(George)

Stepping off the bus, the familiar jungle heat threatened to knock us to our knees. Taxi drivers flocked to the bus seeking the most coveted catch of all, a double gringo fare. With one crow quickly plucking us from the crowds, we secured our bags in the boot of the car for our most expensive taxi journey of Bolivia. 10 minutes and £5 later we arrived at the border crossing between Bolivia and Brazil, the scene that greeted us was not what we had hoped to see. A single file queue of hot and bothered bodies stretched around the street corner, each person gasping in desperation to relieve themselves from the modern day hell. Neither of us felt eager to get stuck in but with Bolivianos exchanged to Reales, we began the typically British process of queueing. The queueing began at 07:30am and took us all the way up until 10:30. The Bolivian border officials stoney faces gave nothing away as we were quickly ushered through the office. Two stamps, bang bang - you are free to go, Sir. We quickly scarpered from the Bolivian flags, worried that if we lingered too long they may find some other reason to fine or charge us for something we had not done. Tentatively turning the corner we listened for any shouts from the Bolivian camp but none were to be heard, we had made it and they hadn't got any more money from us!

With high expectations of the, seemingly, more advanced Brazil, we turned to face the land of samba and flair. Tamara had previously explained to me that all Brazilians could be found dancing the samba and shaking their so called 'jiggly bits' at any given moment. With a rather strange idea of what this country would bring, I turned to face a scene portraying quite the opposite. After 3 hours of queueing in Bolivia, we were presented with an even longer, thicker queue. Fortunately, whilst in the Bolivian queue there had been plenty of cloud cover, offering some form of protection from the harmful UV rays. However, upon crossing into Brazilian territory, it seemed the country wanted to show off its 'favourable' climate. Cursing the sun God and his cronies, we strapped in for the long wait, emptying the water boy of his bucket of ice cold beverages on multiple occasions. The wait was exhausting and only made worse by the 'hostel hounds' patrolling the queue in search for weary travellers. 'Clean hostel, good price!' I've heard it all before mate. After giving them the cold shoulder a few times our ears pricked up at the sound of 'Free transfer to Corumba!' This was our preferred destination for entering the Pantanal rainforest and with no taxis in sight we reluctantly gave in and took up the offer of a private room for £9 each.

With the border crossing complete after 3 further hours of queueing, we were whisked off to our new hostel. Having been provided a leaflet of our destination, we were somewhat impressed with the general appearance of it from the thumbnail size pictures. However, as we all know, looks can be deceiving and pictures are most definitely able to distort the truth. The hostel was without a doubt the worst we had stayed in so far, moreover I am swayed to believe it will be the worst of those to come as well. The room was musty with dirt on the floor and came equipped with an AC unit filled with so much dust I was surprised a breeze could even make it through the fan. The kitchen seemed to cater only to flies as pools of grease and sludge were left to fester on the work tops. The pool, if it may be called that, looked more akin to a forest pond as the vibrant green hue reluctantly reflected the few days of sun it could capture. Upon their first glance, one may believe the hostel to be relatively busy with guests relaxing in the outside area or simply watching some Brazilian TV. However, during the course of our two days we learnt that these people were in fact all working at the hostel in some shape or form. A short, yet not exhausted, list of other unacceptable facilities this hostel offered were a fly infested toilet in which the sink became black at night, a washing service that failed to utilise detergent leaving the clothes smelling as if they had been dipped in the pool (wouldn't have put it past them), and open wires sticking out of plug sockets lining the side of the bed. The whole experience resulted in us spending two days hiding in our room, only trusting the kitchen to boil water for pot noodles. Viva Brasil!

With the hostel offering their version of a Pantanal trip, we swiftly avoided any further transactions with the 'hostel hounds' and booked a more reputable agency for our next excursion.

(Tamara)

George elbowing me with some force, woke me from my slumber signalling we had arrived at our stop. We had been told a man by the name of 'Hugo' who spoke fluent English would be meeting us at the entrance to the Pantanal so when a Brazilian introduced himself with a name we couldn't quite understand who certainly was unable to convey any English to us whatsoever we should have questioned our situation. Yet with the Pantanal 'swampy plain', the world's largest wetland giving us a welcome in accordance with it's name we hauled our bags into the safari jeep and ran for shelter. Confusingly the words 'Pantanal Trekking' (the hostel tour we had so actively avoided) was plastered all over our vehicle, and after finding out that all the tours eventually congregate at the same accommodation we soon realised our efforts at picking a respectable company had made no difference whatsoever. Either way we still felt a touch of pride and security by not allowing those crooks from Corumba to pocket our hard earned cash. Within moments the downpour subsided and our driver shouted to George, 'Amigo' and motioned for him to hop out and push our seemingly faulty jeep. This was not a good start to our adventure and as the engine popped, spluttered and spat fumes until it came to life we grasped one another's hand and all the optimism we could muster for the three days ahead.

We descended into the opening of the south side of the Pantanal; it sure was a long way home. With the rain pounding down, puddles soon began to seep through the cracks of the plastic covering, drenching our miserable looking backpacks and encouraging a swarm of mosquitos to taunt our eardrums with their vexatious buzzing. We felt this was our initiation to gain rite of passage into the jungle and without admitting that our spirits were already being harshly tested we smiled at one another, pretending this was as romantic an 'experience' as we ever had imagined. Yet paying to be a human carvery with swollen marks infesting your skin and sweating profusely in thick humidity is anything but romantic in my opinion, luckily love is for both better and in this case worse. After what seemed an eternity of sore bums bouncing around on an uneven dirt track (I thought Rockhampton road was tediously long), we arrived at the farm 'Pasado Arara Azul' and with our initiation successful we were then blessed with two days of dry weather and only a handful of mosquito bites.

The farm lodge elongated the length of an Olympic swimming pool, equipped with enough dormitories and dining space for 30 guests. Yet to our delight the first part of our trip included George and I, our nicknamed tour guide 'Anaconda' and a Classic Brit (daring to venture into the unknown but only completed with a good old moan) who was only interested in spotting the elusive Jaguar. We were shown to our room which in the absence of other guests meant we were upgraded to a private. Anaconda broke the news that due to the electricity power box being damaged in a storm we would spend the first night in the dark and without air con, yet after having visions of a leaf made bed amongst spiders on the jungle floor, I was more than happy to accept this alternative set-up on a bed within the safety net of four walls. We took a seat outside under the huge willow tree that draped around us and listened to the harmonic sounds of rustling leaves and flapping bird's wings. Our peacefulness was soon interrupted by Anaconda who suggested we go on a short night walk whilst it was dry. Enthused and secretly petrified I refused to take the stereotypical role of a high maintenance girl afraid in the jungle so I jumped at the proposed opportunity and ran to collect my torch. Anaconda questioned whether our British gentleman would be joining us as apparently he had spent the entire day complaining about mosquito bites, but as he joined the back of the line we marched on in unity. I had read an article prior to our trip by an Aussie girl titled 'How to prepare for the jungle' and had taken her advice on wearing shorts over trousers for jungle trekking. For what was about to occur on our trek, Aussie friend I am eternally grateful for your advice. Our Brit despite having a day of trekking ahead of us had gone for a more relaxed first date look with trendy jeans and adidas shoes; a bad move in the depths of the jungle terrain.

As we crept through the undergrowth in single file, Anaconda in the lead suddenly let out a cry which made us followers stop dead in our tracks. With only a dim LED torch light to scare off whatever beast had attacked our guide the Brit and I, positioned away from the commotion, soon realised the perpetrators were in fact black fire ants whom in seconds had shot up our legs with each nip causing (ant)agonising pain. The dim Brit failing to realise that remaining standing directly on top of their nest was a bad idea soon had a whole army charging to the one destination said in the famous phrase - 'Ants in his pants'. As he yelped 'oo', 'ee', 'ahhhhhh' I empathised immediately as I was still having trouble of my own with them deeply embedded in my shoes. We quickly hurried into the open field where the last moments of light were still lingering, and our Brit without warning pulled off his trousers stripping all masculinity as he stood whimpering in his minuscule speedos. Not knowing where to look I decided to take a short walk to offer him back some dignity and once my back was turned all I could hear was our tour guide roaring with laughter. Somehow George and I kept face during the remainder of the walk where the Brit proceeded to pull down his trousers a few more times, and with the ants now reaching his torso ruined all chances of seeing any wildlife with his baby like groaning. However as soon as we returned and all doors were closed, we exploded and fell to the floor in stitches.

After an admitted awful sleep in the humidity we dragged ourselves from bed at 4am and with nothing capable of drying in the damp atmosphere of our tropical bedroom we pulled on our wet clothes and ventured for our morning jeep ride. Unsurprisingly the initial conversations were a little forced as the images of last night's ant attack were still prominent in our minds, but as always Anaconda was there to break the ice with his forward remarks "Man, if anyone woulda heard you last night in the bush, they would've thought you was with a lady with those groans and squeals". Fortunately the ice was broken and we set off on our two hour cruise which despite seeing minimal animals enabled us to wake up as the sun gradually rose over the beautiful Pantanal.

Our morning activity involved a boat trip down the smooth and isolated Paraguay River followed by two hours of piranha fishing. The river was thriving with wildlife and as we sat in silence we could see stalks, caimon, fish and deer all playing their role of predator or prey within the food chain. With the boat's motor switched off we hooked our bait onto our rods and flung them into the water. I struggled to believe George had never fished before as his copious amount of catches would have provided enough dinner for most of the families in the Pantanal that evening. After my initial two catches I spent the remainder of my time 'feeding the fish' as they cheekily nibbled away at my bait, even ripping off the hook at one point which I miraculously managed to hook onto my next line a while later. Our Brit threw in the towel in after two attempts, instead being pestered by mosquitos and questioning the probability of spotting the jaguar; you can't please them all. With our stomachs grumbling we arrived back to a delicious buffet of Brazilian cuisine and mostly George's catch of the day which unfortunately was more teeth than meat. With our Brit packed he left us with his final words "If you offered me a free extra night, would I stay? No. If there was a 33% chance of seeing the Jaguar? Maybe." With the season for spotting Jaguars being May onwards and mostly in the North Pantanal, we both knew there was a 1% chance he would stay that night. If only he had done his research a little better he may have had more enjoyment on the fantastic trip as well as some more realistic expectations.

After a mid day nap it was time for Tarzan and Jane to be taken on a private three hour walking tour. Anaconda was thrilled to have the two of us alone and told us stories of past traveller's who ruined any chances of spotting wildlife by their ignorant loudness and pleas to return to the farm after only 20 minutes into their trek. The afternoon was fantastic with the trek itself satisfying as we appreciated the beauty of the jungle and sighting animals in their natural habitats. Howler monkeys bellowed a hollow groan that filled the whole jungle and macaws flew overhead with dashes of blues and reds. Anaconda led us to a river bed and beckoned us to follow him through to the other side. Alarm bells began to ring as I could see the sly eyes perched on top of the Caimans' heads floating nearby. Anaconda persistently motioned for us to follow, "Trust me Amigos, I know what I am doing." Wading step by step I could feel my heartbeat fasten until it became loud in my ears and then gradually relax as the caimans ignored the river intruders and let us enjoy the coolness and calmness of the water.

That evening we were joined by a charismatic and bubbly girl from Holland, who having booked a four night jungle trek, was concerned at the lack of other tourists at the farm. After sharing tales over dinner we dressed accordingly for our second night trek, this time we would be exploring in the pitch black. Anaconda warned us the mosquitos would be in their forces that evening and so we opted for trousers tucked firmly within thick socks to avoid a repeat of our previous night's antics. With us now being the ones with a day ahead of our new arrival our jungle fear had subsided, yet with hers evident on the surface we each downed a nerve-subsiding beer and set off into the darkness. Noises that can only be described as tortured children wailing (which were in fact made by frogs) taunted us from every direction and insects in their thousands flocked around our flashlights, flapping their wings ferociously around our ears. Pulling scarfs tight around our faces we huddled together and soldiered on into the undergrowth. The aim of the trek was to spot tarantulas and having a mild phobia of the creatures whilst they are locked inside cages made the next hour uncomfortably anxiety provoking. The spiders were supposedly easy to spot on the large tree trunks now the rain had subsided and sure enough three huge hairy 8 legged tarantulas were positioned before us. As I cowered at the back, George rushed forward thrilled to spot the animal he was most keen to find. He whispered frantically to me "Get a picture, quick get close and get a picture" and remembering 'for better or worse' I made my move. With Anaconda pushing me closer he soon stopped and pointed to another spider, 1/4 of the size next to it and made sure I got a photo of both of them. Confused at the excitement of a seemingly boring spider in comparison to it's large neighbour my fear soon paralysed me as we learnt of the unexpected fatality of it's single bite. Luckily with the men satisfied with their find we retired back to the farm with the sounds of flapping wings and sensations of crawly things terrorising me throughout the night.

As we packed our bags the following morning with a sense of accomplishment at tackling a minute section of the Pantanal, we asked ourselves the very question the Brit had left us with: "Would we stay an extra night if it were offered to us for free?" - "Absolutely."
"Would we stay the night in 'the real jungle experience?' (see pictures)" - "Absolutely Not!"
With the prospect of a hammock in the heart of the jungle we shuddered and quickly hurried on our way to Beautiful Bonito.

(George)

Our welcome to Bonito greatly contrasted the meaning of the town's name. The translation of bonito equates to beautiful and with the weather playing its part in the cosmic joke, the town was covered in a gloomy storm so thick it appeared it would never blow over. As the rain poured in its gallons and thunder crashing overhead, we sprinted to the Papaya Hostel seeking refuge and warmth. Unfortunately, many of the hostels in warmer climes are built keeping the sun in mind, usually found boasting courtyard areas, pools and in this particular case an outdoor kitchen. With any form of shelter lacking, we squeezed ourselves into the small reception along with all other new arrivals hoping we would be taken to our rooms promptly. The Papaya Hostel was run by a Brazilian-English couple which meant we were welcomed by Jennifer from 'just outside Birmingham'. During previous email correspondence with Tamara, Jennifer had helped us to book 3 excursions to the sites surrounding Bonito without asking us to pay a penny. The trips were instead added to our final bill which we felt was a nice touch as many hostels demand payments up front. In contrast to our hostel in Corumba, the Papaya Hostel was the cleanest, most efficiently run establishment we had come across. Rooms were fitted with automatically controlled AC in order to avoid confrontation between travellers for rights to the temperature settings, each bed had a personal plug and spacious locker, the pool was impeccably clean and the breakfast was so varied we were able to have five courses of different nibbles! Having seen a correlation between good hostels and English/German owners, I mentioned to Tamara that such hostels would do well to advertise the nationality of the owners. I know it would make my choice much easier.

Bonito itself was indeed a beautiful town. Its main area consisted of a strip of outlets and restaurants that lead to a humble, yet striking main square where two magnificent fish statues eternally contorted amongst the mist of the fountains. With more restaurants to choose from than we could handle, we selected those that offered Tamara's long lost companion, pescado. Tamara's attempt to save her skin from the greasy red meats almost always backfired as each meal was cooked with more cheese than you could possibly imagine. However, eating out on 3 of our 5 nights was certainly worth it as each restaurant wowed us with their array of affordable, yet grand sharing platters for two. With bellies filled each night, we would have rested our heads comfortably had it not been for two of our roommates, who it seemed had sparked up something of a holiday romance. Each night they would return at midnight, turning the lights on and giggling incessantly. A blessing for the rest of us was that they were respectful enough to sleep in their own set beds, however, causing me to lose time sleeping is never a good start for winning my friendship and they were positively shunned for the rest of our time in Bonito.

As mentioned previously, the main attractions in Bonito do not lie in the town. They are instead found in outskirts, several kilometres out from the centre. The first of our trips was to the Blue Lake Grotto in which we spent £10 to be guided down a sinkhole to a lake of the deepest blue and navy. With the guide not speaking any English, we were forced to attempt to translate the Portuguese with our limited knowledge of Spanish, sadly the pronunciation of Portuguese does not seem to correspond with the rest of the world thus we were limited in our understanding. Despite this drawback, the lake itself needed no explaining. The water was crystal clear in its shallowest points, gradually gaining a darker tint of blue as it retreated within to the caves and out of site. Signs around the park, fortunately translated, spoke of giant sloth fossils being uncovered along with those of sabre toothed tigers. During our walk down to the lake, it was not just the oddly coloured waters that caught our eye, the sinkhole itself boasted an array of stalagmites and stalactites ominously hanging over head. For this trip we were glad we had entered a more health and safety conscious country as helmets were issued before the walk and nobody was allowed to carry anything in their hands whilst descending or ascending the 300 steps we took to the bottom. We felt safe and wondered if we would have done so if we had been embarking on this trip in the depths of Bolivia. With the water looking so pristine and blue, I toyed with the idea of making a break for it beyond the barriers for the chance to dive into the faultless lake. Luckily my hand was held fast by recalling images of terrifying looking fish that lurked in the darkness of its waters, bathing was strictly prohibited and I quite fancied keeping all extremities attached to my body.

Our second trip was one that set an unprecedented benchmark for those that have been and will be. It was time for us to see the main attraction of Bonito, 3 hours of snorkelling down a crystal river (boasting 30m of visibility) with more fish than all the aquariums of England. With a 55km journey ahead of us, we settled in to our seats on the minibus. We didn't mind the long drive as we were certain this would be the trip of a lifetime. After half an hour I was cursing the length of the journey, not only was the heat unbearable but I had sensed mild unrest in my lower abdomen and felt the pressing need to pass wind. One thing we have learnt from fellow travellers however, is to never trust a fart when in the open. This sound piece of advice led to the whole journey being passed with a red face and a lot of pent up anxiety. Regardless of my GI tract, we made it to our destination and quickly unloaded the van. I rejoined Tamara to find that we again had been struck by the devilish language barrier. 11 of our 13 from the minivan were suited and booted ready to take on the river with the tour guides trying to explain to us that we, the English folk, had to wait until 11am for our tour to begin. Unsure why we had to suffer this racial segregation, we resigned ourselves to the shade of a group of hammocks in the furthest field from the tour lodge. We lazily passed the time until we attempted to find out what was going on. Having stupidly not taken a watch with us on this trip, we have now become experts at reading the sun based on shadow position. I declared the time to be 11am and we marched to the operators to find out what we needed to do. It seemed they had separated us from our Brazilian travellers in order to provide us with a guide who was able to speak to us in English. With the company excused, we stood and listened to a detailed explanation of the tour and were handed our short sleeved diving suits along with masks and snorkels. Double checking suits and masks fitted, we hopped on the bus and made our way to the river.

Having to complete a 40 minute trek through the jungle to reach the river, I was glad I had swapped my excessively tight diving suit for one that was better suited to my frame. The walk was led by our guide at a tranquil speed, allowing us to see several monkeys and other small creatures as certain striking trees were pointed out to us along the trail. Upon reaching the river, we were presented with a small pool marked out by a circle of small rocks at the bottom of the riverbed. We were given half an hour to test out our masks and snorkels with the guide stressing that we must stay within the marked circle. With all checks made, we did a quick lap of the natural pool we had found ourselves in, witnessing 2 holes in the riverbed. One pumped incredibly cold water from a deep sinkhole whilst and another churned out soothingly warm water. With everyone regrouped, it was time to go. Our guide stressed that nobody need kick their legs in order to move downstream, we need only gently move our arms and allow the current to do the work. With the tour underway, we slowly drifted down the river, unable to turn our heads quick enough to see all the fish that fizzed and whizzed past us. The fish ranged in size from smaller than a thumb to as big as our torsos. Not only was the size of each fish so noticeably varied but the colour also ranged through the spectrum of a rainbow. Meandering down the river, I questioned if I had ever seen anything like this. The variety and multitude of aquatic life right before me took my breath away around every turn.

About two thirds of the way down the river we stopped off at a spot called the volcano which was a spot where subterranean currents caused the silt on the riverbed to continuously turn over. At this point there were some steps for those who wanted to catch their breath which also came with a little surprise. As I swam over and sat down, feet still in the water, I felt something pull on my leg hairs. Unsure of what it was I fixed my mask on and took a look. A shoal of tiny fish had arrived and had taken to nibbling my legs. Realising that these were the infamous 'spa' fish, I quickly removed my boots and presented them with a banquet of mosquito scabs to polish off. With the break at this location taking around 30 minutes, I felt lucky to have had this complimentary foot spa that would have cost me up to £15 pounds back home.

Carrying on down the stream, we finally reached the Rio da Prata - Silver River, where the visibility went from 30m to 0m as we were plunged into the depths of the silty currents. Unable to snorkel anymore, we retired our masks to our foreheads and slowly drifted on our backs, feet in the air and faces in the sun. The trip had been incredible and all we could say was we wanted to do it again! We were driven back to the tour lodge and quickly dried off, we were scheduled to leave to see the Burraco das Araras - Macaw Sinkhole at 4pm which cost a total of £10 to see. The sinkhole was impressive for 5 minutes as you first take in its odd beauty however on the 25th minute in the same spot, looking at the same thing, we suddenly found ourselves to be a little bored and prayed we would begin the long journey home soon.

Our last day out in Bonito was to a natural swimming area on one of the bends of a river. Having been roped into going by a Brazilian couple we had met the day before, we were shocked to find out that they had cancelled on us in the night due to a suspect bout of food poisoning in their camp. With the transport already booked and nothing much to do, we set off at 8am to enjoy our last day in this beautiful town. The area was most definitely set up for families wanting a free day out but it didn't take away from the relaxing atmosphere as we undertook some of the activities available to us. We passed the day in the sunshine occasionally swimming with the fish at the waters edge, feeding them with pellets of food every once in a while and mischievously throwing food near people in the water in order to cause a frenzy of aquatic activity in their proximity. Having asked our driver to pick us up at 2pm, we began to wait outside just before the hour turned. Standing in the heat of the car park we began to wait, anxiously shifting from foot to foot hoping that he hadn't returned in two hours instead of 2pm. As 20 minutes passed, we began to look at one another in search of some answers. Neither of us had a phone, we didn't know the hostels number anyway and nobody spoke English. Just as we were about to bravely seek help our driver poked his head from round the corner of the entrance. It turned out he had been looking for us whilst we had been looking for him. With the panic over, we set off back to the hostel to enjoy our last night in our favourite Brazilian town!