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Clueless

Georgi:

It was on Ilhe Grande that I finally realised that at some point this trip is going to end. I obviously always knew that, but suddenly it came home to me that when this is over, life is going to be very different indeed.

There are some aspects of travel I have grown a little tired of, and I must confess I've been guilty of doing a little griping.

I can't find the energy to combine the different clothes in my bag into workable outfits. I just cycle whatever's at the top of my backpack, convincing myself that none of it is that dirty.

If I hear my or Ter's voice telling the same unoriginal story, "no, living in South Africa is not that dangerous," or "Yes, I know we don't sound like Leonardo DiCaprio in Blood Diamond. Not all South Africans do," one more time, I am going to start screaming very original profanities.

But when, on our second last day on Ilhe Grande, it started raining, I suddenly found myself wanting to cry like a baby. I think that every other time the weather has gone bad, we've been able to console ourselves with the thought that wherever we are isn't the last island, mountain, desert, bit of rainforest or whatever; there will be plenty more.

But this was, in fact, our last tropical island, and if the weather went shitty now, there was no way to make up for it later. I got into a proper sulk about it all.

Ilhe Grande was more relaxing than Morro de Sao Paulo, but I suspect that this had more to do with our commitment to chilling out than because there wasn't any partying going on. Plenty of our fellow travellers were able to get themselves properly liquored in beach bars, and our hostel and its neighbour held parties on alternating nights, the noise of which our room was thankfully shielded from.

We fell in with a nice crowd, which also always makes a place more enjoyable. It seems to be Ter's lot in life to be surrounded by nubile young women. This bunch were Irish, our most beloved nationality, and physiotherapists, which is now our second-most befriended profession, after lawyers. One of these girls was actually a lawyer too.

There was also an American girl who drifted about. She wasn't illiterate. I know for a fact that she had read The Kite Runner, a book I'm a little too terrified to start, but see what the following conversations says about the American schools system.

I was reading Emma, in a pristine new white cover that made it look like modern women's fiction. "What's that?" the American asked me.

"Emma," I said, already slightly annoyed at being interrupted. This is another aspect of travellers' fatigue. You get really sick of people noticing that you're reading a book and thinking that this is a clear signal that what you really want to do is put your book down and talk about it with them.

But "Emma" wasn't sufficient for the American, who delivered me a blank look.

"Jane Austen?" I tried gamely.

Blank look.

"Early chick lit?" Ter offered.

Once we'd extracted ourselves from the quagmire of confusion this resulted in, Ter mentioned that there had been a movie with Gwyneth Paltrow.

"Oh, yeah!" she said, doubtfully. "I heard of that one, but I didn't see it."

Suddenly, I happened on the perfect solution.

"Clueless!" I announced. "Did you see Clueless?"

She nodded enthusiastically.

"OK, well, that was a modern day story based on Emma."

She looked at us doubtfully for a moment (Americans don't like the idea of unoriginality, it makes them uneasy. There's some great quote about how they think that baseball is a completely original game that has nothing to do with cricket.), then went away to find someone less unsettling to talk to.

There was also a real hippie woman, who we had quite a good time talking to (or I talked to and Ter goaded), although I must confess that I tuned out a little bit after I asked her her name and she responded, "Well, my birth name is Kerry, but my hindu name is..."

Anyway, after chatting to her for a bit, I asked if she had been to Peru. When she said no, I, made adamant by a few beers, told her to stop arsing about in Brazil and to get there immediately. "You belong in Peru," I told her, thinking that the general kookiness of the place would be just her bag.

Now, here's where things got a bit interesting. As I said this, the electricity pole behind us exploded. There was a dull blue flash and then melted wires fell to the ground, sparking.

"It's a sign!" she ululated. "I've been waiting for my message. I'm going to Peru!"

Jolly good. I'm going to go and talk to the American girl.

We boated, ate desserts sold by guys with giant trolleys the size of dining room tables filled with cakes (but not that many because I'm trying to reduce the Brazillian breakfast bakery belly - I even fed my breakfast cake to the fish outside our guesthouse every morning), swam in the sea, walked to perfect beaches and, when it rained, stayed all day in bed reading, which was also nice.

Ter:

The Germans twitched quietly in the corner. Georgi wandered round the hostel in a trance like state of incredulity, unable to believe that anybody could be this ruthlessly inefficient.

Our last but one hostel proved to be one of the most amazingly and astoundingly (the over use off adjectives is not misguided here), badly organized place in the whole of South America. This is no mean feat. It took us three days just to get towels. And then only when Georgi stood by the desk for a quarter of an hour insisting that she would not move until she had something resembling towelling in her hand. Our toilet worked occasionally, our hot shower didn't work at all but we had one of the nicest weeks of our entire trip.

Despite their faulty operating system, the guys running the hostel were some of the nicest people we've met on the trip. No matter how big the request, they ignored it with a wonderful smile and hollow promises that could only make you feel good whilst completely driving you out of your mind.

They also made the finest Braai (they would say churasco) this side of Pretoria.

The island was laced with abandoned beaches and beautiful snorkelling spots. We booked atrip the one day to go to the Blue Lagoon, yes the Blue Lagoon. No Brook Shields unfortunately. Our driver, sailor, whatever you call someone who guides a motor powered boat was this incredibly happy guy. He could not believe his luck at his life. He drove tourists around some of the most stunning scenery in the world and smoked the most heroic amounts of dope whilst doing so.

He spent the whole day giggling and singing along to the radio. It took us four tries just to get out the harbour of the town we were staying at.

He was supposed to take us back to the mainland on our last day but, apparently he met a friend in town the night before, Saturday, and got way to drunk. We were only told this at the last minute and so we had to do a last minute run (A thirty minute walk in fifteen) to the ferry with backpacks. But that's life on the islands.

Clueless but wonderful.

     

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