Getting high in the Andes

After being collected from our hotel at the unholy hour of 5.30am, we made our way to pick up the porters en route to the KM82 checkpoint where we would start the trek. But not before stopping for breakfast in a local farmhouse. Apparently some of the tour companies treat the porters quite badly, so to prove it's credentials the one we had chosen made a point of taking us for breakfast with a local porter's family to eat their food and see how they live.

There we met the rest of our group for the duration of the Inca Trail, three Scottish lads, Seán, Haaki and Grant. We went in.

The farmhouse itself was rather basic with walls made from adobe, but it quickly became apparent they possess a technology vastly superior to any appliance you'll find in a kitchen back home: the Quechuan Self-Cleaning Floor™. What happens is any bio-waste, such as potato peelings, discarded scraps etc. basically just get chucked on the floor. Within seconds about 35 guinea-pigs appear from cracks in the wall, under the stove, anywhere there's a hiding place; they swarm around the waste material, quickly gobble it all up, and disappear. It all happens so fast you're not sure it really happened or did you momentarily daydream you were in a Tango commercial? But since the thing you chucked on the floor seems to have vaporized into thin air, you're left with the conclusion that it must have been real.

And on special occasions when there is cause for celebration in the family, one of the guinea pigs will be taken, given a cuddle, roasted, and eaten. This way everything comes full circle, nothing is wasted and everyone is happy (except perhaps one or two of the guinea pigs who are left wondering why they haven't seen Bubbles in a while).

As we set out for the actual trek from the KM82 checkpoint, we left the porters who must go through their own checkpoint. Before the whole thing became regulated by the Peruvian government a few years ago, the porters used to carry 40-50kg each (which given their small stature, must be most of their body weight). These days the law says they may only carry 25kg and their backpacks are weighed-in at the checkpoint. Unfortunately for them, there was a massive queue for the porters' checkpoint and hardly any at all for the tourists.

The first day of walking was just a 4-hour trek to ease us into it. We walked at 'tourist pace' as our guide José described it, stopping to see an old Inca city along the way - one of the many Inca sites we would see over the next four days. Soon our porters caught up and surpassed us, along with porters from other groups. They didn't so much walk the Inca trail as run it. Later some of the trails would narrow to perhaps 1 metre wide with a 1000-metre drop into oblivion, and while we'd be clinging on to the mountainside edging forward they would still race past you overtaking on a cliff edge, carrying their heavy backpacks.

One of the sad sights on the first day was to see people turning back, realising they were just not able for it. You need to spend at least 3 or 4 days acclimatizing to the altitude, but it seems not everyone takes this advice. Which is a shame really, they must have been planning it for long enough as you need to apply for your permit to do the Inca Trail about six months in advance, given the limit now placed on how many people may trek it. One poor American girl said hello to us as she headed back to the starting point, she looked devastated. Her partner just looked really, really pissed off.

Eventually we made it to our campsite where the porters had already set up the tents. They had put out little bowls of warm water and soap to wash our hands and had dinner ready. They really did look after us. And the food was fantastic. Over the next four days no two meals were the same but they were all delicious, which was amazing considering the small portable gas cooker they had with them.

We didn't stay up much longer after eating. The sun had come down and it was pitch black. We were knackered after the hike, shamefully so given our leisurely pace and that the porters had pretty much sprinted it.

Day 2 is said to be the hardest: it is the steepest climb - to over 4200m, from a starting point of about 2700m - that's 1.5km or nearly a mile vertically! And at that altitude, the air thins considerably, your lungs getting less than 50% of normal oxygen levels. To help with the altitude, José suggested we try some coca leaves.

Now it's true that cocaine is extracted from coca leaves (as was the original secret ingredient in Coca Cola) - though it takes about 25kg of foliage to make a gram of the hard stuff. It seems the Quechuan people (the people of the Inca empire - the 'Inca' was just the leader) have been using coca leaves to help cope with the altitude since ancient times. 'Makes you stronger' they say, and it works. It hits you like a major caffeine kick, and you certainly don't feel as tired trekking up that hill.

In fact, along our steep ascent, Colin boastfully declared that he didn't know why anyone thought day 2 was difficult, this was clearly much easier than day 1. A statement he later had to retract as we neared the summit, panting and gasping for breath, admitting that he must have been high on coca leaves to have said such a thing. At this stage poor Tom looked pale, having been ill two days previous to starting the hike and so finding it tougher. But he made it to the summit, and we all felt an immense sense of achievement. The hardest part was over.

Day 3 took us climbing to another peak, though not so high, this time a measly 3300m before beginning our long descent towards Machu Picchu mountain. This took us through what is called a 'cloud rainforest', which true to its name meant we were walking through thick clouds mostly, and so were unfortunately deprived of some of the breathtaking views of the Andes we had enjoyed so far. Probably just as well, as much of the pathways and dizzyingly steep steps we clambered down were narrow, and I reckon it's more calming to look into white cloud instead of the oblivion to which you might perish if you slipped off the edge.

That evening - our final night of sleeping it rough in the mountains - we reached our final campsite. But this was no ordinary campsite. It had a visitor centre. It had a bar. There were rumours of a hot shower (which turned out to be unfounded, but it did have a shower). Myself and Grant, one of the Scottish lads, got there first. We ordered some beers for the group to have them ready as they arrived. And when they did, we all toasted our success - we were nearly there, only 1.5 hours left to trek the next morning to Machu Picchu.

Of course, due to a combination of altitude and fatigue, by the time we'd had two drinks we were three sheets to the wind. Dinner was ready, after which it would be our last opportunity to see the porters. We thanked them in pidgin Quechuan using the few words that José had taught us along the way, gave them a tip, and gave them some bottles of beer.

We turned in early, rising at 4am the next morning to complete the last leg of the journey and to catch the sunrise through the Sun Gate, where we would get our first glimpse of Machu Picchu.

Machu Picchu

We rose in darkness, had a quick breakfast and made our way to the last checkpoint and began the final leg of our journey. In parts it was a bit crowded, as everyone at the camp seemed to set off at the same time, including the Italian looking family we kept bumping into since day 1. The father had ceased to accompany them some days before, and the mother was now carrying the extra backpack, with her son whom we had decided to name Oedipus.

Making good progress we arrived ahead of schedule at the sun gate after walking for just an hour. And there it was, in all its glory: Machu Picchu, the Lost City of the Incas as its 'discoverer' Hiram Bingham called it (though he was actually shown the way by some local Quechuans who were living there at the time).

It stood in the low morning sunrise, the shadow of Wayna Picchu mountain stretching out behind it yet somehow not casting darkness on the city itself. I'm not one for sentimentality when it comes to old rocks, but let's just say it was emotional. This is what we had walked four days for, and it was every bit worth it.

"So that's Machu Picchu?" Tom blurted out. Everyone within earshot looked at him in confusion. Oh Christ, what was he going to say. He had been grumbling about doing the trek after almost fainting on day 2.

"What were you expecting?" said one Australian woman.

"Did you not see the bloody pictures?" Colin demanded.

"It's just... bigger than I thought!"

And if cynical Tom thought it worth the trek, then that's saying something.

What's amazing is the sheer geography of it, and that they managed to build anything at all. It's pretty much on a cliff face, about 89 degrees if you ask me. And yet they managed to eke out terraces for farming and crop cultivation, using clever techniques that allowed them to control the temperature of each level within a wide range, growing crops that could never normally survive at this altitude. And they reckon the terraces excavated there are only the tip of the iceberg, many more terraces (and possibly more of the city) remains within the vegetation at Machu Picchu.

In fact, during the entire four days of trekking we came across terraces in practically every valley. What they managed to do was well ahead of its time: turning an inhospitable environment into fertile land; serving to prevent landslide of their vertical cities, and providing drainage so the whole lot didn't get washed away during the rainy season.

We spent the day walking around the city. It had parks, it had fountains, centres of learning with fixtures still intact for studying the cosmos, and temples to the snake (representing the pachamama, or mother earth), the puma (representing the current life), and the condor (for the heaven above). What proves the Spanish never found Machu Picchu, apparently, is the simple fact that the temples exist and were not destroyed. Seems in their enthusiasm to spread the 'good word' of Christianity, all spiritual symbols from this important and powerful culture were to be eradicated as 'false idols'.

We spent most of the day exploring this fascinating place, before boarding a bus down to the nearest village, Aguas Calientes, to be eaten alive by mosquitos and sandflies while we waited for our 4-hour train back to Cuzco.

The next morning we flew to Lima where we planned to spend our last few days before making our way home. As we disembarked from the plane, we bumped in to Oedipus and his mother (husband still MIA), I swear they were following us. They said 'Hola!', we smiled and said 'Hola' back. Not Italian then.

There we spent our last few days in a slightly swanky hotel to chill out and let our hair down. Niamh was slightly disappointed, I think she was expecting a sunny beach resort to catch some rays. The climate here is eternally grey and a lukewarm 15-18 degrees - just like home.

What struck me about Peru was the absolute contrast. As we crossed the border from Bolivia, the subsistence farming. The Quechuans in Cuzco approaching you to buy their hand-knitted clothing made from alpaca wool. To Lima, the big city. Latin American yet westernised, littered with Starbucks.

On our last day we came back from breakfast to find the hotel manager had left a birthday cake for me in the room. A nice touch. After far too many early-to-bed, early-to-rise nights in the wilderness, we went out that night, ate some greasy food and had a few drinks. We even went bowling, which I haven't done on a birthday since I was about 12.

And none of us could believe the end had come to our South America tour, though it seemed like it had been forever. A trip I will never forget.

La Paz to Cuzco

Bolivia is another South American country with an unfortunate history, though thankfully it is one of the few places the Spanish weren't quite able to totally obliterate the indigenous population, which stands at about 60%.

It is completely land-locked, though it wasn't always, since Chile decided it didn't have enough coastline already - so invaded and annexed Bolivia's Pacific coast. Not to be caught on the hop when opportunity knocks, Paraguay and later Brazil decided to get in on the action and annexed large sections of the south and north respectively. So let's just say Bolivia used to be a lot bigger.

A few days before entering Bolivia we heard there had been some turmoil. Violent protests by opposition groups were quickly followed by the expulsion of the US ambassador, who was accused of being involved. (As if the US would interfere with the affairs of a Latin American country!) Tom suggested we register our travel details with the Department of Foreign Affairs - so that they could perhaps report our disappearance more quickly in the case of civil war breaking out.

On arriving in La Paz the first thing we noticed was the altitude. The airport is over 4000 metres above sea level, and coming straight from sea level is a bit of a shock to the system. Oxygen levels are about 50% of normal, and small exertions such as walking up a slight incline (or pushing a trolley around the airport) leave you out of breath quickly.

We finally joined up with Colin and Niamh at our hotel. Arriving quite late at night, we compared notes on our travels and went to bed. The next morning we awoke to find the hotel had shut the front doors. The sounds of a protest outside became more audible and before long myself and Tom were jumping out of our skins at the sound of gunshots. Was this a coup d'état? What was happening? Then we realised Colin and Niamh were in stitches laughing at us... the noise was just firecrackers, the crowd were supporters of indigenous president Evo Morales (as it seemed was everyone in La Paz), and apparently these kind of political demonstrations are a regular occurrance in Bolivia.

La Paz itself is an interesting place. Built practically on top of a mountain, at night in all directions you can see the lights of the suburbs as they reach into the sky. We spent a day walking around the markets, myself and Tom constantly out of breath on the steep streets, Colin and Niamh already being used to the altitude having spent the last week in the Salt Flats. The people are an interesting mix, many still wearing the traditional Quechuan dress, only the younger generation dressing more western.

It was a shame not to spend more time there, but we had to make our way towards Cuzco in Peru before starting the Inca Trail. So we took a scenic route by boat along Lake Titicaca, stopping on Sun Island to take a look at some of the early settlements of the Incas and the cultures that preceded it, then had the rest of our journey blessed by a Quechuan shaman in exchange for a few coins, organised by the tour company.

We spent the night in Puno then took a local 7-hour bus to Cuzco - which was an experience in itself. There we did some last-minute shopping and contemplated how insane we must be to consider hiking through the Andes for 4 days with heavy back-packs, since we were finding it tough just walking up two or three steps at this altitude...

All Tangoed Out

Buenos Aires, they call it the Paris of the south. For a brief period at the turn of the twentieth century Argentina was apparently one of the 10th richest countries in the world. Since then it seems not a door-knob has been replaced nor a fresh lick of paint on any surface. Buenos Aires is a city of past glories.

Being much further south the climate was colder when we got there, and it seemed so were the people. Perhaps it's an unfair comparison coming straight from Rio where everyone had a smile on their face, but I got the distinct impression of a grumpy people.

On day 1 we went searching for the tourist office to help point us in the direction of a good city tour. This involved a lot of walking until eventually we found one open in the docklands.

According to the unhelpful lady behind the desk, most of the other tourist offices are closed due to cutbacks. She said she could not book us a tour nor recommend one as the office was run by the government, instead handing us a map and a thin leaflet: "Many people prefer to explore city on their own" apparently.

They say the one thing you must do on Argentina is sample the steak - and it's all true, the beef is magnificent wherever you go, and I say that as someone who is not usually a fan of steak.

It is not a place for bargains though. You won't find the €2.50 steak dinner promised by the Lonely Planet guide, whose research was perhaps conducted during the Peso crash a decade ago. The prices are European prices everywhere - in Buenos Aires at least, and in touristy areas it's even higher, often priced in US dollars to get more out of you. Many places having one price for locals, another price for gringos.

On the surface BA seems somewhat European with a large middle class. But that all changes when the shops close in the evening and they throw their rubbish out into the streets. And then they come.

Swathes of the city's homeless emerge onto the street. It's like Shaun of the Dead, except instead of hungry for brains they're hungry for food. They shred open the bin bags frantically searching for something - anything - to eat. I have never seen anything so sad in all my life.

Eventually we did find a city tour - a multilingual one. Of course by multilingual what they meant was five minutes of talking in Spanish followed by a 10-second English translation: "That building we passed five minutes ago, yes the white one, that was the museum of fine arts"... Then promptly back into Español.

The one thing definitely worth seeing was the Evita museum. Though the English descriptions for each artifact had been rendered entirely meaningless having gone through the Google translator it seems, it was worth it just for the fiery tour-guide who took us around the exhibits telling us about Evita's life with such a passion. It's amazing to see how this icon stirs such strong feelings among Argentinians even today.

And I learned this first lady of the people was a bit of a bad girl in her day - apparently got herself involved in a spot of gun-running, seems she thought the trade unions could use some ammo in case they needed to take on their own Argentinian army.

It is yet another South American country with a sad and frustrating history of coup d'états, military juntas and brutal dictators (until quite recently), briefly interspersed with periods of democracy.

On the last night we went to see a tango show - another one of those things you're supposed to do in BA, the birthplace of this naughty dance.

It all started in the early colony where the men vastly outnumbered the available women. Most of said women were prostitutes so you'd think there'd be enough to go round, but not all the men were willing to share. And so tango dance was born, intended for the men to demonstrate their mojo and woo a woman.

Modern tango bears no resemblance. Since incorporating women into the dance it appears the entire purpose is for a man with greased back hair and a stiff suit to flap the woman about in such a manner as to reveal as much female flesh as possible.

After 4 days I was happy to move on, and all tangoed out. Although we only saw one show, tango music blared out of every shop and café, and I swear it was the same song.

At the airport we checked our bags and attempted to board the flight.

"No, you must pay exit tax"

So we had to go back to some little desk and pay - priced in US dollars of course - for the privilege of leaving Argentina. And it was money well spent.

Friendly prostitutes and Jesus in the clouds

It gets dark in Copacabana quickly. By day it's a typical beach resort, with families making their way to and fro, parents stopping off for a soft drink at the beachfront bars: kids in tow, no doubt having spent their day their day making sandcastles and swimming.

And so on our way back from a spot of shopping myself and Tom thought we'd stop by that same bar with the Internet access for a drink.

On walking in the door we were approached by some weathered looking woman offering a massage. Thinking this was slightly odd we sat down and ordered a drink.

Enter Mara, a pretty looking girl in her early twenties sitting at the next table, who spots us looking like tools attempting to take a photo of ourselves with an outstretched arm. She takes the picture for us and proceeds to engage Tom in conversation, at which point I tend to the important business of figuring out how to upload my last blog entry from the iPhone.

Mara begins, apparently, by offering some advice: don't wear an expensive watch or jewellery; keep the money for the girl in a separate pocket so she thinks that's all you have; and hotel? Where are you staying! No! Don't answer, tell her you have a hotel but don't say the name! There's a good place round the corner where you can get a room for R$20 an hour, take her there.

This conversation had been continuing with me oblivious to it and Tom's jaw planted firmly on the floor.

By the time I tuned back in, we were at "Don't you have these kinds of bars in Ireland?" To which Tom smiled shyly in embarrassment at the whole situation. "This is where men come to meet girls, yes you know that!"

But Tom, I hear you say, why don't you just tell her we're gay and not on the market for "massage" tonight? Alas, by this point our friend Mara had formed the impression that young Thomas was 21 and his jaw-on-floor reaction was merely shyness at the prospect of his first time with a girl. And never one to respond unfavourably to flattery, particularly while being taken for such a youthful age, he was too polite to correct our new friend. It was up to me to make our excuses and we went on our merry way.

That night we went to check out the Rio scene and headed for the best known gay venue 'Le Boy' (and ladies if you're ever in town and curious, it's next to it's counterpart 'Le Girl'). We started in the bar where they were doing karaoke. We had some caiprinhnas - a local cocktail which seems to contain nothing much else but pure alcohol, after which we had taken sufficient leave of our senses to put our names down to sing a duet or two.

First up was Wonderwall, which went quite well if I may say so. At least it got us a good cheer from the crowd at the end. It helps if the song is within your range and you remember most of the words. In our caiprinha-inspired eagerness we had also requested Billy Joel's 'Piano Man' which came up just one track after Wonderwall.

Tom started on a high note, I on a low one. The crowd were not buying it. So I thought maybe I'll join Tom in his three octaves above. Were we in the right key? Were we even in the same key as each other? No-one will ever know. But on seeing how my attempt to match Tom had made things worse, I did the only sensible thing left to do: I just stopped making any sound and mimed it for a while.

On hearing the sound of his solo voice, Tom managed to get it back on track, in key, and in the right octave. And then I felt able to contribute once again. It came together pretty nicely at the end, but the crowd were unforgiving of what we had done to the first half of Billy Joel's masterpiece. We finished to a hostile silence punctuated by a lone cough. Time to leave.

We went straight to the main club. It was small, we thought, nothing special really. We sat at the bar for a while, until the bar man realized we were hopelessly clueless foreigners and suggested we might want to check out the downstairs area.

Downstairs, it turned out, was the main club area and was big - about the size of the old Red Box in Dublin. Kicking ourselves that we'd almost missed out the main venue, we had a a beer (fearing we would go blind if we drank another caiprinha). Then they cleared the stage and a drag show kicked off.

Now I'm sure the drag shows back home are strange affairs if you don't speak the language, and the converse is doubly true. So a Brazilian drag queen spent most of the show making inappropriate gestures with a dildo, saying stuff in Portuguese, and the crowd were in stitches laughing.

The next two days it rained. Thinking the precipitation was a temporary aberration, we went shopping for sun-glasses for Tom since he'd forgotten to pack his own.

The guy selling the sun-glasses was somewhat attractive and talked Tom into buying every accessory in the shop. I pointed out that the guy could have dangled a ball of string in front of Tom and he'd have bought it. He agreed, but in his defence pointed out "yes but he was so cute!"

We headed back to Copacabana where the hotel was situated, and determined to prove to Tom that not every place in the area was "that kind of bar", I declared we would stop for food. Passing a place with a reasonable looking menu and not totally devoid of patrons, we sat ourselves down and waited to be served.

It slowly dawned on us that all of the other customers were female. And sitting across from us just two tables away doing her make-up was our friend Mara.

Tom never moved so fast in his life, but he was out the door and me close behind. I don't know if the poor girl noticed us.

Instead we made our way to Ipanema to find a nice restaurant and check out the gay scene there.

Some local boys were sitting across from us and must have figured we looked a bit lost. One of them gestures for us to come over and join them. When we don't respond, they come over to say hello.

They were lovely guys, who spoke near perfect English. We ended up joining them at their table and on to a late bar, which turned into a very late one despite having sworn earlier that we were taking it easy tonight.

The next morning we got up with sore heads determined to see some sights. Coming out of the hotel the doorman asked us where we were headed, and as we got into a taxi insisted he wait while he get us some ponchos.

When we got to Cristo Redentor, well, it was actually in the middle of a cloud, and the point of the ponchos became clear. We were becoming wet just standing there. Visibility was rubbish, you couldn't see a thing.

We may actually have still been drunk, but I swear when we got to the top there was an escalator up to the monument. In fact, you could not see the top of the escalator for the cloud we were inside, but beyond you could make out the blurry silhouette of Cristo Redentor himself, Christ the Redeemer. It was like a dream. Or deleruim tremens. One of those anyway.

So we missed out on the supposedly panoramic views of Rio. But we did see our first monkey sitting on top of the visitor centre.

Today on the other hand, good weather returned and we took a trip on the cable car to the top of the Sugar Loaf. And the view of the city in all directions is amazing. Rio is a town interspersed with outstanding natural beauty and miles of golden beaches. While we were up there, some capuchin(?) monkeys emerged from the trees looking for scraps. The reaction from the tourists was like Paris Hilton dropping by a papparazi convention - cameras were out in all directions as a crowd surrounded them. They munched on some abandoned crackers, undeterred.

As I write we're en route to Buenos Aires, Argentina and I'm sorry to be leaving Brazil. It's a beautiful country with some of the friendliest people in the world. (One of the most endearing examples of this is asking someone a question and if they don't speak English they will insist on finding someone - anyone in the vicinity - who can, in order to help.)

Also do check out Colin's blog with details of his travels with Niamh. We're supposed to be meeting up with them in La Paz on Sunday night, though he called yesterday to say they might be a few days late if their dodgy looking transport breaks down -they're currently trekking through the Salt Flats: http://colinmoroney.blogspot.com

Getting to Rio

Greetings from the rooftop pool, 21st floor of the Luxor Continental hotel, Rio de Janeiro. Thus begins a three-week tour of South America with Tom, joining up with Colin and Niamh in La Paz next week.

Our journey began somewhat sleep-deprived: although we weren't due to depart Heathrow until 11.40am, on Tom's arrival in London the night before we thought it was a great idea to go clubbing till all hours with Phil and James in the Two Brewers in Clapham.

We passed through Lisbon which I noted before has a pervasive smell of rubber bands, before embarking on the 10-hour flight to Rio.

Now my usual pattern of behaviour on these kinds of trips is to be too busy in the weeks preceding to have anything researched or any ideas of where to go or what to see. This was no exception. This time I hadn't even gotten around to picking up a guide-book to read on the plane. Fortunately Tom had brought his Lonely Planet guide to South America which he handed over once he'd ordered his first glass of Rioja.

And so began my research into Brazil and our first stop, Rio.

Rio de Janeiro, or literally, the 'January River', so named by Portuguese settlers undeterred by the fact that there is not actually a river here, was once the capital of a nation run by a succession of military juntas and corrupt presidents. I learned how the country acquired vast swathes of its inner-Amazonian territory courtesy of the enterprising "Indian"-capturing merchants who came to enslave but mostly just wiped them out - part deliberately, partly thanks to European diseases. And then came the rich tradition of importing slaves from Africa, whose descendants make up a significant proportion of the population.

Then came the modern-day tale of shanty towns, immense poverty and crime. The Lonely Planet's advice: don't go anywhere after dark, or in the day; bring a spare wallet with a large wad of small bills for when you get mugged. Accept that you're likely to get robbed and you'll have a good time.

And so at 11,000 metres, hurtling towards Rio at 800km/h I realised I didn't really want to go there after all.

I highlighted these dangers to Tom who was at this stage ordering his third Rioja. He dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand, instead focussing on the real-time map showing our progress on the flight- path. These things I refuse to look at on the basis of how infuriating it is to watch how slow we edge, pixel by pixel, towards our destination. Only seven more hours to go.

And so I informed Tom I was checking out, took one small but potent sleeping pill procured from Doctor C and conked out.

Waking up shortly before landing, I asked poor Tom had he not been bored for the last seven hours? To which he responded, "there is no part of the day that cannot be made more interesting with wine." And ordered another Rioja.

Today we ventured outside the hotel. It's on Copacabana beach which was full of family types splashing about. Although it's winter in the southern hemisphere, such seasons don't really apply here in the tropics and it's a sunny 25 degrees today.

We found a nice bar looking out onto the beach and decided to stop for a beer, justified on the notion that it was actually the afternoon according to our slightly jetlagged body-clocks. A sign advertised free wireless Internet. Tom takes this as his cue to get out his iPhone and check what people are doing on Facebook. I chide him for this, but give in and check it myself. Everyone at home reports being hungover, and I see from Tom's status he is "having a beer on Copacabana beach at 11.30am". If you can't beat 'em... No harm in making people a little jealous, so I leave a similar status message.

Moments later I get a text from Iain in Boston asking have we both nothing better to do than update our Facebook status from a sunny beach in Rio. Touché. Also he says look out for Jennifer Hopez.

As for the city itself, I don't recognize the place described in the Lonely Planet guide - at least not yet. Everyone is friendly. It does not feel unsafe. In fact, I see less people begging here than on the streets of Dublin or London.

The biggest surprise was the Portuguese spoken here. On paper it looks like a variant of Spanish. To the ear though, it is quite east- European. I imagine this could be Warsaw, with sunshine.

Great start to the week

I thought I had got my week's worth of cardiovascular activity last night in an Indian restaurant in Soho, when shortly after remarking on how mild their Chicken Jalfrezi was, I bit into what I thought was a lovely big green piece of asparagus. Asparagus, in an Indian dish? No, it was a massive chilli. With tears streaming down my face, I assured everyone I was fine while knocking back an entire 1.5 litre jug of water in one gulp. But alas, more excitement was to come.

This morning as I sipped my espresso I noted it was so nice and sunny outside. I would start the week on a positive note and cycle in to work. I was due in to the City office today, kicking off with a 9am team meeting. Important, as we have a big deadline this week.

As the front door clicked shut behind me, I realised: shit, I've left my keys inside. Never mind, I'll just have to coordinate with my flatmate Phil to arrive home at the same time this evening.

So off I went on my merry way. At approximately 8.40am I found myself standing in front of my locker in the changing area wondering how on earth I was going to open it without the key. My change of clothes were inside it. Panic stations: meeting at 9. Fuck.

But no, perhaps all was not lost. I was still here, I was on time. I could maybe drop in for the meeting and... No! I do not think they'd appreciate me turning up in lycra. Need a new plan.

Would I have time to get the tube? No! Even if I did, how could I get in to the house? I'd have to call round Phil's office and get his key. This was not going to work.

In the end I had to call my manager and explain that due to my unfortunate predicament I was inappropriately attired for the meeting. Not good. But what can you do.

So I spent most of the morning cycling around London picking up Phil's keys, cycling home, cycling back in to work. At one point a double-decker bus overtook me then steered in to the pavement, cutting me off. Well the footpath was clear, I turned on to it, then back out in front of the bus. Sucker! Think you'll cut me off like that? You don't know what kind of day I'm having, buddy.

But what do I see in front of the bus, a squad car with one very animated looking cop waving his arms and pointing at me. They start after me. Oh my god they're following me! Are they? I don't hear any siren or see blue flashing lights. How do they pull over a cyclist anyway?

Just keep going. Calmly but surely. But now I'm careful to cautiously stop at every traffic light, looking like a good citizen. That's right. Nervously looking over my shoulder I noted they were caught up in traffic. They were close behind me for a good ten minutes. And after a while they weren't there any more. Phew.

By the time I made it back to the office I had been cycling for over two hours. Ridiculously sweaty, I had a shower and got changed. Strolled over to my desk about 11am, just as the team emerged from the big meeting.