Cafayate made an incredible impression on us from the very first moment. We stepped out of the bus and were accosted by the usual crowd offering hostel accommodation. Usually this is quite annoying but this time we really had no plans so we let them pitch their deals. One man, with long flowing hair, and an indigenous American look, came up to us and said, in Spanish that he had a great hostel nearby at a good price. His manner and conviction were such that we followed without question. We entered a lovely old yellow building through an unmarked door, and found ourselves in the most entrancingly lovely, grapevine filled courtyard, with carved wood adorning the mural-covered walls and a cozy round table set below a big bunch of bright blossoming flowers. It was too good to be true. We were given a cozy private room (a total luxury, unheard of at this price) and then the owner asked us if we wanted to come get some lunch. Again, overwhelmed by his genuine manner, we agreed, and he lead us (along with another Argentine girl at the hostel) to a fantastic tucked away restaurant where we conversed rapidly and good humouredly in Spanish over Salta beer and humitas (like creamy corn tamales, a local specialty) and roast chicken. The guy (Claudio) was cheerful and easygoing enough that he could communicate with Casey (though they had not a word of eachothers language). After an exceedingly satisfying lunch, Claudio led us around the town, ending up at the main plaza where he insisted we try a local surprise: wine ice cream! Though we expected creamy sweet helado flavoured slightly of grapes, what we got was in fact what tasted like frozen wine, bitter and alcoholic, but an utterly ingenious creation. Exhausted by food and sun and excitement, we retreated to the cool leafy hostel (called Lo de Chichi, or Chichi's house) to relax in the courtyard with some impressive Peruvian craftsmen (a man who works with silver, creating incredibly necklaces with 10,000 chain links, and a woman who works with leather, making ingenious little leather coin cases) who were also very friendly. Meeting them and some others in the hostel, it began to be clear that Claudio doesn't pick just anyone for the hostel, but seems to restrict his invitations to craftspeople and musicians. The better for us!! We were totally at home and very happy with the place, and dinner that night preceded a very intense dream-filled sleep in a room that was blissfully dark and totally, totally silent. 
The next morning we awoke to golden sunshine winding through the grapevines to a little table beneath that was laden with coffee and simple but delectable pastries and jam. We ate and then gathered our energy for what would be a fairly ambitious day. We rented to bikes and then, with them in the hold, rode a local bus 50 kilometers up the Quebrada de Cafayate, where we were dropped off. The bike ride was probably the most spectacular I have ever done. The gentle incline and excellent pavement made for easy riding, and the golden sunshine was nicely refreshed by a cool breeze. But above all this was the landscape, as stunning as you could possibly imagine. Combine the grand canyon with monument valley, add the dimensions of a prehistoric dinosaur hunting ground, and a flavor of awe-inspiring eastern religious architecture and multiply it all by a thousand, and perhaps an image begins to form. Vast cliffs jut out of the earth in colorful red sandstone, at bizarre and impossible-seeming angles. Rocks that look like mouths, soldiers, obelisks, ships, and every other form imaginable. A powerful river edged by lush greenery winds it's way through the whole thing, and a peaceful, deserted highway meanders along side. This we rode for 30 miles, stopping for lunch (there is now starting to develop a serious competition about best picnic spot in argentina) and a dip in the muddy water, only approachable though thigh deep sloppy mud that seemed suspiciously like quicksand. We continued at leisure, but our speed increased when we ran out of water and the sun set, chilling even our exercise heated bodies to the core. But the last few miles were not unpleasant, for we were rolling through valleys strangely reminiscent of our own napa valley. Flat, tree lined highways with extensive golden vineyards on either side and imposing but slightly surreal chateau planted in the vineyards heart. Cafayate is the wine growing center of northern Argentina, famous especially for a crisp white wine native to the region called Torrontes. So we pedaled slowly through the vineyards as our energy began to flag, and rolled into the plaza with the cool evening, dropped the bikes and returned home for gallons of cold water and a big carbohydrate rush of pasta to relieve aching limbs and stomachs. That night we stayed up talking and playing music with Claudio and a group of french travelers from Lille. The music (primarily a native flute and drum with caseys guitar) was bizarre and excellent, and the company and wine were good. We eventually retired, glowing with warmth of a dozen different kinds. 
The next day was one of simple pleasures. A late rise, a good breakfast, a long walk up the valley to a sloping rock filled riverbed lined with sand that was literally shining with minerals so it looked like it was made of gold. A long hike up that stony riverbed, seeing goats, a snake, and a fox, before finally stopping to swim in the frigid but fantastic river pools and then bask on sun warmed rocks, eat apples, drink the pure water, nap luxuriantly, read for hours, play in the mud and swim some more. And eventually a lazy return, a good meal with good company, and to bed. The only disturbance was two very loud smelly drunk guys from town who begged claudio until he let then sleep in our room. But they only stayed one night (thank god!). 

We are already stepping off the bus in the cold and the dark at 7am before we really realize we are awake. It takes several more minutes of trudging along up a seemingly endless white dust road to nowhere, in the dark starry night, that we begin to have second thoughts about what the he'll we are doing. We set out at 5am to catch the only bus to the famous ruins of Quilmes, but now we are not sure what we have done is smart, or even safe. We have no idea where we are, and no truly warm clothes, and it is bitterly cold, as only a desert can be. We walk as quickly as cold muscles will carry us, breathing shallowly, trying everything we can think of to keep warm. We have nowhere to go, no way to get back, or get warm. No plan B. For a moment the whole thing is a bit terrifying, but then the eastern skyline begins to lighten and over the course of a terribly long hour, the sun rises and warms the earth. By the time it is fully risen, we are perched on a rocky promontory above the gorgeous sprawling ruins of the sacred ancient city of the quilmes people, who (though ultimately destroyed by the Spanish) were the only tribe to ever successfully resist Inca conquest. The ruins, a patchwork quilt of homes, work spaces, and temples, light up rapidly in the golden life-giving light, and the tall cactuses begin to throw long shadows. We have a perfect perch from which to view and then explore the city, and the sunrise, well, it defies description. The most amazing aspect of the ruins, we find, as we climb the long jagged ridges that surround them, are the work spaces where pits are dug into the solid rock, presumably for food preparation, to work as a mortar and pestle. The time devoted to this is beyond comprehension, and in these ancient places of communal work, the voices of the cooks can be easily imagined, laughing, gossiping, worrying about inca and Spanish invasions. It is surreal. We finally reach a high point, a sort of Quilmes Hilltop Villa (presumably the primo real estate) and have views not only of the astonishing ruins but even all the way back to cafayate and across the valley to snow covered mythical Andes. We break our fast on the epic mountain top and then descend, recross the desert to the bus stop, and catch a ride back to town, finally conquering awe-shaken minds. The afternoon is filled with an exciting new novelty: wine tasting!! Dressing in our finest Napa Casual attire (totally unnecessary but still fun) we go with one of our French friends to a bodega (winery) and ask for the complimentary tour and tasting (does such a thing exist for free in California?). We are guided around and given an impressive tour, and then treated to a tasting that redefines the limitations of the palate. The first winery is a large one that uses only metal containers instead of oak. The second is a tiny boutique winery recently founded ad distinguished by top of the line equipment from Italy. The third is huge, wholly organic, and one of the oldest in Argentina. We train our palates in the art of wine tasting and rapidly become experts and connoisseurs. 
Our verdicts. 
Bodega Domingo
Torrontes: delightfully crisp and fresh, but not too fruity
Malbec: mild and drinkable, but unable to accompany steak (big problem).
Bodega transito
Torrontes: mild and smooth, uninteresting
Malbec: fantastic, sharp, peppery, intense
Cabernet: fruity and smooth but Not napa-worthy
Bodega Nanni
Torrontes: citrusy and bright, best torrontes we've had
Tannat: hefty and acidic, peppery, powerful 
Late harvest torrontes: desert wine, delicious, honey,  great note to end on.
So there you go, instant understanding and mastery of the art! Joking aside, it was an extremely fun, entertaining, elegant way to spend the afternoon, especially since the girl at the last place was from Boston and spoke english and was very fun and funny. 
That evening Claudio insisted that we would all have an asado, so we went out with him and purchased several different kinds of meat and veg, and got a roaring fire going. Wine was served and we cooked with the french group happily, and the asado was served in courses, two different kinds of chorizo, then crispy ribs, and finally 
a hefty rump steak. All accompanied by a vast salad, fresh bread, potatoes, and, of course, good red wine. After the dinner the guitar came out for dozens of improvised verses about Cafayate and Lo de Chichi. The evening was beyond ideal, and, though Claudio was a bit heart broken that we didn't go clubbing with him, I would not change anything about that day for the world. And besides, we slept damn well.

We left Buenos Aires (the permanent crossroads of our south American adventure) once again, and hopped on a rickety train that took us to the main bus terminal. We stood in the freight section, surrounded by tense chain-smoking business men and drug dealers, with the windows open and the city hurtling past. We leapt down, backpack laden, onto the platform, and staggered out to Retiro Terminal, where we went through our normal bus procedure. Having now given up entirely any pretense of planning anything ahead of time, we simply wander over to the bus terminal and take the next bus to our destination, which may be in ten minutes or four hours. This time it was four hours so we munched some empanadas and waited (something which, between reading writing singing and talking, we have become quite adept at). Then we boarded the bus and coasted through the afternoon and night, sailing north into the mountains. There is one very strange thing about the Argentine buses, and that is the movies they play. We have had a bus that played only Ben Stiller movies for 12 hours (my worst nightmare), a bus that played the first 30 minutes of each movie before changing, and various buses that play the strangest selection of movies imaginable, including a Texas Bromance, a movie that took place entirely in a club, and the most absurd action movie ever created, starring Every action movie actor in the business. We would both prefer a book any day, but unfortunately the movies are played LOUD on the buses speakers and so is fairly difficult to ignore. Our first destination, which we reached the following afternoon, was Salta, a beautiful city of elegant colonial architecture and tree lined avenues. We found an excellent hostel (we are very much connoisseurs of hostels at this point, and absolutely disdain the very idea of a hotel) and then wandered into town for lunch (steak sandwiches from a street stand) and ice cream on the plaza. The city was overflowing with tourism and tourists, artisan shops (with beautiful cloth of llama wool and colorful Bolivian blankets), and people selling tours and day trips. The city was lovely, but quite in your face. We got away from the noise and action by hiking up a long winding stairway that lead to a hilltop that looks over the town. We climbed 1,020 stairs before arriving at the green grass and waterfalls at the top. It was a Sunday, so the place was pleasantly buzzing with Argentine families taking a relaxing afternoon outing. We descended as the evening fell, and returned to the hostel, where we made friends from France (Matieu),  Denmark (Benedicta), and New Zealand.  The hostel made a big batch of meat empanadas so we all ate together, talking and sharing stories as it is so infinitely easy to do with other backpackers. We drank Salta, the local beer, and one of the best we have had. The evening ended in a gradual cheerful exodus towards bed, and we slept, happy to be in a new place and truly on the road again. 
The following day found us traveling two hours north to Jujuy (pronounced, amusingly hoohawee, like a sound someone might make when they are very happy). Jujuy was similar to in scale, but the atmosphere was utterly different. Far less touristy, it in fact felt like a real working town, not a destination at all. We had an awesome lunch at a real locals place, that served vast helpings of rice and meat and french fries, accompanied by a Litre bottle of Fanta (we try to be healthy but don't always succeed). We spent a pleasant afternoon walking around the market, and hanging around the plaza, and visiting an archeological museum with eerie skeletons of children sacrificed by the Incas on nearby mountain tops. By the end of the afternoon we started to feel a distinct desire to return to the small villages and beautiful landscapes of the kind that we had liked so much in Patagonia. So after a fun evening of cooking dinner and watching ghostbusters in Spanish, making friends with our very adventurous Dutch roommate Sanders, and a brilliant nights sleep due to a fantastically comfortable hostel, we moved on again, to a little mountain town called Tilcara. The bus ride is about 30 miles long but takes two hours, since the bus driver inexplicably drives incredibly slowly and takes long leisurely breaks whenever it suits him. 
Tilcara appears at first as a simple dusty town, but we hesitate to pass judgment, first dropping bags and setting up camp in a leafy, quiet riverside campground, and then heading over to the nearest cafe (essentially a guys sitting room with tables in it)  where we are served heaping sizzling plates of barbecued lamb (Cordero), salad, fresh bread, and the local goat cheese for which this region is apparently renowned. It was washed down with delicious fresh peach juice. It seems that we don't eat too often, but when we do, we eat superbly well. After this decadent feast we walked meanderingly through town, eventually finding a road that led out of town to a nearby pucara (Inca fortress). Joining up with Benedicta, a friend from
Salta who we met on the path, we trekked along through the valley until we came to a bluff with impressive cliffs and topped by crumbling ruins. We made our way up and spent an hour wandering through houses and temples and along pathways tread hundreds of years ago by Mapuche (native to Argentina) and Inca (originally from Peru but thee empire expanded to northern Argentina before collapsing) people. The structures had been partly rebuilt and we could get a sense of the place, the living areas, and the militaristic advantage of the cliff, which had a commanding position in the surrounding mountains. The palpable age and history of the place was comparable, though wildly different, from the roman ruins of Alesia that we visited in Burgundy. 
Wandering back as the sun disappeared of the hilltop, glinting on the water before disappearing entirely, we found some other friends from Salta in the towns main plaza and settled down in a cozy sidewalk cafe for some submarinos. It was warm and cheerful, and the town grew on us as we gazed out on it, and wandered through it in the twilight. It was only when we had bought burgers to grill on a fire at our campsite that we found that there was no firewood to be found or bought. Dark and starting to be cold, but utterly stubborn and with no intention of giving up, we bought charcoal and (in an absence of standard lighter fluid)  96% rubbing alcohol. By now hunger was growing, so we threw the whole thing together and tried to get it burning. At first this was to no avail, so we scrapped it and tried again. But it became clear that pages from a tattered copy of Grapes of Wrath and green twigs were not sufficient to start anything longer than a ten-second blaze. Once again the ashes were scooped out and we went on a careful hunt around the campground, searching for even the tiniest bit of firewood as tempers started to wear thin and dinner started to look like bread and mustard. Finally a tiny blaze was got going and Casey carefully fed it coals and nurtures it while I went to plan B. We still had the tiniest bit of camp fuel left in our stove, so I got that blazing and started to cook the frozen hamburgers in mustard goop. It was slow going, but our spirits were high with red wine and success and before too long we had thawed burgers which (abandoning grilling) we threw into the coals and allowed to cook through. It was 10:30 by the time we ate (we had promised to meet our friends at the bar at 9 but food took definite precedence). Despite snickering neighbor campers and a slight sense of shame (we had, after all, considered ourselves hardy, experienced campers) we consumed our hot, long awaited dinner with gusto. We slept blissfully well, in a way that is only possible in a tent, with bellies full of fire roasted (or coal singed as the case may be) food. 

Though i wanted to strike out into the impressive, unexplored surrounding Quebrada de Humahuaca (canyons) Casey was insistent that today was a day to explore the nearby waterfall, so that is what we did, setting off up a long dusty path, with hot sun blazing down on our bare backs. On the long, winding path into the mountains, we met a porteno named Santiago who was also exploring the area. We formed a quick, solid trekking friendship and set off with him, higher up into the hills on a treacherous, sinuous path, that in the heat of the day, led us at last to a glittering, powerful stream of water that crashed down viciously into the canyon where we were standing. Whooping with joy we threw of our shoes an leapt into the powerful, almost crushing stream of water, which, icy and exhilarating, poured down on weary limbs and dusty hair. We explored various rocky pools below the waterfall, thrilling with the purity and energy of the water, but barely able to withstand it's cold. We drank deeply of the waterfalls that trickled down conveniently from the rocks on mossy beds, and the water (which goes straight to Tilcara to be consumed) was pure and delicious beyond anything we could imagine. We drank deeply of every aspect of the canyon and the waterfall, enjoying it for hours until the sun left the narrow space in darkness. Then we retreated down the canyon (saying goodbye to Santiago) to a sun drenched spot where we ate a long-awaited picnic and slept blissfully on sun warmed rocks that sheltered us from the sun. When we finally returned to town, it was with minds and bodies refreshed and rejuvenated and battered from heat and cold and bliss. Back in town we wandered through the artisans markets (where the dominant theme is unquestionably Llamas!) and then retuned to our campsite, where we sang and wrote and relaxed before heading into town for dinner (not that we had by any means given up on the BBQ. In fact, Casey was roped into helping some other campers get their fire going under the same circumstances which he, understandably, failed to do). We found a little bar on a dusty side-street and ate delectable llama burgers. Definitely best burger of the trip, llama is amazing. (sorry dad, that I got angry at you that one time for feeding the family our pet llama. Soon as I get home let's slaughter the rest of them!). 
The peaceful nature of the campsite was broken only by the loud, persistent, and out of tune marching band which paraded around at ungodly hours with a blasphemous rendition of Simon and Garfunkels El Condor Pasa. That night I finished my Steinbeck, the predominant feature of which (not having enough money and living on very little food) was familiar, and the next morning I was moved by the story to do what one of steinbecks characters does, and spend a little extra on good food. So the next morning we had breakfast (itself a rare occurrence) of milk (milk!!), apples, fresh bread, and dolce de leche. We ate on Caseys colorful new woven blanket in the brilliant sunshine of a fresh new cloudless mountain morning. Lounging, catlike, in the sun, we eventually roused ourselves and set off once again into the hills. This time we abandoned paths and set off up a random canyon. We trekked through the tough terrain, stopping at one point to sit on an eerily mystical seat of stone, where our minds wandered blissfully for what seemed like hours in the sun. For ages we kept a deliberate and flawless silence, drinking it all in and thinking, meditating in the utter silence of the mountains, any human beings certainly miles away. The location and the silence where perfect beyond compare, but we eventually  set off to find a more panoramic spot for lunch. Reaching the top of a ridge over the canyon, we perched on a precipitous, crumbly ledge, and looked out on the meandering canyons, the mighty mountains of the Andes, and the distant, tree filled town of Tilcara. Here again we relaxed, read and ate, our standard lunch of bread (excellent loaves of bread in northern Argentina), ham, and cheese, with juicy apples to finish. Eventually, as there were no crystalline waterfalls, our water bottle ran dry, and we returned to the town. 
Thrilled with the Quebrada and our exploration of it, we packed up camp and boarded a bus for Cafayate which, after a night spent in Salta, was our next destination. 

We only have one real day in Rio de Janeiro, so we decide to make it count. We rise fairly early, eat a vast breakfast of good coffee, cake, and fresh rolls with cheese, and watermelon (very different from the Argentine brakfast of Nothing...they do not eat breakfast, or drink coffee, so Brazil is very luxurious in comparison). Meet a very cool Parisien girl who asks to be called "Z" since her name is apparently too difficult to pronounce (suspect....) and a guy from Michigan. We decide to go on the iconic Rio expedition. We ride a bus across the city and then a train up to the top of Mount Corcovado, where stands the iconic (literally) statue of Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer), who looks out benevolently over the truly staggering view, his arms spread and his gaze loving. Though packed with tourists and prone to Stupid posing photographs, the spot is truly one of a kind. The views, of the city, the beaches, lakes, mountains, sugarloaf, soccer stadiums, jungle, it is all too incredible. I think Rio is the most beautifully situated and impressively laid out city in the world. From the top of the mountain, looming over the vast metropolis, it is awe inspiring.
We descend, and go with Z to Copacabana again, where we drink cold coconut water (out of the coconut, which they simply hack open with a machete to drink out of, brilliantly tropical), swim in the warm, salty water, lie on the perfect,fine, white sand, and watch incredibly athletic boogieboarding and surfing, from the safety of the beach. We have a great conversation with Z, who is one of the most like minded people we have met on all of our travels, and is a lot of fun. The evening winds down and we head back to the hostel. After some mate and music, we throw on our bags, salty and sweaty and just about tired of travelling, and set out yet again, saying goodbye to our new friend and leaving Rio having enjoyed it superbly despite such a short time spent there.
Another bus across the city, then a bus to Sao Paulo, we arrive at 4am and take another bus to the airport where we wait a few hours for our flight and then, before we know it, we are back in Buenos Aires,  (which, amazingly, is starting to feel a lot like hoooome to us). We walk back to the hostel through the beautiful parks of palermo, stopping for a Choripan (sausage sandwich) for lunch. We spend the day getting organized, refreshing our supply of books, doing laundry and getting hair cut (or hacked off by a crazy argentine rather) and preparing to continue our epic exploration of Argentina tomorrow. we are off to Salta, in the Andean Northwest. But for now, a little rest, in between the endless, but endlessly rewarding, travelling.

But leave we must, and we eventually do, early on a morning that is pleasantly grey and cool. Spared of the tropical heat for a morning, perfect travelling conditions, we bid goodbye to Gi and the house of Paradise, and Oliven drives us to the pier. Then begins an Odyssey the likes of which we have never experienced before, and do not pln to do again soon. We discover how huge Brazil really is.
We take a two hour ferry across the bay to the biggest town in the local area. Camamu is still too small to offer many bus services, so we take a "short" ride north to Salvador, the capital of Bahia. Short turns out to mean 5 hours and when we arrive, we are not in the city but across another bay. So we board a ferry that takes us across to the city as the sun sets. Now it is dark and we are in a strange city and are nowhere near the bus terminal. An evil cap driver takes us there, and we find a bus down to Rio. BUt it is not until 7am, which means a 12 hour wait at the terminal (no point slogging across the city to a hostel and back). Delirious after so long with no sleep, and a strange eerie night in the almost vacant (save for cockroaches) terminal, we finally board our bus. 26 hours brings us to Rio. A long time, made worse by lack of communication (Portuguese is soo difficult) and lack of food. But we sleep long hours and eventually arrive, or so we think, in Rio. We ask the driver, he confirms, we get off. But it is not Rio. So back on another bus and finally after 4 more hours we arrie in RIO DE JANEIRO. We take a city bus across town and find a brilliant hostel and, 60 hours after setting out from the house in Bahia, we have arrived. The afternoon sours slightly when Casey´s credit card is stolen by an ATM at a vacant bank (sunday) and then a suspicious guy tries to get his pin number. So we are down to one credit card between us.

But the day improves finally as we sip Ciapirinhas and Brahmas at a cafe on Praia Cobacabana (the most sensuous beach in the universe) watching impressive soccer and volleyball games, and gorgeous people strutting along the sand. We eat bolinhos de bacalau (fried cod) and whitebait, and luxuriate in a truly amazing city. The hostel is brilliant, full of fun (english speaking, it has been a while...) people wo tell brilliant stories. We make friends, but collapse eventually, worn out by travel.

And strangely, one morning, a week after Easter, the house was empty. The various Grahams were drawn away, either by work or school or Gap Year plans, and we were left alone. After such an odyssey north, they refused to let us leave. So we enjoyed a second week, equally luxurious but utterly different from the first. Gone were the loud rambunctious meals and games of charades, late nights and group expeditions. Except for Oliven (the incredibly friendly guy who manages the place) and Gi, who works with him, the staff and chef were gone as well, and the house was essentially shut down, save for a few rooms for us. We still ate delectable meals and swam and lounged and read, but now we truly were on our own schedule. We stayed up late watching movies, playing cards, writing songs, listening to music, reading (I never knew I could read so much in a week, and I read a lot). It is quiet, but blissfully so, and after all the long nights and big cities, loud noises and dusty streets, bus rides and plane rides and days without food and uncomfortable beds, we do not miss a moment of this splendor. We capture every moment, savor every swim and meal and sun drenched nap. Our skin turns from deathly pale to tinted brown to a lustrous golden (hate to be vain but it is hard not to notice when you spend 12 hrs a day in the sun). We go for long walks along the beach, stroll into town, ride the quad around. We get to know Oliven and Gi (they even invite us to go to a party with them, despite the language barrier). We have long intellectual discussions Tolkeins Silmarillion and the epic Watchmen and other than that, mostly just stare off across the rolling atlantic, visible through the vivid palms. One night we watch the Rolling Stones Shine A Light Movie (absolutely mandatory, one of the best band movies EVER) and end up dancing, singing Sympathy for the Devil at the top of our lungs, having air guitar solos and air drum solos and finally, at the epic ending, leaping into the pool in the dead of night with whoops of Rolling Stones mania. May sound like a quiet night in to some, but it was a blast.

The day before we leave (an event we dread), we go out to the cabana on the beach and play classical music at maximum volume on the speakers and lay back,  drinking beer and enjoying the heat of the afternoon and the gradual descent into twilight. The tide is at an all time high and is perfect for boogieboarding, so we leap into the wives and ride them up and down as music rolls through the air and warm tropical rain begins to fall. When we get out of the water, the rain intensifies and the clouds over the ocean are suddenly illuminated by a magnificent double rainbow, a complete arc, and utterly vivid. Franz Ferdinand blares from the speakers as we soak up a moment that doesn´t seem like it could be more idyllic.

The large group of people that inhabited the beach house for our first week included lots of Grahams, as well as their extended family and friends, gathered for a sublime tropical Semana Santa (Easter). We spent most of our time with Will (our age, on his gap year working in Spain and England and now traveling), his Italian friend Cosima (who is a pro skier who has been a much more impressive ski instructor than I, in italy. She also reads a lot and would get up at 8 with me to read at the beginning of the day), wills cousin Marco (half Brazilian half LA kid, loves glee and justin bieber), and Patrick (although younger than any of us, has much more impressive prospects, as he is training to be a professional tennis player and is already winning south American championships, as he now lives and trains in Brazil. Wow.). Though these are not all the characters, they are the ones we spent most of time with. Although the general day to day has already been described as simple luxury and relaxation, we also had several expeditions. One day brought a waterskiing trip, which was sublime, since I hadn't water-skied in ages, and the setting couldn't have been better. Gliding in sunshine on flat turquoise water 20 feet away from palm laden white beaches. It felt impossibly picturesque. My waterskiing was definitely improved by all that real Skiing in Austria. Casey had a blistering sun burn (as did I actually, inevitable after no exposure for a long european winter and Patagonian autumn) so he reclined in the gorgeous speedboat and watched Will, Marco, and I wipe out dramatically and often. Another day brought another boat trip, this time speeding across the glittering water up the estuary to a massive waterfall. The swimming, in the cold fresh water of the falls, was fantastic (despite warnings that anacondas are often swept down the falls), and Will, Patrick, Casey, and I climbed up the slippery slimey face of the roaring falls, plunging and leaping through the rushing water to reach a panoramic vista framed by dense, tropical (very tropical, this is the closest either of us have been to the equator) jungle, lush and dripping with vines. We look out over the meandering estuary and the distant bay, interspersed with desert islands and mangrove swamps. The speedboat, anchored at the foot of the falls and sprayed in a constant, delicate mist, seems tiny below us. After exploring the jungle above the falls, we descend and leap back into the boat and, as if on cue, a wild tropical rainstorm closes in. Now during our two weeks in Bahia rain storms were frequent and intense, but usually very short. But this was a different matter. Rain lashed down as the boat pounded over the growing swells and waves, driving into an ever darkening cloud. We were miles from the town, and the boat battled back towards the coast, spray and wind and rain lashing like shards of glass against our faces as we all sat, poised, wrapped in turban-like towels to protect our faces, bearing the brunt of the wild, almost unbelievable storm.

But not every day was filled with this genre of adventure. One day brought a trip into the local town of Barra Grande on the quadbike with Patrick (whose driving skills are, to say the least, still being developed) who sped confidently and haphazardly through muddy puddles and down sandy lanes into the little town. He brought us to a bar where a friend of his made passionfruit caipirinhas, and we lounged in the humid heat and sunshine, enjoying the simple life that many of the locals seem to live (from what I can tell, the hunched, wrinkled inhabitants of Barra Grande are in the same chairs, sipping the same caipirinhas, as they were when I visited three years ago). The town is tiny (villages seem to be the theme of this gap yah), but benefits from the exuberant lifestyle of such a gorgeous tropical beachfront. And Patrick, speaking fluent Portuguese, is a good guide (despite the fact that he drives worse than my brother. yes. worse. i know.).


Another day we all piled into the Land Rover Defender (definitely the gap year vehicle of choice) and speed over to another town to meet some friends off the boat. They never show up, so we spend the entire evening watching the tropical sunset across the bay, digging and playing in the sand, burying limbs and torsos in the deep sand, and enjoying a cozy little nook in the tangle of the coastline.


One night brings a party, but of exactly the kind that we prefer. No clubs or raves (we are, recall, in the middle of Nowhere, and that is coming from someone who has been to Thorpe and Ehrwald) but simply the five of us (Marco, Will, Cosima, Casey and I) out in the small cabana right on the beach, blasting music and dancing and running around on the sand and singing along at the top of our lungs, surrounded by people who somehow, suddenly, are great friends. It is fun, the most fun we have had with people our age since we left home. They are a great crew, and we all get along great, despite some small differences in musical taste (as I mentioned Marco is a fan of Bieber, among others...no comment. Hope emma doesnt read this).


The week is blissful in the kind of way that only well earned rest and relaxation, in the perfect spot, surrounded by wonderful people, can be.

So what is utter luxury? It is waking up whenever you so desire, with absolutely no demands on your time. For me this means 8oclock, so I can read for an hour in the morning sun before anyone else is up. For Casey it's more like 10 or 11. Utter luxury is steaming cups of incomparable Brazilian coffee and a vast spread of homemade pastries (created by the professional chef and served by the friendly, fun Brazilian staff) and tropical fruits and jams and tapioca and eggs and fresh bread for the baker in town. Luxury is sunshine so hot that by the time breakfast is finished a swim is obligatory. Luxury is swimming first in the ocean, rolling waves of warm (really warm) equatorial water crashing joyfully onto a white sandy beach that stretches for miles in either direction, edged by absurdly leaning coconut palms that disappear into a distant haze as the beach curves away into the distance. Utter luxury is going from the ocean to an icy fresh shower in the palm grove and then plunging into the crystalline pool. Then you can go back to the ocean and start over again. Luxury is deciding whether you want to relax on a pool chair, in a hammock, on bean bags or rocking chairs or floating pool chairs or window seats or just keep moving around from spot to spot and sun to shade and back again. Luxury is swimming whenever you even begin to overheat and drying off in the tropical sun. Luxury is the cool Breeze combatting the humid heat. Its an icy caipirinha (the Brazilian drink of choice,  the local sugar cane rum cachaca mixed with excessive amounts of sugar and lime). It's a huge lunch that leaves you desperately in need of a nap, although you have done nothing of sufficient exertion to deserve one. It's having a freshly baked cake constantly present on the counter to snack on throughout the afternoon. It's fresh squeezed fruit juices (mango, guava, passionfruit, pineapple, caja) and cold coconut water. 
It's having a churrasco (Brazilian version of the asado). It's passionfruit everything (candy, juice, pudding, cake). It's long exhausting boogie boarding sessions and then sunbathing to recover. Its playing heated card games with will and lilly. Its watching everyone patrol Jedi style hunting flies with electric fly swatters. Its poring through dozens of books in the long lazy days. Its Casey taking charge of the big boSe speakers to blast all manner of good music through the afternoon and evening. It's the tropical sunset over the ocean and a cold Brahma (Brazilian beer) before dinner. It's a vast feast of a dinner, followed by an elegantly presented glass of good scotch (no no, he insists) from Charlie. It's a wild, after dinner game of charades that threatens to collapse into all out warfare. It's a late night swim in the warm and eerily lot pool beneath the palm trees. It's going hunting for fireflies in the garden with Will and Patrick, worrying about stepping on anacondas in the garden, in the dark after everyone has gone to bed and the lights are out. It's catching the bright fireflies and then letting them escape. It's finally drifting off to bed, in a cool dark room between crisp sheets. It's dreaming vividly all night long (something about this place). Its being excited to wake up the next morning and do it all over again.

We spent one night in Buenos Aires, at Giramondo, the hostel that gas begun to feel very much like home. With a whirl of new friends and packing for the next day, the afternoon passed quickly, and we only grabbed a few hours of sleep before a 3am start (actually Casey didn't sleep at all). We set off from the hostel with lightened bags and hopped into a taxi with a driver who shored steadily all the way to the airport, although he didn't seem to he asleep. Traveling is, of course, extremely exhausting at 4 in the morning, but it is the sort of thing we have gotten fairly used to, and before we knew it we found ourselves disembarking in the sticky humid air of Sao Paulo, Brazil.

We spent three days in Sao Paulo, based at a comfortable hostel in a very nice part of town. The hostel was packed with friendly (but very bizarre) people, and several musicians, so we spent much of the three days jamming with an incredible argentine guitar player who also played a bizarre combination of a base and a guitar with no body or plucking. Our audience included a guy from Iran who claimed to be part of the most violent dangerous gang in Europe, an absurdly racist Chinese girl with a strong British accent who hated new York but proudly wore an I Heart NY tshirt, a flamboyantly gay guy who insisted on taking a dozen photos of anyone who took their shirt off for an instant in the heat, and a music-obsessed Frenchman not unlike a more worldly Jean-louise. There was also a massive Brazilian filmmaker who stumbled into me drunkenly demanding a rendition of Beethovens 9th which I was supposed to recognize from a slurred dumdumdumddum daaadaaadummdum. 
It was a very entertaining scene and the music was as always, beloved. Though we spent much of our time just hanging around the hostel, we also dud a few expeditions into Sao Paulo, which is a Massive, and not very touristy city. But we enjoyed wandering around the lovely parque ibirapuera (where we watched a spectacular water show in the fountains set in the parks main lake), and meandered up agenda Oscar friere, a street lined with the most elegant opulent row of designer shops we had every seen (outdoing London, new York, and any other competition). Shopping was not on the agenda, but we did find a good bookshop with an English section where we were able to stock up on reading material. While in the city, we ate vast, cheap meals of meat, rice, and beans at little street side eateries. We also discovered a totally incredible restaurant called casa jaya, a music bar and vegan restaurant. Where we listened to fantastic musicians serenading us as we feasted of mountains of salad, rice beans, and stew. The greenery was an incredible treat after such a long time of cheap food. And the setting was so beautiful, a shady little corner down the stairs from street level, the walls all painted lovely oranges and tropical plants and flowers thick in every direction. We stayed at this paradise for hours. We were loving the novelty of a new country, though it shares a border with Argentina they are utterly different in every way. The language barrier was frustrating after speaking Spanish for a month but not impossible. All in all we enjoyed our few days there and when they ended we had another dawn start, leaping onto a subway and cutting across the city to the domestic airport, where we boarded a flight north to Bahia (whenever we told people in Sao Paulo that we were going to Bahia they were extremely jealous). We landed at a tiny airport in the middle of nowhere, a fishing town called Ilheus, where we met Analida Graham, who I had stayed with in London and who would now be our host again. She is originally Brazilian and so the family (her, Charlie, and kids Alex, Will, Patrick, and Lilly) spends a lot of time in Brazil and had invited us (and several other friends, making for quite a full house) to their beach house for Easter. We rode with Analida north to the port of Camamu, where we were met by several other grahams in their speedboat, the Lillibelle, and shot out across leaping waves to a tiny town on the other side of the bay. Then we rode in a landrover down the narrow spit of land till we arrived at the isolated and luxurious beach house. We arrived as darkness settled, in time for a vast meal, with all 20 or so people gathered around the enormous dining table. We fell asleep early that night, after a very long day of traveling, but we were immensely excited about the two weeks of utter luxury that would begin the next morning.