A three quid flight the next day (god bless Judiś TAM discount card) brings us to Florianopolis, home to, and I quote, "the most beautiful people on earth." We disembark practically drooling at the mouth; the thought of a swarm of male Brazilian elite too much to bear. At the airport we decide to take the cheap option and get a bus to our hostel. Clever kids. Whilst waiting in the bus shelter we get approached by a Florianopolin wearing sleezy shades and shitflicker shoes who attempts to bundle us into his sinister vehicle at the price of 40Real. Not cool. Occy and I look at one another and decide to take action. This kids not taking US down a dirt track. Occy started sniffing suspiciously around the 'cab' checking for license plates. We found none. With her bag half hanging out of the blackened boot Occy turns to me and says "Baps. Its your call. Do you want to get into the death wagon with this slimeball?" To which I reply, "this kids a birk and will clearly take us to some cellar." Letś bear in mind that this dudeś English was red hot. Without further ado, Rosie and myself decline forcefully and, feeling both mature and sensible adults, return to our pews at the bus station. Moments later, enter kid number two. The five minute wait has already made us irritable, so in spite of previous success, we allow ourselves to take the plunge, and put our lives into this manś hands, or should I say, leather strewn boot of his car. We make our way bravely to Tucano house for 20Real, desperately trying to memorise every sign post we pass in the event of calling the RAF and saying our Hail Maryś when Akonś "I want to make love right now" is turned up on his radio.