(George)

Boarding our 'door2door' transfer from Ilha Grande, I felt familiar feelings of anxiety and anticipation arise as I cogitated on our next destination. Only one city before Rio de Janeiro had provoked such feelings and emotions, the lofty La Paz. As the wheels of our transfer relentlessly rolled on (except when stopping for more all you can eat buffet stops), I closed my eyes and attempted to regather as much strength and alertness as possible - we would need it.

As our 'door to door' transfer decided it couldn't be bothered anymore, we were dropped off on a busy street corner in, what we would soon discover to be, Lapa. Our driver advised that our hostel was a quick taxi journey up the hill and wished us good luck, if it was so easy why not just take us up yourself? Observing our new surroundings, we quickly realised we had been dropped into a tense situation. Rio was determined to live up to its name as police sirens soared and officers, armed to the teeth with guns and pepper spray, attempted to resolve a dispute further down the road. Feeling vulnerable with our turtle shells and valuables, we quickly hailed down a taxi and shoved a crumpled piece of paper under the drivers nose. After a stern warning from our taxi driver not to walk down our road at night, we arrived at the ubiquitously named 'Rio Hostel'. Having previously read reviews of our hostel, we felt excited. Tales of a pool, bar, double kitchen, panoramic view of the city and clean, A/C dorms had us rushing into the reception, desperate to embrace the Rio lifestyle. I'm sure at this point in our blog entries you are all able to guess how the next part of this story goes. The pool? Closed for maintenance. The bar? Closed until 8pm, shutting at 10pm. The rooms? Great until a cockroach rattled past my head. Not be deterred, we armed ourselves with bug spray and headed up to the bar at 7:59pm.

For our first night, we had arranged to meet up with two Canadian girls we met on Ilha Grande. As they arrived at our hostel, we realised they had other guests in tow. A couple (from Bristol) who had also been at our previous hostel for the duration of our stay on Ilha Grande. Embracing the awkward fact that we had seen these people for 6 days previously and never said a word, we each greeted, exchanged names and got on with the party. A very welcome addition to our Rio crew came in the form of an old flat mate. Will Jones, also known as Wee-Jay, who used to occupy one of the 6 rooms available in 148 Bournbrook Road, Selly Oak. Having a familiar face on board again definitely spurred us on with excitement. Laughs were loud and drinks were full until we decided to get our first taste of the samba culture. All throughout Carnaval, the city is teeming with 'Blocos'. Blocos, for you gringos back home, are organised (or unorganised) street parties that demand attention through thundering samba drums and incessant cheering. The Santa Theresa Bloco that we found ourselves at took place in a small square surrounded by colonial churches and whitewashed buildings. Our Canadian friends were desperate to get involved and insisted on dragging us all to the front where we found the 'bateria' - drumming section. A cohort of 30 drummers stood like sentries each pounding their various assortment of drums in time to the shaky samba beat. On stage, 3 men in colourful shirts and sunglasses droned and chanted into their microphones whilst scantily clad women shook their stuff to the rhythm. Beers were flowing as vendors struggled through the crowds, each determined that you would buy more than you originally asked for. The atmosphere was electric as waves of sound smashed through our heads, we couldn't have asked for a better start to the Carnaval period.

Waking from the previous night's antics, I noticed something was missing. I looked around, everything seemed in order except for the fact that I had lost my hearing. Piercing tones resounded throughout my left ear as the outside world continued with subdued bumps and bangs. I knew Tamara was talking to me but she wasn't making any sense, 'We're going to carve a tree?' I asked in my confused state. 'No, you idiot. We're going at half past three!' A sense of panic bubbled through my being and I quickly shot down any talk of leaving the dormitory, never mind actually leaving the building. Water and rest were of upmost importance at this point and I was determined to obtain both. With Tamara on board that Carnaval was a marathon, not a sprint, we settled in to begin the eagerly anticipated Season 2 - Game of Thrones. With vitamins replenished after several packs of super noodles and copious amounts of agua mineral, we thought we may hit the hay and get in shape for the following day. Just as we were ready to settle beneath the covers, temptation sprang forth from the most unlikely source. Ruth, a 69 year old American hailing from San Francisco, popped her head round the door and asked if we would like to accompany her to the Sambódromo. Our initial response was a timid no, we'd heard that the main parade was very expensive and we definitely didn't think that entry to the Sambódromo was within our budget. However, prepared for such a response, Ruth smiled wryly, 'Oh did you not know? It's free tonight.' Having previously been shown videos of the 'Ensaio Tecnicos' - 'Sound Tests' by avid samba fans in Brazil, I shot up at the chance to see the world class bateria section for all its polyrhythmic beats and soul. We quickly assembled outside the hostel with another older lady and hailed a taxi, the show was meant to start at 7pm and it was now 8. We arrived at the 'Dromo' just in time for the first act to begin, it seemed South American time was a ubiquitous measurement used in even the more 'developed' countries. The parade kicked off and the crowd roared as wave after wave of dancers and prancers strode through in costumes that sparkled so brightly we often had to avert our eyes. The atmosphere was great but in our fragile state we decided it wouldn't be wise to get involved in any consumption of alcoholic fluids. The first parade lasted all of 70 minutes and for the duration of this time the same tribal rhythm played on and on and on. Not realising that a parade involved 60-80 minutes of the same song, consisting of two verses and a chorus, we shot each other a rather bemused look at around the 30 minute mark; I was sure I had heard this bit before and even with my limited knowledge of the Portuguese language found myself chanting along to the catchy samba melody. With the first parade ending, we looked around to check on Ruth who we found running up and down the parade trying to keep up with the bateria. After a quick discussion, we all agreed it was best to head back to the hostel before the second samba school had finished, the last thing we needed to be in was a close quarter situation with thieves that only had eyes for those with a gringo tan. To finish the night off, Ruth decided to take us on a late night walking tour of Lapa, the beating heart of Rio's nightlife. Being a Saturday night and in the run up to Carnaval, the streets were flooded with bodies as partygoers clutched onto their potent caipirinhas and cigarettes. There really was no room to move and with my head still on fire from the drums of the bateria, I told Ruth that maybe we should save the tour for another night.

Feeling more refreshed but still lacking my hearing, we embarked on some Sunday sightseeing with a fellow Bristol nomad who had ditched everything after her dog had died and decided now was the time to find out what this life is all about. Our destinations included the Lapa Arches, which had become an impromptu shelter for the glue sniffing community of Rio, the Lapa Steps and the Metropolitan Cathedral. After stopping for a quick beer in one of the most expensive bars we could have found, we settled down to have a rest to prepare us for the nights festivities. Waking up at 4pm, we set off to the nearest Metro station in the hope of getting to Ipanema beach for 5pm; a bloco was scheduled and it was tipped to be a big one. During the walk we managed to pick up Ruth who we found meandering the streets of Lapa and she decided she felt like a day out with the youngsters. After seeing that the metro station was bursting at the seams, we reluctantly admitted that a taxi was our only hope of reaching our friends in time. Arriving half an hour late after a guided taxi tour of the city from our newfound companion, we jumped out the taxi and quickly tracked down the group. Having already waited half an hour for us to arrive, everyone was keen to get to the beach and get cracking. Ruth, however, had other plans. She expectantly asked the group if they would like to take a trip up the elevator to see a great view of Rio, already leading the way in anticipation. Feeling Ruth may have the wrong idea of how we imagined the day would pan out, I quickly took her to one side and told her we had other plans today but we'll see her later. The bloco itself was enormous, it spanned the entire length of Ipanema beach as throngs of people basked in the setting sun, captivated by the energy of their surroundings. The focal point of each bloco is a large open top truck in which live musicians play the samba drums and instruments, hollering at the crowd and whipping up a frenzy amongst those closest to the speakers. We marched along with the truck, often ducking out onto the beach in order to avoid any particularly crowded sections. Our friend, Dan who had lived in Rio for a year, warned us to be careful of any groups of young lads who passed through the crowd very quickly and sure enough within a few minutes a mob of hyped up adolescents barged through the crowds attempting to clean out as many pockets of the innocent partygoers as possible. We were told later that criminals from all over South America make the journey to Rio Carnaval to reap the harvest of new mobile phones and cameras.

That evening we made our way back to the Sambódromo in order to experience the real party in true Brazilian fashion. Having spent the previous night watching the parade from the lower levels, we decided that we would enjoy the atmosphere from the grandstands; traditionally reserved for the poorer communities who couldn't afford the expensive ringside seats. Arriving late, we had already missed one school but managed to find ourselves a good spot surrounded by locals and in great spirits we eagerly anticipated the coming school, 'Beija Flores'. As the procession began its mile long march the crowd went wild and being in the party stand we followed suit with all the energy we could muster. Language barriers dissolved as locals, many of whom hailed from the favelas, wanted to have their pictures taken with the dancing gringos. We each found ourselves an instructor on how to dance and how not to dance the samba, this led to a rather embarrassing moment where I was pulled down the stairs and fell straight on my behind, causing a uproar of cheers and laughs amongst all present. The night continued as described until we decided it would be best to escape the rush as the show ended. We hobbled along the streets of central Rio, singing a few snippets of the repetitive samba beats and finally made it back to our hostel in one piece and with all belongings in tow.

With Monday being used as another recuperation day (our time in Rio was effectively halved by such days), we roused ourselves on Tuesday to head to Ipanema beach to meet our friends Will and Dan. With Dan having lived in a favela for over a year, we decided to allow him to showcase the 'other' side of Rio, a side that he had grown to know and love during his time here. Meeting at a bus stop on the seafront, we caught the local bus to the infamous Rocinha favela. Having been pacified in 2011, Rocinha offered a glimpse into the underbelly of Rio and provided us with a flavour of the community spirit that holds the favelas together. Arriving just as dusk crept in, we quickly sought out one of Dan's favourite street foods, a 'yakisoba' which is meat and thick noodles drenched in teriyaki and soy sauce - simply exquisite and partially filled a hole in Tamara's Chinese cravings. Walking around, I was amazed to see so many people. It appeared as though everyone had deserted their abodes and taken to the streets. People chatted in large groups round bars, on corners or even in the middle of the poorly lit streets. The atmosphere was electric and the dilapidated buildings equipped with kilometres of loose wiring, that hung to dangerous levels, only added to the effect. Without wanting to sound like a wuss, I must admit I was apprehensive to enter the favela at first but as local after local eagerly came up to greet Dan as an old friend, we quickly became at ease in our new situation. After a few fleeting visits from Dan's friends and a swift caipirinha or three, we headed towards the São Conrado beach at the foot of Rocinha to enjoy a bit of peaceful stargazing as the waves calmingly broke on the shore. My stereotypes of the world renowned 'favelas' had been shattered as the overwhelming community spirit lifted us up and made us feel at home. Without a doubt this is not a true reflection of all favelas in Rio, those yet to be pacified still retain conditions of extreme poverty and danger but with the ever watching police presence found in Rocinha it had successfully opened the doors to showcase its wealth of culture to a couple of gringos brave enough to see what lies on the other side.

(Tamara)

With 1/3 of our way into Rio we were already extremely worse for wear. Luckily we could start fresh seeing as we had pre-booked a second hostel for the 'actual' carnival, giving us the chance to experience the city from a different perspective. We had selected an eco friendly hostel based on the recommendation of an Aussie we had met in Bolivia, who having worked there for the past few months was finding it impossible to stay away and had arranged to return immediately; (it would soon be easy to understand why). With the carnival price tag making deep holes in our pockets, we were thankful that our upcoming stay would be worth every last penny.

The hostel was positioned at the top of the steep hill of the Favela Chapeau Manguieara, which was the first favela in Rio to be granted pacification. The locals, like the graffiti infested walls, exhuberated colour and soul and as gringos, we couldn't have felt safer throughout our stay. After staggering up the 'colourful steps' and being directed to 'casa de Pablo' we found the metal gate that allowed entrance to our new festival home. The owner Pablo and his beautiful girlfriend sat with their small baby as our companion from Bolivia grinned at the success of his marketing skills. "Welcome to the family" he beamed and with our bags down we already felt right at home. Eager to show us around, our Aussie gave us the grand tour and finally pointed to a rather dubious set of ladders, and as he winked, insinuated for us to climb. As we carefully reached the top we were greeted with the creme de la creme of all hostels, a relaxation roof terrace overlooking the entire city. In awe we slumped onto the sofa and realised to leave this very spot would prove exceptionally difficult over the next 9 days, and as countless hours would be spent dancing and exchanging stories with wonderful people, the roof terrace will forever have a special place in our hearts.

That evening we had opted for a relaxing meal and an early night. We were directed to the 'pirate restaurant' in the favela to try some cheap, authentic Brazilian cuisine. From its name, the restaurant, a small wooden shack, had been transformed into a pirate's ship with plastic skulls surrounding its perimeter. Unfortunately, Johnny Depp was unable to make an appearance but the real reason for the recommendation was the fabulous view of the city. Our waiter had apparently stepped in for the night due to staff sickness and despite appearing a little detached from reality made our evening very entertaining. Interestingly, he explained his lack of excitement for the carnival ahead, as after paying his taxes to the government he felt disappointed the carnival he once knew was now, in his opinion only a tourist's show and an extortionate cost for those less well off locals. Wanting to stay on his good side we gave in to trying 'the best caipirinha in Brazil' which, after losing track of the quantity we have tried, will grant him that award; it really was the best. As he switched on the child size disco ball and offered us another, we quickly declined and headed home before we were stuck there for the night. Unfortunately our plan of an early night magically disappeared as the hostel was thriving with activity when we returned. With many new faces having arrived that day we all spent our first night together on the roof and when the limes ran out we headed to the closest bar for more caipirinhas. Our favourite guests included a warm-hearted Aussie guy, two loose canons from London (the typical festival goers) and a definite future addition to TOWIE who refused to ever call it a day. As in typical all or nothing Wozzle style we took charge of the party and led the way to the beach for a sunrise 6.30am swim on the Copacabana beach. Unfortunately with the festivities upon us we wouldn't be able to follow our routine of 'nothing' for the next few days, and after setting the bar high together as a hostel we made mother carnival very proud with our efforts (trust me, now we are paying the price!)

After only a wink of sleep, we were awoken by the rudeboiz of the favela blasting out hip hop and rap music from their impressive speakers across from our window. Accepting this would be our daily, harsh wake up call, we set out for some much needed grub and a lie down on the beach. As we planned a hike for the following day we lay down in bed at a reasonable time, however with our Essex friend yo yoing between the hostel and the party throughout the night, our ear plugs failed to drown out his chant of "never sleep, never sleep" and it was almost impossible to drift off until the early morn.

The next day the atmosphere in the hostel was full of excitement as glitter fell like fairy dust coating every possible surface and fancy dress costumes began to unveil themselves. As our hike was planned for the afternoon, it unfortunately started the unsynchronised carnival movements between our hostel and us. Yet we had to see something from a tourist's perspective (not just the many district street parties) and so we made the most of the rare occasion we had a fresh head. With the sun setting at 7.30pm we had given ourselves plenty of time to complete the hike, especially as we had been warned this wasn't any ordinary hike, with the last 35 metres entailing a mountain climb. With Dan's three friends from the favela running late in true Brazilian style, this meant we arrived at the base of the trail at 5.30pm. With only two hours until sunset, time was of the essence and it was now a race against nature.

George, (now nicknamed mountain goat) raced ahead of the group and I had to question how he has managed to lead every hike we have done in South America without participating in any physical activity in the four years I had know him? Then of course I remembered he has his grandfather's genes. As we literally ran up the first segment of the trail, struggling to breathe I envisioned the current festivities and questioned my insanity for participating. With only Boxing Day sales ever motivating me to sprint up stairs, I pictured endless racks of garments and soon gained speed to join the rest of the boys.

As I looked upwards a mighty peak towered over me, "there is the top, we are nearly there" Dan excitedly exclaimed. As fear took front seat, I began to doubt my ability to reach the summit and with the spectacular view from my very spot, did I need to push myself further? I had come this far and I wasn't going to be left behind so I gained focus and began the climb. Remembering the one rule from my climbing instructors in England, "always keep three limbs attached to a surface" I clambered and slotted myself into any available crevices, daring to look at the sheer drop behind me.

As the men with long limbs and formidable upper body strength made their way to the top I grew envious as my slight frame and shorter limbs made the climb a little more than a struggle. Making my final push to reach the summit I sat a while to slow my racing heart and level my breathing. Lifting my head a wave of euphoria washed over me as I stood and did a 360° panoramic turn to take in the most incredible view of Rio de Janeiro. As I was shown the Rio the tourists know too well I was stunned to see the depths of the city that would never warrant a visit and was pointed to the favelas that had famously set the scene for the films 'City of God' and 'City of Men' - the real Rio which would be too dangerous to explore. As we took photos from above and relished in the achievement we had all made the sun set and we all lay side by side gazing at the stars. With the sky above us black as black could be and the city beneath us shining like a child's toy set, we savoured our last glimpse before starting the trek back down.

Having brought a head torch each to assist with descent climb, we were shocked when only three provided the essential light for the trek back down. This made for an interesting hike and with a lot of teamwork and patience we arrived at the bottom two hours later at 11.30pm. Not wanting to miss out on the first night of carnival, George and I returned to our hostel to shower. With the atmosphere being one of a hospital ward, the day party had clearly been a success as slurring bodies and empty bottles filled every doorway. After being smudged with glitter and cuddled by strangers we darted for the door and wished everyone good night, there is nothing worse than being around drunk people and simply not being drunk. Mum I don't know how you ever used to do it.

We regrouped with Dan and Will and headed to Lapa, the district down the road from our first hostel. It seemed this was the place to be for the next few days as small circles of samba dancers and musicians filled the squares and rows of rows of drinks vendors aligned the streets. As we samba'd through one night and into the next morning the true delights of carnival had hit me and after finding my spiritual home I wished I could have danced on for eternity.

Yet with all things good they must come to an end, and as my heart pleaded "no", my head was crying out "yes". Our last morning was emotional, as we said goodbye to a city you cannot help but fall in love with and people we wished could be friends for a lifetime. As we drove to the airport through the many districts of Rio, we paused as bloco after bloco paraded through the streets with fabulous floats and costumes. Wanting to flee from the taxi door and join the crowds, it hit me that the party in Rio never ends and one day when we return, we can throw on some glitter and join the parade right where we left it.