Wine Ice-cream and the eventful drive

On our way to Cafayate from Salta we travelled through the Quebrada de Cafayate, another valley with spectacular rock formations. The landscape is reminiscent of the Western USA, the colours not as diverse as in the Quebrada de Humahuaca. Here the rock formations are the star of the show. We climbed a formation called Garganta del Diablo (they seem to like this name in Argentina!) essentially a narrow rock-amphitheatre enclosed in a cave. Then we saw that Toad, the Castle and many others. Once again the scenery was spectacular, especially at sunset. The drive took us to Cafayate, a small town famous for its wineries. I will not talk about the wine-tasting we did at Cafayate, as I intend to dedicate a whole blogpost to it.

Cafayate is a small and peaceful town , blessed with a great climate year-round. For this reason, it is rather popular with expatriates and has a fairly interesting foodie scene. Obviously, the wine is the focus of most menus, which pair local producers with interesting dishes such as lama confit and roasted vegetables and quinoa soup. Also, Cafayate must be the only place where one can have wine in ice-cream form! Wine ice-cream was invented by Heladeria Miranda, although every other ice-cream parlour offers it these days. There are two flavours of wine ice-cream to choose from: white Torrontes, Cafayate's most famous grape, and red Cabernet Sauvignon. I asked Mr Miranda why he didn't make ice cream with Malbec, Argentina's most famous wine. He just said he thought Cab Sauv was better. We spent a couple of days tasting wine and cheese in Cafayate, before planning to head south to visit Talampaya National Park.

The drive to Talampaya was over 600 km, about half of which were unpaved. It was supposed to be our adventure stretch on the Ruta 40, which runs alongside the Andes from the Bolivian border to the far south of the country. Unfortunately our car was not designed to withstand these conditions. It coughed and spluttered uphill, whilst we, squashed by luggage inside, prayed it was going to end soon. And it did. My father hit a speed-dip at 80km an hour and the luggage collapsed on mine and Nick's head. We weren't hurt, so we quickly rearranged our load and took off again. After 10 minutes or so we had a very bad surprise. The oil warning light illuminated. We were petrified, after a mixtures of curses and prayers we dismounted the car to find out what we already knew; the oil tank was ruptured, oil was leaking rapidly. In a fit of fury mixed with panic my father took off again, wishing to get as close as to the nearest service station as possible. We quickly checked the map; Belen, 50km away. Would we made it? We were going to try.

We decided to keep going until the engine would seize. Nick and I would either walk or hitchhike the rest and come back with help. Phone reception? Not at all. We were honestly contemplationg the idea of being stranded on the Andes for hours, considering that it was Sunday and the traffic was almost non existent. Luckily, I don't know how but we made it. We reached Belen's service station, when the serviceman extracted the dipstick from the oil it was dry as a bone. He pointed to the Virgin Mary's statue overlooking Belen as to say that she helped us. once at Belen we had to find a mechanic to repair the car. A rather difficult task at lunchtime on a Sunday. Argentina have an abundance of tyre-repair shops, but mechanic workshops are a rarity. Once again our lucky star shone on us, and we knocked the door of the mechanic's house as he was about to walk out to go hunting. He agreed to weld the tank back together for us, and in less than an hour our car was as good as new.

So we kept going towards Talampaya. After a couple of hours we stopped for a drink and we noticed the car was leeking oil again, much slower than before though. Not willing to take any chances, we abandoned the route for Talampaya and headed towards the closest airport at La Rioja. We were able to arrange a flight to Buenos Aires for the following day at 5pm, which left us with a night and a day to spare in La Rioja. What a dreary place! We found a hotel that looked straight out of The Shining and ate gummy ravioli for dinner. The following day was Monday, closing days for museums, hence there was absolutely nothing to do. We sat in a public garden chatting, waiting for the time to pass. We eventually flew out. And we had never been so happy to be back in the city... with his thought, I fell asleep amongst the crisp sheets of our luxury hotel.

Empanadas

From Estancia San Lorenzo, a little more than a day's drive took us to Salta, the main centre in the Argentinean andes. What a change of scenery! From the green, lush landscapes of the Northeast to a rocky mountainous desert. We were going to be based in Salta for a few days to have the opportunity to explore the surrounding area as well as the town. Unfortunately, we made a few mistakes in the organisation of this trip; mistakes that we were going to pay for in the not too distant future. But that's a different story.

We hired an Astra sedan for travelling around Argentina; when we collected the car in Iguazu we found out it was much too small for 4 people plus luggage. A lesson to learn for the next trip. Moreover, roads in the Argentinean andes are mainly unsealed; a 4x4 would've been a better choice of vehicle. But once the deal is done, what can one do but forget the discomfort and enjoy the scenery. And what a scenery! Our first day of driving took us north of Salta, past Jujuy and through the Quebrada de Humahuaca towards the border with Bolivia. Other than the landscape, the culture was dramatically different compared to the rest of Argentina. The Andean influence was palpable, tapestries were on sale everywhere and more than one stereo blasted El condor pasa. I am sorry to say, but I did not feel as welcome as I did elsewhere in Argentina; in certain places I felt as I was a 'walking bank', locals seemed to be interested in tourists only in terms of how much money they could make from us. And no, it is not the same everywhere. I have travelled enough to experience the joys of commerce in different cultures. Nowhere have I been insulted or attacked for refusing to buy souvenirs.

However, the landscape was fantastic. The Quebrada de Humahuaca is a narrow valley created by a river, which was dry when we visited. The erosion of the stone by the elements has created a combination of colours seen nowhere else on earth. Throughout the valley, small adobe-built villages uphold the Andean traditional way of life. We visited Purmamarca, home to the Cerro de Siete Colores (Seven colours mountain). But the colours were everywhere, yellows melting into reds, purples and blues, which light up with a red haze at sunset. We drove for hours marvelling at the rocks' hues, then went over a high pass to the Salinas Grandes, salt flats reminiscent of the ones in South-West Bolivia. From a rainbow of colours to total whiteness, the contrast was spellbinding. Had we had a 4X4, we could have continued to Salta via San Antonio de los Cobres, a tiny settlement at 4200 m of altitude. Instead we visited some traditional villages on the way back to Salta, including one where we were invited to see the house of a local artisan who made handicrafts with cactus.

Salta is a very interesting city. Small and compact enough to visit in a couple of days, it offers nice plazas, churches and museum. My personal favourite was the Museo De Alta Montana, which hosts the mummy of an Inca girl who was sacrificed to the gods. It was my first brush with Inca culture, of which I was to get a generous dose in Peru. Child sacrifices were common in Inca times. The ritual was called capacocha and involved children between the ages of 5 and 15 who were chosen for their beauty. They were led from their hometown to Cuzco, capital of the Inca empire. Given the extension of the empire at the time, the trip could be thousands of kilometres. After being blessed by the Inca emperor the children were taken to high mountains, believed to be sacred places in Inca times. There the children were drugged and killed, or they were buried in caves and left to die exposed to the elements. The excellent degree of conservation of these mummies is due to the cold temperature at the burial sites, which could be at over 6000 m of altitude. The museum offers a good insight into the culture of the Inca and the practice of capacocha, reminding the visitor of how something that was common practice could be seen as inhuman after only a few centuries.

My favourite place in Salta has to be Patio de las Empanadas. As the name suggests, it is a courtyard were different stalls sell freshly made empanadas. Empanadas are small deep-fried or baked pasties with a variety of fillings, the most popular are beef and cheese. As one enters, hawkers fight for custom; we tried empanadas from different stalls and they were all good. Served with tomato concasse and an icy-cold Quilmes, they are the perfect street food for me. I tried several empanadas in Argentina, from service stations on the Ruta 40 to fancy cafes in Buenos Aires and Mendoza. I have to say, Patio de las Empanadas wins hands down.

Pasta Criolla

The second destination in Argentina was Estancia San Lorenzo, a working farm in the Esteros del Ibera Provincial Reserve. Esteros del Ibera are wetlands, the second biggest in the world after the Pantanal in Brazil; however tourism is not as heavy as in the Pantanal and the environment is much more unspoilt. The Pantanal's wetlands are due to the torrential rains in the area during the rainy season; Esteros del Ibera have wetlands because of the intricate system of creeks and lagoons crisscrossing the area, it is less dependent on rain compared to the Pantanal. The name 'Ibera' is composed by th Guarani words 'Y', water, and 'bera', shining. It can roughly be translated as 'shining water'. The heritage of Guarani culture is very strong in the area, reflected not only in the names of places but also in the traditional music, chamame.

Estancia San Lorenzo is set in the middle of the reserve, 80 km from the closest town. The estancia is run by Jose and Marta, a married couple. Marta prepares meals and looks after the guests whilst Jose works with animals and organises excursions for the guests. Estancia San Lorenzo was one of the most unforgettable places I have ever visited. It is different from the 'big ones', such as Rio or Iguazu. The beauty of the place lies in its tranquillity, in the silence, in the awareness of being immersed in nature. There are no busloads of tourists, there was only us. The silence at night and during the hottest part of the day was inviting one to slow down. Unlike the Northeast of Brazil, where the 'slow life' seems to be dictated by men, here the rhythm is dictated by nature.

I have found myself comfortable in Argentina; perhaps because the place is European enough without being Europe. In retrospect, it is a place I would like to call home. it may be the good food, the good wine, the magnificent scenery and glorious weather; or the musical accent that I found myself trying to imitate from the first day. Maybe what I like of Argentina is the fact that it reminds me of what Italy must have been a few decades ago; life is slower, more relaxed, a life of long lunches and afternoon siestas, where the word 'stress' was not yet invented. We did have long lunches and dinners at San Lorenzo. Being a working cattle farm, beef was always on the menu. It could be a casserole, a slow roast or my favourite pasta criolla; pasta mixed with leftover stew, pumpkin and corn. A plate which is perhaps the essence of Argentinean home-cooking; with a nod to the Italian influence (approximately 60 per cent of Argentineans have Italian background) but with a nod to the New World, as no respectable Italian would be caught dead with leftover stew in their pasta.

The highlight of our stay at San Lorenzo were the excursions organised by Jose during the day. He took us wildlife-spotting in his boat on the wetlands; we were able to see caimans, capybaras and several types of birds found nowhere else in Argentina. On the lagoons we were able to appreciate why the Guarani named this place 'shining water', as the sun creates a symphony of colours which become particularly spectacular at sunset. Driving back to the estancia we even saw an armadillo. We went in search of the elusive pampa deer, a notoriously shy animal, which we were only able to appreciate behind Nick's 400mm lens before it ran away. The nights at San Lorenzo were unforgettable. The moon was new, and the stars pierced the blackness of the sky shining like jewels. Once the generator went out, the sensation was of abandonment and ecstasis at the same time; where one truly becomes whole with nature.

Picanha and Coriander Chutney

After bidding farewell to our friends Kelvin and Marcelo in Sao Paulo we headed towards Foz do Iguazu, which was to be our last stop in Brazil. The area is famous because of the majestic Iguazu waterfalls, which span at the border between Brazil and Argentina. We decided to visit the Brazilian side first, then cross to Argentina where we had planned to meet with my family, and visit the Argentinean side. We arrived in Foz with a few days to kill. We were both looking forward to seeng the waterfalls, however no photo, film or travel tale can convey the magic of standing in front of the waterfalls.

We were also lucky enough to find great accommodation on both sides of the border. In Brazil we stayed at Hostal Natura, a hostel-campsite situated on a family-run farm. Luckily we had a room, as the weather in Southern Brazil was much colder compared to the Northeast (after all, we were in the Southern Winter). The son, Anwar, was running the bar, offering killer caipirinhas for 7 reais a pop. Not the same as in Jeri, though... there's something about an icy-cold cocktail that goes hand in hand with sun and beach. And the weather in Iguazu was more British than Brazilian, especially in the evening. The mother Alda was preparing breakfast and dinner for all guests. The food was absolutely delicious, homely and comforting. And abundant! I could not believe it, we had pizza for breakfast. And for dinner on our very last night in Brazil we had barbecued picanha, the Brazilian cut of meat famous throughout the world. A nice last meal for two meat-lovers such as ourselves.

The falls are absolutely outstanding. Carlos, that interesting man we met on the Rio Preguica, considered them the best natural wonder of Brazil. I couldn't quite see how it could beat Lencois Maranhenses, but I wouldn't wage judgement bedore I'd seen the falls. The Brazilian side offers the grand overview, the postcard image of the falls. Walking down to the first viewing platform I couldn't believe my eyes. There's something about waterfalls; the spray, the noise and the power of the water, creating something that can be beautiful but deadly at the same time. Iguazu are a collection of falls, one more breathtaking than the other. On a sunny day, rainbows play peekaboo behind the mist, butterflies and birds dance around almost entrancing those who are lucky enough to be part of this natural wonder. The falls became bigger, stronger and more spectacular the further we advenced on the track; until the last one, la Garganta del Diablo,
(The Devil's Throat) whose strength is such that it can only be appreciated from the platform on the Argentinean side. Otherwise, the mist is so thick it hides the waterfall beneath a cloud.

The sadness of having left Brazil faded quickly once we entered the national park on the Argentinean side. Argentina offers a closer view, with walking tracks which allow the visitor to walk either the top or the bottom of the waterfalls. Doing this is possibly even more spectacular than visiting the Brazilian side; the strength of the water is breathtaking, the wildlife more abundant. We were able to see caimans, river turtles, monkeys and tucans; the first real wildlife of the whole trip. But the Garganta is what really steals the show. Standing on top of it is scary and mesmerising at the same time. The water roars down so powerfully that it's impossible to see where it crashes down into the river. We stood there for a good 15 minutes, trying to take it all in. Unfortunately, no piture or blogspot will ever be good enough.

Our B&B in Puerto Iguazu was also excellent. As we met with my parents there, we were lucky to be able to enjoy a higher level of comfort as long as my family was with us. Secret Garden B&B keeps the promise that lies in its name; it really is secret! We asked and asked and it took us a good half hour to find it. Once again, the host is what makes the place special. John was born in India, but has been living in Argentina for about 30 years. Not only was he extremely kind and personable, also he took each guest's needs to his heart. John organised a 'happy hour' every evening, where he served caipirinha accompanied by a variety of nibbles. The one I enjoyed the most was flatbread accompanied by a zingy coriander chutney. What a better way to wind down after a day of sightseeing. Argentina looked rather promising from the very first day. And much more was yet to come.

Rodizio de Pizza

First great surprise of this trip: Sao Paulo is an amazing city. Before leaving London and whilst travelling Brazil, we kept hearing how horrible and dodgy it was. We almost decided not to go, but we had arranged to visit our friends Marcelo and Kelvin who just recently moved there from London. As our flight from Brasilia was coming into landing I could not believe how big the city below us was. It was night, we flew over a shimmering expanse of lights for about 15 minutes. And it took us over 2 hours by bus to reach Avenida Paulista, the main thoroughfare. Sao Paulo (Sampa for friends) has over 10 million inhabitants in its city area, including the metropolitan area the count gets up to almost 20 million.

Those who know me will be aware of the fact that I am attracted to large cities. In a way, the larger the better; smaller towns do not really appeal to me. What I like about big cities is the fact that they have hidden secrets; the mixture of history and immigration usually create an interesting climate for multiculturalism and cultural innovation. This concept is epitomised by a place like Sao Paulo. Immigration during the past century have brought to the city thousands of Italians, Lebanese, Greek, Africans, Germans and many others. The city now hosts sizeable communities of immigrants; besides the famous Bixiga (Sampa's Little Italy) and Liberdade (the Japanese neighbourhood) there are Chinese markets, Korean restaurants, German pubs and a Jewish district. And this is just what I noticed in a weekend.

As in my beloved London, Sao Paulo's multiethnic soul has produced a vibrant dining scene. Sampa's sushi is considered one of the best this side of Japan and the pizza is meant to be so good it can put many Italian eateries to shame. Plus there are excellent restaurants from as far apart as Russia and Uruguay, as well as from every nook and cranny of Brazil. A culinary tour of Sao Paulo would surely be an epicurean's delight. Unfortunately, two factors forbid us from partaking to this feast of cosmopolitan flavours. Firstly, we are on a rather tight budget, and Sampa is far dearer compared to the rest of Brazil. Secondly, we came over to visit friends, and so we were willing to go wherever they took us.

And I was glad we did. Maybe we missed out on Michelin-starred sushi, but we visited markets where we had some great street food. We tried acai, an Amazonian berry which is frozen into a pulp then served with fruit and granola; we had corn and sugarcane juice, delicious homemade cakes (with abundance of condensed milk....something else I am partial to), Japanese gyoza from Liberdade market and the best pasteis ever. Pasteis are deep-fried dough parcels with various fillings, my favourite was the evocative Romeo e Julieta, cheese and quince paste. However, the meal which will remain in my heart was the one we had at Rodizio de Pizza, an all-you-can-eat pizza joint. Rodizio means rotating, referring to the fact that the diner is continuously served seemingly unlimited food. These establishments are popular in Brazil, most commonly they offer meat (such as the legendary Porcao in Rio de Janeiro). In Sampa you can find pizza rodizio, soup rodizio, ice-cream rodizio and many others.

Surely the pizza served at rodizio is not what an Italian would expect! There are fairly simple pizzas, such as garlic and olives or chicken and sweetcorn, as well as interesting concoctions such as pizza baiana (with spicy prawns and extra chillies) and pizza mineira (with dried meat). And I could not believe it... they had sweet pizzas for dessert, delicious combinations such as white chocolate and coconut and bananas with dulce de leche. It was to me like Sao Paulo on a plate; the multiculturalism and inventiveness. But most important of all, it will remind me of my friends.

Long lunches and fish in passionfruit sauce

The time spent between our departure from Jeri and our arrival in Sao Paulo was to become known as "the time with the Italians". We tr avelled for a week with a party of 20 Italians between Jericoacoara and Sao Luis do Maranhao, from where we had a flight to Sao Paulo. How on earth did this happen? Well, I hinted in the previous blogspot that Jeri is hard to get to, and even harder to get out of. Other than figuratively, this was also meant to be taken literally. Sao Luis is 450 km west of Jeri, and there are no roads until Barreirinhas, gateway for the magnificent Lencois Maranhenses national park. In total, the plan was to travel for about 300 km on sandy tracks. The most straightforward option would have been to cover the distance with public transport, involving a combination of trucks over 2 days. Unfortunately the last stretch was closed to public buses on account of the heavy rains fallen during the previous rainy season. Chartering a 4x4 for only two of us was also out of the question; too expensive. The last option was going back to Fortaleza, but we didn't want to miss Lencois Maranhenses, which was supposed to be particularly lush after the heavy rains.

So one day, while I was standing at Joao's juice bar sipping my passionfruit juice, I heard two men conversing in Italian about chartering a jeep to Barreirinhas. I approached them and asked if Nick and I could join them. We agreed to meet the night before the planned departure to settle on details and prices. And the night before we had an unexpected surprise... we were a group of 20. And nothing was yet arranged. We agreed with the drivers to undertake the trip over two days to leave us the opportunity to visit the Parnaiba river delta on the way. At 5 am we were ready to leave, but we took off after about 2 and a half hours. I have already pointed out that north-eastern Brazilian are a rather relaxed bunch; this, alongside Italians' notorious clockwork organisation can result in only one thing: delays.

I can honestly said that few times in my life have I met a group of people as interesting and entertaining as these Italians. Most of them dentists, they had gathered in Jeri to attend a wedding, then decided to travel with the bride and groom for a few days. It was like being in a comedy, as each and every one of them were remarkable characters. There was a family with two teenage children, the fancypants right-wing couple, the bossy-submissive couple, two twin sisters and a few thirtysomething singletons. Plus my personal favourite; Moaning Myrtle. We travelled over beautiful beaches and rivers, visited Sao Luis and flew over the rainwater pools of Lencois Maranhenses. Myrtle didn't really like anything very much, instead she preferred to complain about the heat, the sand, the jeeps, her digestion...

Although the Italians were great company, I felt a great feeling of displacement in their company. See, I am Italian too. I have left the country 5 years ago, at the age of 21. I will return there at 27, married, after having spent 5 years in London and one year travelling the world. Many of the Italians simply didn't get why I decided to travel. Instead they kept asking how was I able to afford it, how could we travel on a budget for so long, if we didn't miss the food and comforts of home and so on. Also, they wouldn't get the fact that I didn't have a plan for when I get back. I felt proud of myself for refusing to tread the path that was laid out for me.

I believe not all those who travel can call themselves travellers. Scores of teenagers and twentysomethings roam the planet, interested in 'ticking off boxes' and perhaps securing a good party and a good lay in each country they visit. Others travel just to complain about how better it is back home. In my opinion, a traveller embraces the lack of comfort as an integral part of the experience, takes interest in local culture, getting to know local people. A traveller loves to try local foods; for a traveller how to get there is as important as tthe destination. This what I would like this blogg to be about. Mark Twain said there is nothing as boring as traveller's tales. This is exactly what Carlos, a man we met on Rio Preguica, said. A lone traveller, he was genuinely enthusiastic about everything our planet has to offer us. We talked for a couple of hours, his eyes lit up every time he spoke about one of his favourite places; the Amazon, Nepal, Patagonia, India... then he looked and me and said "you understand me, you are like me, they don't understand us...." I didn't quite get if 'they' was referred to the people on the boat or to those who didn't like to listen to his tales.

The time spent travelling with the Italians was unforgettable, not only for the company but also for the scenery. We left Jeri and travelled along the beaches for hours, crossing creek estuaries on rafts. Around lunchtime we arrived in Parnaiba, where we had an afternoon cruise on the delta, and returned to port sailing under the full moon. The second day we continued towards Cabure, which is to this day one of the most magic places I have been to. We stayed in a shack on the beach, which essentially was a spit of land between sea and river. There was no electricity, and the moon and starlight were almost blinding, the silence deafening. We continued upriver on the Rio Preguica to Barreirinhas, where we flew over Lencois Maranhenses' almost endless expanse of desert and rainwater pools. We finished in the crumbling city of Sao Luis, where we spent a day cruising the colonial district and marvelling at its faded elegance. It was a time of long lunches in the tropical heat, endless conversations waiting for the notoriously slow Brazilian service. On the last night we waited 2 and a half hours for a plate of fish in passionfruit sauce. Listening to a forro group murdering Garota da Ipanema by the riverside of Barreirinhas and chatting to my newfound friends, I thought maybe I shouldn't leave the Northeast so soon.

Passionfruit juice and chocolate cake

After leaving Roab, the macaws, rottweilers and little monkeys we visited a string of places; Recife, Olinda, Fortaleza, some nice some not, but all pretty unremarkable 4 months down the line. Perhaps it was as if we were bulding up a crescendo to the one place i will keep in my heart forever: Jericoacoara, or Jeri for short, a small seaside village 300 km west from Fortaleza, in the state of Ceara. We decided to visit Jeri after receiving enthusiastic feedback from other travellers; it is a place to switch off, to catch up with the slow pace of life characteristic of the far north-east coast of Brazil. relaxing becomes a state of mind rather than a physical necessity; three days turn into a week. Jeri is hard to get to, and even harded to get out of. The bus from Fortaleza follows tarmac rroads for approximately 5 hours, until everything (passengers included!) is unloaded onto the back of a truck for the final 2 hour stretch. the truck runs parallel to the beach, following sand tracks that appear vague in the moonlight. All with th backdrop of a stunning starry night. After reaching the count of 8 in the first 15 minutes, I stopped counting falling stars; I had ran out of wishes.

There are no roads in Jeri, all the village is built on sand. there are no cars, only a few trucks and beach buggies. Jeri's surroundings present a variety of landscapes; a broad grey beach surrounded by a majestic golden dune, white sandy beaches, a rocky coastline... Winds blow virtually constantly between July and December, making it popular amongst windsurfers and kitesurfers. Some stay for months at the time, some never leave. We shared our accommodation with Adrian, a Swiss windsurfer, and Patrick and Caroline, a couple of Austrian kitesurfers. they were all staying in Jeri fo several weeks. Our host, Ingrid, was a Brazilian-German woman who fell in love with Jeri over 20 years ago, when the place was a little more than a collection of shacks by the beach. So she bid farewell to Frankfurt and Sao Paulo, and never came back.

All our days in Jeri started and finished in a similar fashion. We woke up and visited Joao, maker of the best juices of the world. He open when he feels like, closes when the juices are finished, and doesn't own a shirt. For 1 real onne can choose between pineapple (alone or mixed with mint), guava, acerola and my personal favourite, passionfruit. At sunset, everybody gathered up under the dune on the main beach to watch the sun setting in the ocean. there is music, and capoeira on the beach; plus a myriad of cocktail carts serving caipirinha and other fruit cocktails. My drink of choice was maracujaroska, a concoction of vodka and passionfruit pulp (yes, i am rather partial to it). And before bedtime we had a chocolate cake from the lady across the road with Patrick and Caroline. It could be plain chocolate, or with coconut or carrot, sold from the window of her house. We grew accostumed to this ritual so much that imagine my disappointment when she was closed on our last night.

Between a passionfuit juice and a chocolate cake our days were long and mellow. We walked along the coast for hours followed by vultures and wild pigs; woke up at dawn to buy prawns from the fishermen; took pictures off surfers and even had a little go at kitesurfing; took a day tour of the region on a beach buggy. It was there, with the wind in my hair, that for the first time I felt freee. I thought of Janis Joplin's words in Bobby McGee "freedom is just another word for nothing left to lose"; I could have stayed there.