Brazil Five-O

When we were preparing to leave New Zealand ten years ago, Matt announced to his mum that he intended to visit 50 countries while he was gone. This abstract objective has been the subject of a fair amount of mockery over the years.

As we crossed Morocco with our two best Swindians, Matt reiterated his goal. A barrage of sarcastic ribbing incited him to start compiling a list of progress to date, and after reciting the list only invoked further jibes, Matt told us we were all just jealous.

Since then, in troughs of boredom, I have taken a tally and updated Matt on his progress. As Colombia offered many such lulls, a current tally was taken and I realised that Brazil would bring the total to 50.

There was no standing ovation, gilded trophy or certificate of merit awaiting us there, but the gargantuan country did reward Matt's persistence - endless beaches with great surf, vast quantities of barbecued meat, ice-cold long necks, laid-back friendly people... if Matt designed countries, Brazil would probably be it (though he'd ice his cake by splicing in some alps coated in fresh powder).

Salvador de Bahia & Busca Vida

After the Sao Paulo coast, we flew to Salvador de Bahia, apparently the most African city outside of Africa with some 80% of its population of African descent.

Bahia is famous for its carnival (the biggest on the planet) and we arrived in the middle of San Juan, a celebration of all things rural and yet another excuse to party. The city was in full fiesta mode (I suspect this is its usual state of being) and the historic centre was decorated and full of bands and revellers. The music is difficult to describe. I'd expected pulsing African music but instead it is some sort of weird jangly mash-up of genres with an ADD beat.

In the middle of the first night it started to rain and didn't stop for 24 hours. Time for an exit. We hatched a plan to head north to a surf camp at Busca Vida.

There, we found a German surf fanatic, Danny, who was halfway through a two-week stint. The camp is located smack bang in front of the best break at Busca Vida, a massive 'condominium' development with over 1000 properties.

The camp is fully self-contained so we spent the next seven days splitting our time between Busca Vida and a break about 40 minutes drive north. I had beginner surf lessons and can't say that I came even close to mastering the sport. However, I have acquired a new-found respect for surfers. Waves that look tiny from the beach are like monstrous walls of water bearing down on you when you are in the water (and I was only in the whitewash). I did manage to get upright (briefly) but much to my instructor Bedo's amusement, once I stood up I promptly disembarked, ie, job done.

There is a beautiful lake at the back of Busca Vida where we had a crack with a massive stand-up board. Much more my style and pace.

A steady stream of guests moved through the camp: Danny the earnest German, a Swiss pro-snowboarder and his girlfriend, a couple from Sao Paulo, Swedish Eva who was studying Portuguese in Salvador de Bahia, German Stephanie who was doing a graduate placement in Brasilia and a couple of Swiss guys who were travelling the coast with their boards.

During San Juan everyone lights a big bonfire in their backyard. The night we had ours, some of the many turtle nests on the beach sent forth their young. The ones on our stretch of sand got confused and waddled their way across about 80 metres of sand and grass to the house. Eva was more than happy to help them back down to the shore.

Rio de Janeiro & Macumba

Our descent into Rio was not what postcards are made of. A sullen sky hung low over a steel ocean. A taxi driver met us in the arrivals area holding a sign with our names on it. She wore a dirty beige synthetic suit at least a size too small and had greasy hair and a limp.

We passed a quiet afternoon in Santa Teresa, an older hillside suburb with large dilapidated houses and an open-sided wooden tram.

The next morning the sun was out and we visited the Jardim Botanical. I've seen the botanical gardens in countless magazines, it's a popular location for fashion shoots, and I was eager to see the arcade of towering palms.

Ipanema is a surprisingly beautiful beach with wild waves and fine sand, backed by high-rise buildings. The rocky outcrop to the south is covered in makeshift houses - the favelas must have some of the best views in the city. We met two middle-aged women who are very drunk having spent the day at the beach drinking caipirinhas. One told us she's a designer who works with indigenous people, conceiving handicrafts, and was about to leave for Cape Verde.

We watched the sun set and when we arrived back at our hotel the lounge was filled with people as a band performed Sinatra and Fitzgerald by candlelight.

Also worthy of a mention is Porcao, an all-you-can-eat meat restaurant. The concept is simple: a salad and seafood bar (with sashimi, sushi, prawns, salmon, cheeses and salads), and a steady stream of waiters serving barbecued pork, chicken, sausages, lamb and beef. Diners are given a piece of card, one side is red and says "Nao" (ie, enough), and the other is green and says "Sim" (ie, bring it on). In most all-you-can-eat joints the emphasis is on quantity rather than quality, but Porcao serves top-notch ingredients, cooked to perfection. A dizzying array of meat landed on our table, from skewers of tender lamb cutlets, through chateaubriand steak, to a trolley load of Flinstone-esque beef ribs. Matt could not have been happier.

Our last few days in Brazil were spent south of Rio at Macumba, a surf beach named after the religion practiced on a large rock dividing the bay. We found the rock littered with ritual detritus - feathers, chicken feet and a goat's hoof.

We met an assortment of guests at the surf camp, run by a kiwi and her Brazillian husband. There was Christopher, a German with an affected British accent who was educated in England, has a graduate placement at a major financial house, spends his weekends at Boujis and vaguely resembles Jude Law. He told me that most women point out the resemblance immediately before attempting to "shag" him.

Then there was Nicola, who is from Cambridge, had just finished her degree, was several days into a solo trip through South America and who spent a considerable amount of time shaking her head at Christopher. There was a pair of Dutch graduates who were drinking their way through the continent and Ali, an instantly likable Brazilian surf instructor from Pipa, Rio Grande do Norte, Brazil's northernmost province.

We took a taxi with Ali and her 18-year-old surf-addicted friend from north of Rio, Raquel, to the next beach, Prainha. There are so many great surfers in Brazil and, unusually, many of them are women. Ali, sparking with energy, spent the morning practicing capoeira on the beach before hitting the water.

Unable to find a taxi back in the afternoon, we started the walk, with Ali assuring us someone would stop and give us a ride. Sure enough, a large truck slowed down and we jumped into the back, joining a beach vendor who had been selling cookies all day. Ali was ecstatic, yelling, thumping the cab and waving triumphantly to the cars behind us.

On our last night we walked through the favela to the town square, where some sort of festival was in full swing. We ate barbecue and drank caipirinhas accompanied by a band doing covers of Black Eyed Peas (complete with Will I Am's doppelganger), Justin Bieber and Ricky Martin.

Baby, it was a good, good night and the end of a great, great trip to - un! dos! tres! - numero cinquenta.