And so it seems I am fated to repeat history even as others are busy making it. This time last year I was stranded in Thailand by a volcano; this time this year I am stranded in Brazil by rain and ineptitude. Not, I grant you, an entirely disastrous turn of events - no doubt worse things happen at sea everyday - but annoying nonetheless, given that I missed out on a bonus, one-off, never to be repeated bank holiday. I mean obviously I wouldn't have been able to take full advantage of that anyway, being still bereft of a job to have a day off from, but still it would have been fun to share in everyone else's mirth at being released from servitude for a day.
My invite somehow having got mixed up with the B's and lost along with those of Blair and Brown I wouldn't have made it to the Abbey anyway but I might at least have enjoyed better quality coverage. Dimbleby was much missed as I caught the nuptials live on CNN with Piers Morgan floundering his way through the intricacies of the ceremony adding little except to say that he liked the dress.
Tearing myself away from such searing insight I did finally manage to leave Vitoria and arrive back in Salvador where it all started two months ago. And what a difference 8 weeks makes. Gone were the stench of piss, the relentless pick pockets, the line of tramps sleeping on our doorstep and the teams of bat wielding police. But it wasn't all good news, gone too were the 2 million revellers, the 24 hour party atmosphere and even (and I'm still a bit confused by this) a large building where we spent a whole night of Carnageville drinking all we could. And in their place? Worse weather, less to do and four days to kill before our flight home.
Ironic that after two months of great flights with us at the controls we should be scuppered as soon as we entrusted them to a professional. I could spend hours extolling the virtues of Brazil as a place to fly, but general interest in paragliding being what it is there's probably no need to relate how we thermalled to great heights, flew for hours across rolling countryside, soared over landscapes reminiscent of Jurassic Park, or landed in a ramshackle football stadium reminiscent of Goodison Park.
Fear not, however, for we were not so focussed on these worthy pursuits as to forget the usual spreading of love and imparting of wisdom that so characterises our trips abroad. A prominent example of the latter came when we offered backgammon lessons to the local club in Morro de Sao Paulo. Admittedly our tuition was not entirely free, but I felt it was good enough value that they could have expressed their gratitude in slightly more friendly terms.
As to the former goal, no circular stone was left unturned or principle intact by one of our party and there would be much to report had not the scourge of the super injunction reached even to the shores of Brazil and prevented me from even mentioning his or her name. Currently my hands are tied, though my lips may be loosened by the privileges of the (public) house on my return.
Hopefully there will be no further cock ups and that return will be tomorrow as I grow tired of Salvador and have no wish to extend a slightly limp end to what's been an amazing trip. And thinking of limp ends I've got someone asking me to play backgammon now, must dash.
