A walk in Rocinha

Rocinha is the largest favela in Rio, with over 300,000 residents. It's a slum, but it's not what you'd expect - a lot of the residents have televisions, cars and even credit cards.

Our guide's name is Luiza. She's grown up in Rocinha and she lives here still. She knows the streets of the favela like the back of her hand and she can lead us through the complicated tangle of alleys without once checking where we are.

"A lot of people are afraid of the favelas", she tells us. "The government pretends we don't exist. Other people see movies like City of God and think it's all guns and violence. There is some of that, like everywhere, but we are actually very safe. Everybody looks out for each other".

A guy with a AK-47 comes running up to us and says something to Luiza.

"He thinks one of you took a photo of him" she says. Claire had taken a photo of a motorbike in the alley and this guy happened to be standing behind it. She immediately deletes the photo. Luiza shows him and he smiles and gives us the thumbs up. Luiza explains that the gang members are paranoid about photos, because cops sometimes come in pretending to be tourists. They take a photo of a Rocinha gang member then come back later to arrest them.

The favela is governed by the Rocinha gang. As a result, it's a lot safer than some of the wealthier areas of Rio. Everybody leaves their houses unlocked. Nobody steals. Luiza gave us an example of how it works.

"If somebody steals my handbag", she says, "I tell this boy over here. I would have it back in five minutes, with everything inside. But the thief will be punished, and the gang is very cruel. Both arms, both legs, broken".

Luiza puts her fists together and indicates the snapping of joints. "It's cruel" she repeats, "but we prefer this way to the police. The police will still come in and take the thief, but they don't care about giving the handbag back". The police cause problems for people living in the favela; the gangs solve problems.

"This is our biggest problem", Luiza tells us as she leads us around the corner and points to the large sewerage drain in the middle of the street. It's completely open.

"When it rains", she says, "this drain overflows, and the street becomes a river.

"People here are ashamed of the open drain. They say, "Luiza! Don't show the tourists this, it's embarrassing". But I'm showing you, because every time there is an election the politians come here and they say, "Ah, yes, I will fix this for you, if you vote for me". But look, it's still open." She shrugs. "They never fix it. After the election, we cease to exist again".

It seems that the government turns a blind eye to the favelas, except when there's an election on. Recently they paid for a brand new hospital in the centre of Rocinha. Unfortunately, it's completely empty. There's no equipment, no doctors or nurses. Staff demand higher wages to work in a favela because they claim it's more dangerous, but the government won't pay them more. A handful of doctors work privately instead, and the hospital goes unused.

It's the same with the teachers. There are four intermediate schools in Rocinha but the teachers are always on strike, and the school is often closed. In Brazil it's a law to send your children to school from age six to twelve, punishable by imprisonment.

"But what can the parents do?" Luisa asks.

"If the government won't provide teachers, the kids can't go to school. Education is a big issue. If you don't have education, you can't get a job. Some kids join the gang because they can earn a lot of money. They get a flash car, gold chains, a cellphone. They live for the moment.

"They join the gang young, and they die young".

We spent three hours walking around the favela. I asked Luiza a lot of development and education -related questions, which I won't bore you with, but I will say that it was all very fascinating to learn about the rights of the slum residents. We visited one of the six free childcare centres, the free community samba school and the local swimming pool. We saw a sushi restaurant, a gym, internet cafes, banks and hair salons. We saw a twelve-year old boy sitting on the doorstep with a gun in his hand and we saw an American guy, now a resident, covered from head to toe in tattoos of Rocinha. I asked him why he chose to live in the slum, instead of in the U.S.

"This is my home now", he said to me. "I never felt that in the U.S., but I feel it here".

Nicola

Don't look at the fish!

Ilha Grande, where we took a boat to after Sao Paulo, is an island located off the coast of Rio de Janeiro. Literally translating to 'Big Island', Ilha Grande has been home to a leper colony, a high-security prison, and most recently a popular tourism spot. The entire island is a protected area, with largely undisturbed Brazilian rainforest and endangered species of monkeys, sloths, parrots and crocodiles. The island's one hundred and two beaches include Lopes Mendes beach, voted one of the top three most beautiful beaches in the world.

On Ilha Grande we stayed two nights in a hostel overlooking the beach. On the first day we went snorkeling in Lagoa Azul (Blue Lagoon).

I'll be honest - I didn't snorkel. I'm not a huge fan of fish. Okay, I hate them. I don't care how colourful they are, the thought of swimming with fish completely creeps me out. The mere thought of one brushing my leg is almost enough to induce a panic attack. But it was a beautiful lagoon, so I got into the water and had a bit of a swim around the boat.

At one point Claire told me that I should put on her goggles and go under to see the fish, just for a second.

"They're beautiful," She said. "You won't regret it"

I disagreed. Fish to me are slimy and googly; at best interesting, but not beautiful. However I felt that it was silly not to do it, seeing as we were after all meant to be here to snorkel and see the fish. After three attempts ("Okay, here goes. Now. Oh I can't! Okay, okay really, now") I put my head under the water.

I would love to say I enjoyed it. The truth is, as soon as I saw the fish swarming around me I was seized by a slight hysteria and had to return to the boat.

Nicola

The Brazilian rules of driving

In Curitiba, Claire and I learnt about all the rules of driving that Brazilians don't follow. When we arrived we stayed with a girl called Bruna, who drove us around all day. First we went to the Botanical Gardens, then to lunch, then to her Mum's work, her Dad's work, the downtown, and finally to their apartment. After offloading our bags at the apartment Bruna took us down to a local bakery get some pão de queijo (pronounced 'pow jee keh-zhoo'), a cheesy tapioca bread and local delicacy.

While we were driving, Claire asked Bruna what was wrong with the seatbelts in the back. Bruna looked confused as she swerved sharply to avoid a truck.

"There's nothing wrong with them" She said. "What do you mean?"

"I mean", said Claire, "They're missing".

"I know", replied Bruna, while simultaneously pulling out in front of a car without indicating. "What's the problem?"

"My mum would kill me if she knew I wasn't wearing a seatbelt right now", I said. (She really would have).

Bruna was genuinely puzzled by this. "Why?"

"Because", I said, "It's dangerous". I'd never really had to explain the merits of seatbelts before. "And it's illegal not to wear seatbelts in New Zealand".

"Oh yes, it's illegal here too," Bruna said, "But nobody cares. And nobody wears them in the back!"

After thinking about this for a while she starting laughing at the idea of anyone voluntarily wearing seatbelts. "Why would you want to wear a seatbelt?" she asked. "They're so stupid!"

"They save your life?" said Claire.

"If you don't have seatbelts in your car, you're not allowed to drive it", I told her. "It's wrong".

Bruna suddenly became serious.

"Okay", she said, "I have to explain you girls something. Here in Brazil, we don't tell you whether your car is right or wrong. You just drive it". She smiled. "Okay?"

This seemed to end the debate because Bruna turned back to the road. "Is talking on a cellphone wrong too, when you drive in New Zealand?" she asked.

"Yes", I replied, eyeing the cellphone in her hand. "It's illegal. Because too many people crash when they talk on them".

"Oh yes. Here too." Bruna nodded sagely as she dialled a number and lifted the phone to her ear. "It's a big problem".

Nicola

Argentina loves Ham

After a week in Santiago we headed back to Mendoza in Argentina. The journey itself should only take about four hours, but took us close to the whole day after we arrived at the border and found ourselves to be the 27th bus in line waiting to cross (I counted).

With only two customs officers working for over 30 busloads of people, it took an achingly long five hours to get our passports stamped and luggage checked. Once we arrived in Mendoza we had to take another bus to Buenos Aires, so Stacey and I decided to splash out (read: I convinced Stacey that we should splash out) and upgrade to Full Suite bus seats.

The Full Suite bus is really more like a plane; with personal LCD screens, blankets, curtain dividers, seats that recline 180 degrees and a foot rest that comes right up - meaning a fully flat bed and an actual chance at a decent sleep. There was even a safety video at the start of the trip, much like a plane, where they announced that the toilet could be used for liquids only, no 'solids'. At first I thought I has misheard this (after all, what is one meant to do with one's solids? What if you really need to go?) but then they repeated it, just to be sure. No solids, not ever. We were also told not to take our shoes off, but I did anyway, and I didn't regret it for a second. (Who wants to sleep with their shoes on? I ask you!).

The Full Suite bus also meant an upgrade in terms of food. Usually on buses you get a ham sandwich (the ultimate combination of two Argentinian favourites: bread and ham). On our last bus we'd had a platter with about five different types of ham, followed by ricotta balls with chunks of ham. Needless to say it is hard to be vegetarian here. After my meat frenzy, which lasted about a month, I was really getting over it. I've been doing my best, but sometimes you just have to eat ham.

This time we received a cold plate, followed by a hot plate. The hot plate was a piece of beef, rolled up with cheese and ham, and served with mashed pumpkin and potato. The cold plate consisted of a bread roll, a piece of garlic bread with (spiced?) ham, a slice of ham with a slice of cheese, some cold rice with peas and carrots, a packet of breadsticks, a small savoury ham, egg and cheese pie; and the kicker: a slice of sponge roll, with a rolled-up piece of ham wedged in the middle. Honestly!

Nicola

Hugo and the inorganic farm

A few hours north of Cordoba is a place called San Marcos Sierra.

In September, we decided to spend two weeks working on an organic farm in an area of San Marcos Sierra, known as Rio Quilpo. We signed up through WWOOF Argentina ("Willing Workers on Organic Farms"), after trawling through about fifty possible farms, and we'd spoken to Hugo, the owner of the farm, a couple of times on the phone. I was excited at the prospect of doing some actual physical work - picking fruit, gardening, construction, cooking. I couldn't wait to get there.

We took a three hour bus to San Marcos Sierra, which broke down. We switched buses and continued on to where we were meant to meet Hugo, who wasn't there. We walked for four hours on the dusty road to get to his farm. I was very inappropriately dressed in jeans and jandals but at least we didn't have our bags, since we'd accidentally (but as it turns out, rather conveniently) left them on the other bus.

Eventually we got there. By this time I had fairly low expectations, but when we saw the place I was still overwhelmingly disappointed. It wasn't even a farm, let alone an organic farm - there were no plants, no garden, no greenery. It was a barren, dusty plot of land by a river. The only people there were Hugo, his 'woman', her son, and another guy called something like 'Hubano' who was helping out. The only animals were five mangy dogs.

Hugo was around his early 40's, with long, greasy gray hair, a beard, and a pot belly. When we turned up he was holding a bird with a broken wing. (I have no idea what he intended to do with it, because I highly doubt that he had any medical knowledge whatsoever that would have helped it). He showed us the room we were going to stay in. Suprisingly, there was an ensuite, though this was the one redeeming feature of the place. It had bunk beds with no sheets and no pillows, some scratchy blankets, and a fire out the back to heat the water for the shower.

Hugo was holding the dying bird the entire time he showed us around. "You can start work tomorrow", he said. "I have not organised anything yet. But we can do tomorrow". We asked him what we would be doing but he didn't seem quite sure. "Cleaning the river, cleaning up, that sort of thing", he said vaguely. "Is all natural here, because all day we clean, clean clean". I looked around. There was crap everywhere - bits of plastic containers, wire springs, broken chairs. He showed us the kitchen next, which was full of dirty dishes, random cooking implements and blatently non-organic food.

Hugo did feed us, I'll give him that. His 'woman' made an amazing pasta sauce, though we were the only three eating it which was slightly uncomfortable. Hugo sat there for a bit, fiddling with something on the table, then looked up and said that it was "time for marijuana". Of course. (I'm pretty sure, at this place, that it was always time for marijuana). I wondered whether he was expecting us all to get stoned together and how I could politely decline, but evidentally he just meant for himself. He lit up a joint on the gas stove and puffed away for about the next half hour, before announcing that he was heading off to a child's birthday party in the town and would see us at 8am the next morning.

That night I went to bed with all my clothes on, so that no part of me had to touch the mattress or the blankets. With hardly any deliberation at all we decided to leave the next day. When we told Hugo (at about midday - there was no way he was getting up at 8am), he seemed fairly okay with it. He just shrugged. "Is it because of Hubano?' his 'woman' asked suspiciously. (She, by the way, was beautiful. I have no idea why she was there on that farm with him). We assured them that it was nothing to do with Hubano (or whatever his name was), or with them; it was just because we wanted to work on an actual organic farm. They seemed pretty satisfied with this. They drove us back into town and wished us well.

Nicola

Salt, salt, everywhere...

After Potosí we took the bus to Uyuni, home of Salar de Uyuni. Salar de Uyuni is the massive stretch of white salt, an ancient dried-up lake, otherwise known as the salt desert. We just did a one day tour, which started at 10am with a trip to the train cemetery.


The train cemetery was originally a trainyard, where trains were loaded up with minerals from the salt desert and taken to Chile. Eventually all the minerals were used up, and the trains were abandoned. They've been sitting there now for about forty years.



From the train cemetery it was about an hour drive into the salt flats. I'd seen photos before, but it was still incredible to actually be there, and to see such a huge expanse of white with no horizon. Walking on the salt is almost like walking on cut glass; crunchy like snow but not cold, like sand but not soft.


While we were at the salt flats we also visited Isa del Pescado, an island of cacti in the middle of the desert, so named because the shape apparently resembles a fish. (It doesn't. They should have named it Isla del Cacti, but that's Bolivia for you). Some of the cacti on the island were 800 years old or more, including a few that were actually labelled with names and ages -'Old cactus, 900 years' and 'Deceased cactus, was 1200 years, died in 2008'.

Nicola

The Potosí silver mines

In our last couple of weeks in Bolivia we stopped in the mining town of Potosí. We were only in Potosí for one day, and we spent it in the silver mines.

The silver mines were found under the Cerro Rico mountain by the Spanish Conquistadors, when they first came to the area. Originally the Conquistadors brought in African slaves to work in the mines; later they used the local indigeous people. The Conquistadors told the mine workers that God had forsaken them, and while they were in the mines they were at the mercy of the Devil. For this reason the miners started worshipping the Devil and they still do to this day. They call him 'Tio', or 'Uncle Miner", and there's a statue of him at the entrance to the mines. It's covered in coca leaves, coloured paper and cigarettes - all offerings from the miners. The miners give him offerings on the first and last Friday of every month; in return they ask for protection and good minerals. Over two million people have died working in the mines.

Our tour guide, Juan, was an ex-miner. He'd worked in the mines for seven years. Juan told us about one incident that had happened when he was working with a friend on the fourth level down, and their job was to stick dynamite in holes in the rock. His friend didn't stick the dynamite down far enough. When the dynamite blew, he lost the entire lower half of his body. They took him to hospital, but there was nothing left of him from the waist down. He died later that day. "The miners live for the now", Juan told us, "because they never know when they might finish".

Before going into the actual mines we stopped at the miners' market to buy 'presents' for the miners. These presents were big bags of coca leaves, cartons of juice, sticks of dynamite and bottles of 97% alcohol. The 97% alcohol was because it was a Friday, and as part of the Friday ceremonies for the Devil where the miners ask for protection, they also (inexplicably) get drunk. The coca leaves and juice were for energy down in the mines. "Miners don't eat in the mines", explained Juan, "So they need to chew coca to keep them strong". It was true - every miner we saw had a massive wad of coca stuffed in his cheek. (At first I thought they all had mumps). We all tried chewing some coca leaves. I have to admit, I wouldn't be able to make it as a miner. The 97% alcohol wasn't too bad but coca leaves made me want to gag. I stood there for a while awkwardly chewing the bitter, gummy wad, trying to jam at all in to the side of my mouth without tasting it. Eventually my mouth went numb and I spat it out when nobody was looking.

Down the mines it was pitch black. We'd been kitted out with long pants, jackets, gumboot, helmets, headlamps and face masks to protect us, but I still felt horribly vulnerable. There was one entry point in and out. Most of the time we had to crouch through the narrow, low tunnels. The tunnels became warmer as we got deeper, which only added to my not-so-irrational fear that we would somehow get trapped in there. We heard dynamite go off below us. The tunnels were full of cloying chemical dust; at a few points the dust was so thick I couldn't take any photos. The dust was the reason we were wearing face masks, even though Juan assured us that one day in the mines wouldn't do us any harm. (For the miners, it does. They commonly die from silicious pneumonia within ten years of entering the mines). It was an unforgettable experience. On the other hand, I have never felt more happy to see sunlight than three hours later when we crawled out, blinking, gasping, sweaty and dust-covered.

Nicola