Surfing in Pipa

It has always upset me how women seem to fancy surfers rather than cricketers. Being a cricketer, I devoted my teenage winters to the loving practice of oiling my bat rather than vainly waxing my board.  

While the cricketer modestly keeps his equally well-honed Scottish opening batsman's physique behind yards of smartly pressed whites, your average surfer lollops along the beach like some sort of half-naked sporting neanderthal. 

No sex wax was required for me to have a good day of honest sporting fun. Just a sun hat, factor 60, a spare rubber and eleven other chaps just as happy hitting the leather as I was.  

Still no euphemisms in this entry. 

Cricket never caught on in Brazil. Apparently, if my history serves, whilst being colonised by the beastly Portuguese, the slave driving brutes packed surfboards when they should of course have packed the more sensible British option.

That is: whites, sun hats, six stumps, two sets of bails, a lawnmower, 3 bats, 2 balls, 6 pairs of pads, a couple of cod piece fitting boxes, batting and keeping gloves, spikes, a couple of batting helmets for the under 15s, a heavy and light roller, a pavilion, covers, a scorer (he'll have his own stationary), two ladies to do the lunches, vaseline, twenty two gentleman and two umpires with a copy of the rule book each.   

The beach on Pipa was a case in point. For some reason, women prefer to waste their time watching this sort of thing than honour the greatest game at, say, Raeburn Place during a drizzly 4 hour Edinburgh Accies' batting performance.  

I have no intention of trying to sound like a know more about surfing than I do, but even a blind novice could how good this break is. Nice even right to lefts that would make an 8 year old look good. And I think the one to the right is a girl!    

And, when I zoomed right in, I saw that that very 8 year old was right there, being made to look good by the easy breaks. To misquote Dennis Hooper: I love the smell of emasculation in the morning. But I bet he couldn't read a tricky leg spinner. He'd play him off the pitch, which is the same thing. 

It's a mystery to me why women fancy these people. Look at this guy. And I know my wife did. I, for one, cannot see why anything here would be considered more alluring that a good forward defensive shot, never mind a cover drive. Women, eh?

Besides, weaving in and out of the boats, riding a wave in to the shore...? That sort of showing off smacks of insecurity. Whereas as a drop into the leg side and a decisive quick single? That'll get a pretty lady's heart fluttering.

I think that might be a pretty girly girl. Long board or long room, you should be making the sandwiches.

I rest my case. Bat Oil 1 Sex Wax 0. 

Skol: The Rebrand.

As mentioned in the previous entry, the biggest surprise I've had in Brazil so far is the prominence of Skol lager. Well, that and the fact that the g-string bikini is deemed appropriate for all 3 generations.

Turns out Skol has undergone something of a Brazilian Rebrand from what I remember.

When I were a lad, Skol was the joke of all beers. I remember Skol being the beer you drank after finishing the Tennants, singing The Skol Song as you did so to detract from the taste. And that's aged 17, when cooking brandy, Mad 20/20 and aftershave are your drinks menu.  

You remember the Skol song? Didn't think so, but youtube and I did. It went like this:

Even the makers of Skol thought their lager was worse than Tennants. The ad looks like old men holding urine samples. The strapline? Horribly good lager. The Pot Noodle of beer. 

Now, the Brazilians know a thing or two about life. Faced with a prospect even an Advertising Supremo like Don Draper would have struggled with, namely trying to translate a product fronted by Hagar the Horrible and his animated chanting friends into a product desirable to a beach and sun loving country who hardly drink.

I can only assume the meeting went something like this. In Portuguese:

- Guys, how are we going to sell this awful beer?

Awkward silence. A moment of inspiration, as a junior ad man with hidden talent raises a nervous hand to unveil the idea that had been worming around his head since Junior High.

- Has anyone thought of using... you know, instead of the animated Viking God... um... we could use... er... big tits?

Emboldened, another young upstart chips in, tentatively:

- ... and buttocks? Again, just if you're not going with the whole animated Viking God... thing...?
- Hmm, says Draper, pondering the idea. Big tits and buttocks? Should we keep the song? The chant? Hmm. OK, it's worth a shot. Creative, get to work. 

And only hours later, they'd come up with these:

 

And who would have thought? Sales improved.

A lot.

Pipa, Brazil

There are very few reasons why an 0345 alarm clock would be a welcome sound. However, the thought of three winter holiday weeks on the beaches of Pipa, in northern Brazil, is definitely one of them.                  That and the fact that we were flying with TAM. Virgin First Class it may not be, but when you're flying with kids, TAM have got to be the friendliest of the family friendly airlines in Latin America. By this I mean that they ignore every single safety regulation in order to keep children from sleeping. Irresponsible? Maybe. But give me a flight with kids sleeping across the aisles, and I don't mind helping lift the drinks trolley up and over their prone little sleeping bodies if it means a scream-free flight. Especially if it is my kid asleep under the chairs of Business Class.        

Brazil. What a great country. At least, what a brilliant country to go on holiday. Caribbean feel - laid back, easy going people with outstanding food, and surely the only place in the world that still drinks Skol. Skol! Who knew? Then again, they advertise it like this.  

We're staying in Pipa Park. Self catering, shared pool either filled with healthy, model-like Belgians or cute screaming Brazilian, Argentina and Peruvian kids. 

The beach is gorgeous, a 6 minute walk from our apartment, closer to 20 with kids. Picturesque cobbled streets, a strip of great bars, beachy cafes and restaurants, and ridiculously handsome surfer men that do not appear to own shirts. The beach has a beautiful little inlet where the boats are moored which breaks the waves making a great little place for toddlers sand babies to paddle and play.   

Following entry on beach football, which kicks off at 0900 sharp here and deserves an entry of its own. It's been one of my lifelong dreams to play beach football with, if not like, the locals in Brazil. Don't see that happening here: it's taken outstandingly seriously, with what appears to be a long waiting list before you're invited to the starting line up. So, the Roy of the Rovers call up will have to wait.

\

So, until I'm signed up as the Scottish Neymar it'll be happy families. And Skol... 

Harper Seven

Just adding Harper Seven to the very short list of people with stupider names than me. Welcome, Harper.

I sound like a 70s Hippie TV show, you sound like an alien.

Daddy Daughter Day

In order to justify the choice Saturday of a man - namely, to reside on the couch, sport on at least two screens whilst devoted 1950s style wife brings me an assortment of drinks and snacks - the modern man must accrue a brownie point or two first.

As such, Saturday mornings having become something of a Daddy Daughter tradition. And a fine tradition it is too, as they want to do at the moment is go out for coffee.  

One of the single best things about living in Argentina has to be the ways kids are welcomed everywhere they go. Your kids can do almost anything without attracting a negative comment. People understand that kids are volatile and loud; that babies cry, need attention, spill and break things. From your abuela having her morning cafe con leche to your business lunch, everyone indulges your cherubs.  

That said, one hates to take advantage, so we try not to hit anywhere more than two weeks in a row. That and the thinking that you score extra cute points through novelty value, which means scoring more free biscotti, medialunas and other such edible delights.  

Leah shows her experience, adopting cute sister pose on cue.

The girls are well up for this, and as a couple of chantas in the making, they have long since learnt that the bigger the eyes, the more free stuff you get. They even practice en route.

My standard order is the cafe con leche, Leah: the submarino. Maia is used as bait for medialunas, and, as an apprentice learning the ropes, has to fight for anything else she can get. Credit to her she's an absolute natural and at this rate she'll have her regular order too before she's even out of bibs.

FACT: The Bigger The Eyes: The More Free Stuff You Get

At the moment we're on a 50/50 success rate: we're paying for about 50% of the stuff that lands on the table. I don't even think of ordering medialunas anymore. That's like paying for ketchup in McDonalds.

All in all, it's a good ruse and long may it last. Given that Maia eats like a small horse, it's making solid financial sense too.

Plus, as a father, unless you are physically beating your child in the street for no obvious reason, people treat you like some sort of martyr/hero. All you need to do is show a rudimentary understanding of your kids' names and ages and you're gold. This is monumentally unfair on the mothers, but you take what you can get.

You're Round.

And we get a lot. Not to mention the satisfaction that brownie points are accruing the longer we are out. In synthesis, I'm on for a tennis and football marathon this avo. Vamos River! Vamos SW19!

25 de Mayo ¡Dulce de Leche Para Todos!

Leah had an acto at jardín on Thursday to celebrate 25 de Mayo, which is Independence Day, essentially. We don't have an Independence Day in the UK - generally people celebrate becoming independent from the UK, although it's looking possible that SNP Scotland might have one fairly soon.

But I digress.

We were there to bond. It was going to be tremendous. 

Bingo, from 1810. 

After a series of cute parent-child games such as bingo with epoca-1810 appropriate collectables, such as water wells, ladies with flowing dresses, traditional foods like empanadas, and black slaves, we were send through to gather in a ronda.

Leah's Maestrita:   

I know what a ronda is because since she has been going to jardín, at a moments notice Leah might be seized with a fit of enthusiasm, gran my hand, and start dancing in a circle singing: ronda ronda ronda redonda and pointing at things that are round. 

A momentary affliction, nothing more. It might be genetic, as her mother is often seized by a similar illness, whereupon the merest glimpse of open green spaces possessed her to twirl in circles singing The Hills Are Alive... in a way that could lead an honest man to throw himself under the nearest moving vehicle.   

Historically accurate. Amongst other things...     

After the ronda was finished, we were each given a post-it and a pen, and asked to write one desire, one wish, for the future in Argentina.

Feeling a little self-conscious, I didn't feel that, as a foreigner, I could write anything particularly profound, so I scribbled the message and handed it to Leah, who took it proudly to her teacher. Leah returned with the post-it, saying we had to put the name of the family on it, so I wrote, nice and clearly La Familia Fergusson.

These were then all attached to the 'hope tree', for all to see.

I wonder if, from the following messages, you can spot our entry:

- Unity in Argentina! - 

- Equality for all people in all places in the country - 

- Liberty! Equality! Solidarity! - 

- How wonderful to share this beautiful day with such friends  - 

- Toffee for everybody -

- That one day our country will find peace, and friendship -

Yes, it's the one you think.

Sign Fail: Que Paso?

This is our street: JJ Paso. Passo. No, Paso...  

¿Que Passo?