara recalling that wise old adage that street pavements were created to provide launch pads for hire cars. 'Mount the kerb!' she yelled. And so we were saved by a sizeable speed hump, as our hired steed valiantly ploughed up onto the median strip and with a massive ker-THUNK crash-landed on the other side, suspension only slightly the worse for wear.

Can't say the same for the passengers, however, who felt they'd aged a decade in the process.

More wine please!

Check out the photo library from our time in Chile.

Powder Play

From sun sea and surf in Rio, to the even colder snow of the Andes (passing through chilly Santiago en route) - achieving maximum climate change in minimal time!

Hotel Hell in Santiago
Sadly, Santiago (capital of Chile) has become synonymous for us with the worst flea pit of a hotel known to human kind. Kara´s track record at booking quality travel was rapidly declining.

Ironically named the Hotel Majestic, it was anything but. To be fair, it was advertised as being located in the ¨centre of town¨ (we think the equivalent of a back lane near Central would be about right) and it was part of the Best Western chain. Couldn´t be too bad, right?

Oh so sadly wrong were we. The room was so old we suspect it was ten years past´clean´. It was dusty and dinghy and decorated in lemon and a particularly violent puce green - bedspreads, curtains, walls, not even the heater was safe from the dizzying colour scheme. The water was cold, the bed colder - it was located immediately under the single draughty window, and the room was so small the bed couldn´t be relocated.

Our favourite feature would have to be the heater, which gurgled all night like a waterfall (producing urgent visits to the bathroom throughout the ¨wee hours¨).

After suffering two nights in this hell hole, Matt´s chest infection graduated from a dry cough to a richly bubbling phleghmatic production. We could finally stand it no more when the staff rapped smartly on our door one morning, dressed in overalls and gas masks. They were fumigating the hotel, could we please move aside while they sprayed our room and personal belongings with toxic pesticides?

You couldn´t see our dust (for theirs) as we high-tailed it out of there to the suburb of Providencia, and the lovely Hotel Orly.

Adventures in the Andes
And so, onward and upward. To the towering majesty of the snowy Andes, where an 80 inch base of freshly poured powder beckoned at Valle Nevado.

You might say that Matt and Kara are seasoned skiers. Between us we´ve skied Australia (of course), New Zealand, Vail, Aspen, Washington, Whistler, and even Japan. Still, we´re glad there was nobody around to see our initial hesitant venture onto the slopes that first day. Or possibly any day after.

If you ask us when we return, of course we´ll tell you of thrills and spills down massive hills of which you´ve never seen the like. Pshaw. Fabulous, brilliant. Awesome, even.

Truthfully, with Matt´s right knee fresh from surgery a mere 5 months ago, and Kara´s dicky ticker, our downward descents were perhaps a little less than graceful. Less of a swoooosh, more of an ¨aaarggh shhhhh********tttttt.....!!¨ as we dodged obstacles (including other hapless skiers) on our way down.

Puzzingly, our stamina seemed also lacking. A quick flounder in the snow and a flop onto the ski lift produced racing heartbeats and gasps for air. We later discovered that at 10,000 feet above sea level, Valle Nevado is at the same elevation as Cuzco in Peru, where travellers are urged to take it easy for the first few days. Lie down. Drink cocoa tea. Take Diamox. Be careful of the altitude, you don´t know how it will affect you. Turns out that ticker wasn´t playing up after all.

Fortunately, blissful ignorance produced greater efforts at negotiating the mountains, and slowly, slooooowly, some measure of confidence was regained. (Although you´ll notice a distinct paucity of action shots in the ski photo collection).

No Speaka Da Espanol, Amigo
Valle Nevado is the largest ski area in South America, built by a French company to mimic the European style of ski resort just eight years ago. It's set in a breathtaking landscape, just 37 miles from Santiago (although that translates to a 2.5 hour journey along gut wretching twisty roads) and the snow was just fantastic. Light, dry powder on a 3 metre base, with a light dusting of the fresh stuff each evening. Yummy!

It's heavily frequented by the Spanish speaking set, from both North and South America. It's at Valle Nevado that the sad truth - we really should have worked harder on the Spanish before we left. Asking for the time, yet another pisco sour, or calling your husband a loser in another language...they're really not enough to get by with. Fortunately the North Americans universally had some understanding of the language and we were able to rely on their assistance to get through some quite tricky interactions with the hotel staff. The flip side of this is that you're regarded as something of a moron if you don't speak Spanish, since surely everybody in the whole wide world studies it in school as the Americans do...

We bumped into a couple from Bondi, who are in Valle Nevado for two weeks, with another week at another ski resort in the area, Portillo. We think Bondi must be similar to Samoa, where the resident population is more numerous overseas than on home turf. Everywhere we go, when we bump into Aussies they're either from Perth or Bondi. Is Bondi so unbearable that people can't wait to leave?

Shtrong Pishco Shoursh
It was in Valle Nevado that we discovered the power of the Pisco Sour, with many a night spent in front of the fire getting slowly ¨pisced¨ on the delicious combination of egg white, pisco, and sugar. Sounds less than appealing, but tastes fab. Smoooooth!

Oscar Makes An Entrance
It was also in Valle Nevado that our golden friend, Oscar, first made his appearance. Oscar was abducted from Kara's work just prior to the trip, and although we endeavour to keep him safely tucked away, he does love the camera. As you may well expect, really. Oscar was awarded to Kara's digital marketing team at work for a film performance at a conference last year. Really, it's a long story, but it's best to think of him as the equivalent of the infamous travelling garden gnome who sends postcards home.

Oscar hogs the limelight, and we have reason to believe he may also have a drinking problem. You'll no doubt see more of him as we continue through South America and into Europe.

Check out the photo library from our time in the Andies.

Also, check out the photos of Oscar on Tour!

Girls from Ipanema

Brazilian Babes

We all know the "Girl from Ipanema" song. What you may not know is that statistically for every ten girls in Ipanema, there's just one guy. And judging from the rainbow coloured flags on the beach, we´re guessing a fair number of them are more interested in each other than in the hordes of single women who surround them.

These Brazilian babes aren't your average women either. Oh no, we´re talking dark tressed, sloe-eyed, itty bitty teeny weeny string bikini senoritas here. Which makes Rio a great place to take your husband when you´re a pale faced pink bodied red-eyed jet-lagged wife...who's just stuffed up the hotel booking by a month, leaving hubby to drag the lion's share of ten weeks' worth of luggage across town in the blistering afternoon heat. Not an ideal start.

Cultural Oddities
Nonetheless we got the accommodation sorted out to the satisfaction of Senor Matt. Or should we call him Matt-ez. If you don´t speak Spanish or Portguese (we don´t) we figure you get away with a lot by supplying the appropriate local ending for an English word. `Ez´ we thought might fit the bill. `Dad´ (pronounced da) was another settled on early in the trip. And so we`ve assumed South American names, Mattez and Karadad to suit. The locals don´t seem to understand Matthew (let's be blunt, both the name and the man) and they insist that Kara must be an abbreviation. Matt was particularly keen to change his wife´s name when he learned it was synonymous with `expensive´ in Spanish. A hasty escape to Portugese speaking Rio de Janeiro seemed just the ticket.

The trip seems already destined to be strewn with cultural stereotypes, from the sexy sand sculptures to the fluffy pooches toted in handbags by the their equally fluffy owners. To add to it, the new hotel, smack bang on Copacabana Beach, featured a concierge straight from 'Allo 'Allo. Franz Wolfgang - spitting image of the kinky Gestapo guy, Herr Flick. During check-in, we requested a map of the area, and he bent down to a teeny little cupboard under the counter, which he unlocked, and then withdrew the requested article. But not before Kara had snuck a glance at the contents of the cubby hole. A stack of girly mags. Possibly featuring centrefolds accessorised in leather and leiderhosen. From then on Kara found it very difficult to keep a straight face when Herr Flick enquired after our evenings on the town. ¨Did you haf a guht efenink, madam?¨ Ve vondered if he may haf vays orf making us talk...

Beautiful Rio
On possibly the sweatiest day of the trip (we hope) with the mercury reaching 38 degrees, we made the trip to Sugar Loaf mountain to take in views of Rio de Janeiro Rio possesses stunning natural beauty, with soaring mountains swooping down to golden stretches of sun-kissed sandy beaches.

We visited other tourist spots including, of course, the famous Christ the Redeemer statue. The guide became Kara´s long lost best friend when she mistook her for a Brazilian, exclaiming how like her sister she was.

Our hotel was located on the cusp of Ipanema and Copacabana beaches, and we took the opportunity to sit and sip capirinhas out of plastic cups ($3 a throw makes this place alcoholic heaven), or to drink their super duper strong coffee - the Brazilians LOVE the stuff - or simply stroll the promenade of each of the beaches.

Redemption Is Nigh
On the last day in Rio, we woke early to power walk down Ipanema Beach to the end of the adjacent beach, Leblon, and back. Round trip was close to 2 hours. We were hot on the return trail to the hotel at about 9am, when two guys jumped up to walk next to Matt, who lagging a little behind his fleet footed wife (if you believe that...) Kara initially ignored the interaction, being used to the local touts, but on turning back a moment later, she found Matt being jostled between the two men, one with a hand rifling through the closest pocket, the other arm wrestling him for the small hand held camera he carried. By this hour there were hundreds of people around, all of whom were blithely ignoring the interaction.

Kara doesn´t like waking up early. She hadn´t eaten breakfast. Nor had she had the morning burst of super strong Brazilian caffeine. In short, she may have been feeling just a little cranky.

So she stomped up to the camera guy, yelling 'Oi, what the hell do you think you´re doing?', grabbed his arm, and executed the only move she remembered from women´s self defence classes, yanking his elbow and twisting the wrist around (trust me it´s excruciating). The guy jumped back in surprise, and Kara stomped towards him again, glaring and yelling, ´Get the hell out of here. Now. Scram. Beat it´. And they did. I wonder if it was the cool elbow thingy that did the trick, or sheer surprise at being accosted by a sweaty blonde midget with caffeine withdrawal.

Either way, I figure that more than made up for stuffing up the hotel booking. But it does make you wonder about visiting Christ the Redeemer the day before...could there have been a connection?

Check out the photo library from our time in Rio.