The Iguazú Falls, rivaled only by Vic Falls in terms of sheer magnificence, are situated right on the three-pronged border between Argentina, Brazil and Paraguay. One more day of Portuguese lingo and then back into hispanohablante territory. I got into Foz do Iguaçu and, a further three buses later, was at the hostel, a Hi De Hi-esque campground/holiday resort replete with cloudy pool and strategically placed wooden flamingoes. Rise and shine campers. Simon and Dave, from London and Dublin respectively, had also just arrived, so within the hor we had hopped back on a bus – the first of three more – headed for the Brazilian side of the falls. Entrance paid, all aboard yet another omnibus, this one strangely reminiscent of Jurassic Park, a double-decker with a sunroof stretching from front to rear and a somewhat worrying onboard commentary: the lady speaking either had the driest sense of humour I´d yet come across in a Brazilian, or the ironic juxtaposition was totally lost on her as she happily told us “not to feed the coatis, as they can bite and have been known to have rabies. Have a nice day”.

Our first view of the Falls was, quite simply, spectacular; it also seemed only to enhance the Prehistoric feeling the bus ride had given me. We were stood on one side of the river canyon, surrounded by exuberantly lush tropical vegetation; facing us from across the valley was a curtain, or rather curtains of white water plunging their way over the lip and a good 40 metres down into the canyon below. Hundreds of vultures, God knows why, were circling overhead. It felt like The Land that Time Forgot. Breathtaking.

Yet that was only the beginning. The trail then led another 2km along the canyon edge, at times taking us through fantastic jungle where we saw reams of iridescent multihued butterflies, or borboletas as they´re known in Portuguese. I´m yet to find a language where the word for butterfly isn´t a cracker. Try Basque for example: pimpilinpauxa! Millipedes slunk their way along the floor, while more than a few of the (questionably rabid) coatis crossed our path. So used to humans are they that they´ve abandoned their natural instincts and now seem to survive on solely the contents of the trail´s numerous bins, classy animals. Nature´s ultimate scuttlers.

Every couple of hundred metres the thick jungle would recede and we´d find ourselves looking across at the Falls; we followed the cliff as it curved round, leading to view after magnificent view of the cataracts across from us, until finally the valley opened out. Both in front and across from us the Rio Iguazú, at this its widest point, poured 60 metres over the rock face, thundering down into the depths. Just ahead was the famed Garganta do Diabo, the Devil´s Throat, a vast hissing, broiling cauldron rendered virtually invisible by the clouds of mist thrown up.

A walkway took us along the lip of a section of the cataracts, allowing us to look down into the spray-filled valley below. A rainbow arched itself around and under the viewing platform, enveloping us in it´s technicolour embrace. Amazing. And this was just the Brazilian side – we´d been reliably informed that the Argentinian side upped the ante considerably.

Back to Holiday Camp to soak up some rays and then, Simon and Dave´s idea not mine – obviously – go for a run, my first in five months. They reckoned around 10km would do it. After 3 I realised I wasn´t going to make it if I didn´t turn around. So I did. 6km was plenty for my out of shape pins.

Up bright and early the next day; the weather, however, was definitely not so bright, and looked like it was going to get worse. We hopped in the minibus with our jovial Argentinian driver and headed across the border, stopping at the halfway point on the bridge to take the obligatory ´hey I´m in Brazil…..aaaaand now I´m in Argentina´snaps 🙂 At the entrance to the Park it began to spit; 15 minutes later, as we waited for a cheesy tourist train to take us onwards, the heavens opened, tropical style, forcing us and all the thousands of other tourists to seek shelter. After seeing the Falls in blazing sunshine the day before, we were now going to be treated to the other end of the spectrum.

After about half an hour the deluge ceased enough to allow us to carry on; before long we were wandering along the Circuito Superior, a fantastic trail of raised walkways that took us from lip to lip of countless stretches of the Falls, while all that separated us from the raging impatient waters were the metal grilles of the path. One good side to the epic quantities of rain that day was that the amount of water pouring over the Falls was staggering, having seemingly doubled from the previous day. Thrillseeking colonies of small birds clung to the walls either side of the curtains of water, winging their way through the mist and spray and then back again, as if just for kicks.

The rest of the day, occasional heavy soaking aside, was cracking. After the Circuito Superior we descended to the Circuito Inferior, which took us down to the foot of the Falls, whence their true power was fully revealed. Amazing. We caught a boat across a 100m stretch of water to Isla San Martín, sandwiched between the two forks of the river downstream from the Falls. Vultures perched ominously in the trees, whilst yet more walkways led us to within a few metres of churning, crashing deafening whiteness.

The highlight of the day came after lunch: the Garganta del Diablo as seen from the waterfall lip itself. The walk to get there, across over a kilometre of raised walkway that took us across the waters of the Rio Iguazú, revealed the vastness of the river. It was eerie too, given how placid the water seemed that was flowing below our feet, that within a few hundred metres it would plunge over the Falls.

When we finally reached the end of the walkway the scene was breathtaking, unlike anything else. The waters picked up speed and, in a massive horseshoe crescent, changed from blue-brown to seething white, before cascading over the edge and down into the mist-obscured abyss. I was suddenly taken by a strong urge to jump, to throw myself out into the chasm: probably just as well I didn´t. It felt like standing on the edge of the world, the sight that would undoubtedly have greeted you if the world had turned out to be flat. I stood there spellbound, mesmerised by the power, the deafening roar, the hypnotic patterns traced by the flow of water as it hurtled downwards.

Incredible. Time to go though – I had a date with Paraguay.

The bus pulled into Floripa at the crack of dawn and off I stumbled, in search of a hostel somewhere on the island. Once done, it was siesta time – there were going to be plenty of days to see the sights. Next morning an early start: I was going to be meeting up with Daniel, my friend and Portuguese teacher from Uni, and his wife Emi. Amazing to see him, the palm tree-studded cloudless setting somewhat different from Manchester. They were both on good form too, obviously enjoying being back in Brazil. Off we drove, to meet up with some friends of theirs, another married couple, and then hike along the shores of Lagoa da Conceiçao, separated by a narrow isthmus from the waters of the Atlantic.

The walk was beautiful, untarnished blue skies overhead, twinkling waters to one side and verdant tropical hillsides to the other. And what better way to end things than with seafood and beers in a lakeside restaurant. Life on the road: one of unending hardships. We caught the boat back into town and I said my goodbyes, having left it with Daniel that we´d meet up the next day.

Next morning I caught the bus into the city centre, arriving a mere 30 minutes late – I was really starting to take this Brazilian punctuality to heart! We wandered the centre, passing the few remaining colonial buildings before stopping for lunch in a por-kilo resto. You feel like a real glutton ordering food by the kilo, but hey, it´s just as Brazilian as prancing down the beach in a banana hammock. Post lunch Daniel did me a massive favour by offering to put me up for the rest of my time in Floripa. Score! Having grabbed my bits and bobs from the hostel we headed on to Praia Mole, one of the prettiest beaches on the island, and spent a relaxing afternoon wandering the shoreline and then downing a few beers in a deluxe beach bar, surrounded by rich beautiful jetsetters – just the kind of company I tend to roll in.

I wish. Rich was certainly one thing I was not, getting by on ham and cheese sandwiches for lunch every day and having to forgo most of the tours and activities I would have signed up for without a moment´s hesitiation beofre arriving in Brazil. A frugal existence, and Floripa was no different. Still fun though: Thursday Daniel and I headed to the very southern tip of the island, hiking up and over wooded hillsides before arriving at Praia Naufragados, Shipwreck Beach, the lighthouse on the promontory away to the west highlighting the dangers of these waters in times gone by. The sands were practically deserted, the water warm(ish) and the setting perfect for flatcoat-esque mucking around in the waves.

Friday and Saturday were lazy days, though I got free entrance to Daniel´s gym on the Friday, my first workout in 7 months. It felt like it too, my body creaking and cracking for the next three days. Saturday evening the three of us stayed in and watched The Mission, a film I´d never seen before, based on the (ultimately doomed) efforts of the Jesuits to form their utopian Reducciones deep in the New World´s sweaty, sultry tropical hinterland. It was good to watch, knowing I´d be heading to the Paraguay-Argentina border zone where the Jesuits had based themselves and where the abandoned, ruined missions could still be found.

Sunday rolled round and, hardship of all hardships, it was back to the beach and from there on to Cigi and Adi´s pad, the friends of Daniel and Emi, for a slap-up lunch accompanied by beers, caipirinhas and their hyperactive golden labrador. Fun times, and a perfect way to spend a lazy afternoon before heading on to Foz do Iguaçu, my last Brazilian port of call before moving on to country no 8.

Hannes and I hopped on the bus at 8am, headed for Rio’s bus terminal. From there on to Petrópolis, nestled in the hills an hour inland from the coast. Once there, bus no 3 dropped us at the end of the line – time to start walking. Our destination was the Serra dos  Órgãos National Park, a reserve punctuated by several peaks above 2000m – for Brazil, about as big as mountains get.

After a few wrong turns we made it to the Park entrance, paid our fees and had the route explained to us. We were going to be doing the Petrópolis – Teresópolis crossing, a route renowned which people were renowned for getting lost on and, in some cases, dying. Just as well then that we had no GPS, no guide and only a hand drawn map. We just had to pray for no mist, otherwise we ere going to be in trouble.

The first day was beautiful, the clouds all having burned off by midday. Beautiful, but steep as hell. The Park entrance was at 800m; we were going to be sleeping that night at above 2000m. The going was hot, sweaty and tiring with heavy backpacks on, but the views more than made up for it, becoming ever more impressive as we ascended.

We eventually crested a final ridge and reached the top. From here on another half hour’s walk on the ‘flat’ and we’d be at camp for the night. Except that someone had helpfully painted a big red arrow on the ground, that led back down the other side of the ridge. Hmmm. It seemed and felt wrong, but since when has a big red arrow ever been wrong? Well it was – after 15 minutes of fighting our way through head high grass we turned back and immediately found the right path. Bloody arrow.

As we hiked along the ridge we found ourselves at the same height as the clouds rolling in over the peaks. We felt like kings; mountain gods.Pretty asa they were though, the clouds eventually enveloped us in their wet, cold embrace, and by the time we made it to the Morro do Açu, our destination for the day, visibility was down to 40m. There was at least a rather grand looking two-tiered shelter for climbers, only recently completed and still kept under lock and key.

How to get in? Well they obviously teach you more than just Maths and Geography in South Africa, as Hannes had prised out a windowpane and has us inside before you could say floccinaucinihilipilification. Hell, the place had bunkbeds, a kitchen – with gas! – electricity: the works. Luxury! We rustled up dinner and both headed for an early night.

Next morning we were up at 5.30am in time to witness an absolutely breathtaking daybreak. The sky to the east glowed orange and pink, its pastel colours lining a sea of clouds beneath. We were up in divine domain. Around us the sky was crystal clear, and growing lighter every minute, while below us the world was waking up to a day of cloudy greyness.

It didn’t last. After breakfast we set off, and after a short descent found ourselves on the top of Morro do Marco, the first major point, as our written guide kindly informed us, at which people got lost. And then the mist rolled in. We were no longer looking at the clouds, we were in them. Not good. We waited for five minutes, seeing if the clouds would clear. They didn’t. Now we’d been told before leaving Rio that the trail was hard enough to follow at the best of times; in mist, impossible: you get lost, simple as.

We did. The problem with the trail is that is passes over innumerable granite rock faces, where the only thing to mark its presence is the occasional intermittent red dot. We obviously missed one somewhere, as we found ourselves in a little valley looking across at a steep hillside thick with vegetation. No path. We however had no idea where the path was, and finding it would have been about as easy as locating the proverbial needle. No choice but to try to forge our way through the forest. Or jungle: no word can truly do justice to the density, the thickness, the virtual impassability of the vegetation we found ourselves trying to make our way through. Uphill. With five metre visibility. We hacked, fought, slipped, battled our way through about 200m of creepers, bamboo, ferns, trees and six-foot high grass, spiky plants and thorny vines at every step; and all up a steep hill.

Almost two hours later we made it up onto the summit. It would be nice to write that we emerged out into blazing sunshine, except we didn’t – clouds, clouds and more clouds. After a 15 minute rest we forged on, certain we were now on the right track and would find the trail in no time. After inadvertently forward rolling into head high grass and finding myself swallowed up by the unforgiving vegetation, I was forced to accept that maybe we were still some way of the beaten path. Things were starting to get a little ridiculous.

And then a faded splodge of crimson beauty, as if placed there by the Almighty himself. The path: we were back on it! We had a lot of time to make up however – the hike for that day normally took 5 hours; after our scenic detours we’d already been going for over four and had covered about a quarter of the total distance.

Despite finding the path we’d lost it again within quarter of an hour, a pattern that was to repeat itself regularly over the next few hours. Our guide had detailed instructions, except they involved orienting oneself using the mountains around; we couldn’t see any mountains. Hell, we could barely see our own feet. I’ll admit it, I might have despaired a little. Having lost my down jacket back in Bolivia I had no coat, no hat. And this was no crisp, dry Andean cold; we were in a cloud, about as wet and humid as cold can get, the kind of cold that gets into your bones. The wind was howling, and we were traipsing around bare rock faces, lost, with no idea as to how steep the drops were below us.

Hannes definitely has more skill at reading the lay of the land than I do though, as he kept on finding those blessed little heaven-sent red dots, just when all, or more particularly we, seemed lost.

By about 3pm we had comme to a point which the guide, as if in jest, referred to as the most beautiful stretch of the crossing. And then – lo and behold, verily I say unto thee, didst the clouds part! Slightly. For about fifteen minutes. Still, after an entire day spent in soul-sapping misty obscurity it lifted our spirits like nothing else could have. Before us rose Garrafão and Pedra do Sino, at over 2200m the highest peak in the park.

And then back into the clouds; that was our alloted sun for the day. We were at least unmistakably on the path now, with less than an hour to go. Next up was an horrendously steep ascent, involving proper rock climbing (with backpacks) and getting over the ‘cavalinha’, a rock that juts out across the path which by this point was no more than a few feet wide, with a steep rock face on one side and an abyss on the other.

We staggered into camp at 4pm. The two guys working there looked at us in amazement – not only were we apparently the only souls brave – or stupid – enough to attempt the Crossing that week, it was our first time and we’d done it without a guide, map or GPS: our saviours had been our compass and our written instructions in Portuguese. Let’s just say that it wasn’t a late one that night, both of us safely curled up in sleeping bags before the light in the sky had faded; hoping that the clouds would clear and we’d be able to catch sunrise from the top of Pedra do Sino.

Our confidence was misplaced; we stumbled out of the shelter at 5am into bleak, wet, misty darkness, making it to the top of the mountain half an hour later. Masochism doesn’t even come close to describing it; we huddled behind a rock as the sky lightened, clouds enveloping us and then hurtling past, whipped onwards by the incessant wind. And then – the moon! It wasn’t the sun, but it was something. For all of five seconds. And then again, this time even briefer. It was like the scene in the Perfect Storm where they catch an all-too-brief glimpse of the sun before being hurled back into the maelstrom: it’s the hope that kills you.

Nothing. Nada. No sun. I gave up, my grumpy side winning. Coffee and porridge back at the shelter seemed a far better idea than sitting, shivering, in a cloud. Post breakfast  we began our descent. Would you believe it, after fifteen minutes the clouds began, little by little, to break up. Sunshine poured into gaps where once grey had been, flooding our miserable monochrome world with amber warmth. Finally!

The rest of the descent, tired legs aside, was an absolute joy. Within an hour there wasn’t a cloud left in the sky and we made our way downhill along a broad, well-defined path – what underrated, understated bliss! – through lush jungle, beautiful birdsong serenading us as we wended our way down. The world suddenly seemed an entirely different place. We passed little streams and waterfalls before coming to a road. Civilization. And, as if to remind us of what we’d not had to deal with over the previous two days, a whooping mob of schoolchildren passed us: we were back in the real world. No more mysterious misty mountaintops. Once back in Rio it was time for beers and a plunge in the heated rooftop pool, to soak aching limbs. Bliss.

Saturday I had a couple of things to tick off the tourist list before skipping town the next day: first up Corcovado and the massive statue of JC perched on its crest. Stunning views, spoiled only slightly by the thousands of daytrippers up there. Off the beaten track this wasn’t. Back on ground level I headed to the bairro of Catete and had a wander round the Museu de la Republica, housed in a fantastic former Presidential palace.

It was time for me to move on though. My 16 days in Rio had been fantastic; Florianópolis was next.

I made it onto the only ferry for that day taking people to Ilha Grande as the boat was leaving. Two hours later, having forged our way through impossibly turquoise waters, the island’s main town, Vila do Abraão, hoved into view. The skies overhead, where previously leaden and moody, had turned blue and inviting. Things had hopefully taken a decisive turn for the better. Bags dropped off at the hostel, I headed to the nearest beach a few hundred metres away and promptly fell asleep. A lazy evening followed.

Next day dawned bright and sunny. On the money! At breakfast I got chatting to Will and Laeticia, an awesome French couple from Toulouse and an hour later the three of us set off for Lopes Mendes beach, a couple of hours away. A chilled out day at the beach soon turned out to be a hike up and down the mountains that cover the island, rising precipitously from the very water’s edge. We ought to have known. Up we hiked. And down the other side to a beach. Not the one we were looking for. Onwards and upwards. Followed by downwards. Nope, not Lopes Mendes either.

Onwards once more. We’d find it eventually. Not that it really mattered. The sky had by this point clouded over, and the walk itself was stunning, through thick jungle, passing towering thickets of bamboo as we went. We saw squirrels, birds, enormous butterflies, millipedes and tiny capuchin monkeys that came down to the path´s edge, hungry for biscuits; we duly obliged. And then there, finally, was Praia Lopes Mendes. A shame it was cloudy, since the beach was a stunner, its pale sands so fine they squeaked as you walked upon them, like tropical snow, while turquoise waves slammed the shore.

It was cold though, so after throwing myself, flatcoat retriever-esque, into the waves, we headed back. On the waterfront back in town a couple of hours later we sipped on beer, reflecting on the toughness of life on the road; then who should we bump in to but Jenn and Jon, who´d arrived a couple of days earlier and had, I´d thought, already headed on to Rio. It was great to see them again: I mean.as far as Americans go they were good craic!

Dinner that evening involved me taking a back seat, as is my wont, and allowing Froglets Will and Laeticia to cook up a storm. Portuguese rice, Spanish tortilla and aubergine and pepper pasta duly followed. It wasn´t Fish and Chips, but it´d do 🙂

Day 3 and once again not a cloud in the sky. Brazil was finally living up to its paradisiacal reputation. A definite beach day – this time though we were going to find one a little closer to home. Praia Preta did the job, its marbled black and white sands the perfect setting for a day of unabashed laziness.

After hours happily toasting ourselves, the three of us headed inland, coming across a massive aqueduct incongruously marching its colonnaded way through the dense jungle. Laeti turned back; Will and I decided to press on in search of a waterfall an hour´s walk away.

Up the trail wound, leading us away from the shore and into the forested hills. Then, off to our left, black shapes moving in the trees. Monkeys! Big ones. We watched spellbound, as the troop made their way through the canopy. Will had never seen monkeys in the wild from such close proximity before. A magical few minutes; on we wandered though, following the path as it meandered up and down hillsides. At one point the canopy thinned out and we found ourselves on a bare hillock, with jawdropping views of the sand-spangled azure bays gleaming below us; off in the distance howler monkeys whooped to one another in joyful cacophony.

We eventually found the waterfall, the tinglingly cold water jetting its way down a 20m drop. A quick splash and then back to town befroe darkness fell where, hardship of all hardships, I had Will and Laeticia wanting to rustle up a Franco-Iberian culinary extravaganza encore une fois: twould have been rude to say no…

The next day dawned bright but soon clouded over – time to  move on. Rio, sirenlike, was calling. Ilha Grande had been perfect though, and a nicer pair of Frenchies than Laeticia and Will would be hard to finnd. Vive l´entente cordiale!

Paraty is a little coastal town, formerly the main exit point for all the gold mined in Minas Gerais, its centre virtually unchanged since colonial times, and its uber-laidback atmosphere was infectious. The three days I’d planned to spend there soon turned into six. Not that there was a whole lot to do. The centre was undeniably beautiful though, all whitewashed colonial houses and churches, the streets lined with rough-hewn cobblestones that flooded every couple of months or so, purposely designed thus by the Portuguese to wash away the accumulated effluence and cleanse the city.

The was a fort across the river that guarded the town from (mostly English) pirates, with fantastic views out across the bay. The setting was stunning, no doubt whatsoever that I was firmly back in tropical South America. The jungle and thick vegetation I’d left behind in Venezuela and Colombia was back.

The town lay at the mouth of two rivers, its backdrop tree-covered, mist-shrouded mountains, while the bay itself sheltered a whole host of little islands and hidden away coves. Here I was on the shores of the Atlantic Ocean, having left behind the waves of the Pacific in Iquique and traversed the breadth of the continent. The ony thing raining on our parade was, well, rain. It was like England, only with palm trees. Overcast and grey. Harumph.

Anyway, Jon, Jenn and I spied a break in the clouds and decided to rent kayaks for the day. Setting out, the wind had whipped up the sea, the choppy water making going slow and wet, but before long we’d rounded a headland and headed down one of the river mouths, the water instantly calming and flattening out. The sun even popped its head out as we paddled through mangroves and down little creeks, fish jumping alongside the boats and crimson-pincered crabs scuttling into holes in the riverbank as we passed.

Life wasn’t bad. We came through the old town and headed out into the open waters of the bay, aiming for a white sand beach a kilometre away. The town looked even more impressive from out to sea, its waterfront churches contrasting sharply with the lush green mountains behind. On to the beach, and from there we skirted the coastline, passing luxurious villas and hotels on the way to another, smaller fort set on a small promontory.

The weather had by now taken a decided turn for the worse. A chill wind was blowing and the sun, whilst illuminating a valley over on the mainland, seemed unwilling to break through the blanket of clouds above our head. We still had a good couple of miles of paddling before us in order to get back to Paraty.

The going was wet, cold and slow. Relief eventually came in the form of an island halfway between the fort and the town. We dragged our kayaks up a slipway, only to be greeted by a huddle of white-trousered waiters. Apparently our port in the storm was a private island, home to a top-end restaurant, the staff there more used to guests arriving by yacht or speedboat rather that rented kayak 🙂 They didn’t seem to mind though as we huddled on a bench and ate our sandwiches, not even daring to look at the menu prices.

Time came though to bite the bullet and head for home. Our attempts to wait and see if the weather improved were thwarted by the unwillingness of the sun to cooperate. Back we paddled. A good half-hour slog. At least we had hot showers and homemade caipirinhas waiting back at the hostel!

Another definite highlight was seeing Michael and Stefanie again, the amazing Swiss couple Marcus and I had done the Santa Cruz trek in Peru with 3 months previously. We had the chance to catch up over a caipirinha or ten, and on my final day there the three of us hired bikes and slogged and sweated our way uphill into the mountains behind town to take a plunge in some waterfalls.

That was about if for Paraty. Clouds and caipirinhas. And Gisele the Argentinian. I was getting itchy feet though, as Ilha Grande lay offshore just a couple of hours away.

Once over the border I hopped on a bus and within 20 minutes found myself in the city of Corumba. Things had changed. Prices had shot up, people looked different, and….it was time to try out my Portuguese.! This was going to be interesting.

Day two I made my way to the bus station where I met Harm and Marisa, a Dutch couple I’d be doing the Pantanal tour with. On we hopped. Within the first half hour we’d been stopped twice at police checkpoints. They obviously took their job a little more seriously here than in other South American countries. The fact that just over the border lies one of the world’s main cocaine producing regions may also have played a part 🙂 I got chatting to a cute carioca girl who was making her way back from two months in Peru and Bolivia.

We sadly pulled into where we’d be picked up and driven into the Pantanal not long after. Far too soon for my liking! Off we went, bumping our way along a straight-as-an-arrow dirt track punctuated by bridge after rickety rackety bridge. Either side of the road, in the trees and bushes, were hundreds of birds, including loads of huge white Jabiru storks, symbol of the Pantanal.

Birds then, and countless numbers of caiman. After dropping off our bags in camp we got to see the caiman from even closer up. Our guide took the Dutch couple and I down to the river where we tried our hand at fishing for piranhas. Compared to the Pampas in Bolivia it was like shooting fish in a barrel: the second the meatladen hook hit the water they were biting. We also had Nicky and Ally, two caimans, closely following our every move a few feet from our tootsies.

Back to camp where we met the rest of the gang – 4 more dutchies, Mark the Oirishman and Mike the older and quintessentially irascible Scot. An early night and none too comfortable night in hammocks was followed by a 5.30am wakeup. This was turning out to be more like a boot camp than a holiday. And it was raining. After three months of almost uninterrupted sunshine in the Andes, the weather in Brazil had turned decidedly British.

We headed to the river and had a wet boat trip, s[potting nothing more than the odd sodden capybara and some bedraggled birds. Piranha fishing was better though. We hooked some biggies, nine in total, one for each for us. Lunch back at camp then, a laze in hammocks and then back along what was quickly becoming my favourite road of all time to go for a “walking safari”.

This consisted of a wander round someone’s land, ducking in and out of clumps of forest and sections of thick undergrowth. To be fair we saw a few animals – howler monkeys, wild boar, macaws, and coati, amazing fox-like creatures that stared down at us from branches a couple of metres above our heads. And, as we began our drive back we saw two giant otters playing in the river, one swimming right underneath the bridge our jeep had stopped on.

Camp then, dinner, beers and back into the jeep for a night drive. The rum I’d brought along went down a storm – never leave home without it! – and we saw deer right outside camp, along with plenty of caiman in the creeks, ponds and streams that we drove past, their eyes glinting in the torchlight.

Another early start on Day 3, 6am, for a “jeep safari”. Driving. Up. And. Down. The. Same. Road. We all felt like mugs. It was getting to be more than a joke. Not once in three days had we left “the road.” Yet despite it we saw a lot. Hundreds and hundreds of caiman – the fish in the Pantanal must have a rough time of it – which we were able to get within a few feet of. Crocodiles are one of the oldest species on the planet, unchanged by evolution for hundreds of millions of years. And it shows! They’re not the sharpest critters around, spending a good twenty minutes chasing a stick on a rope our guide kept throwing into the water.

The scenery, accursed road aside, was exactly how I’d imagined the Pantanal to be. White flat grasslands interspersed with marshes, lily-lined ponds and riverlets. Caimans reigned supreme in this watery world. Them, and otters. Giant, massive, enormous otters. Two more of them swam towards us at one point, attracted by the bizarre strangled sounds made by the guide. Huge blue parrots flew above our heads, as did macaws, storks, herons and all sorts of other feathery fowl.

Before long though it was back to camp, lunch and then on out to the main road, back along the beloved “Road of Perdition.” Bonito was up next…