Bom dia,
Well our time in Rio is over and we are now on an island off the Brazilian coast. Has been a bit of a relief to recover from the absolute chaos that was Rio. When we left you last time my first attempt at joining the Brazilian underworld through illicit bribery had been laughed off a Rio street. But Rio didn’t stop throwing up some unique challenges.
The laid back Brazilian approach to flesh exposure also extends to their processes. Nothing really makes sense here and everything takes a painfully long time. We found this out the hard way when visiting Sugar Loaf. This is 2 huge mountains that some Brazilian looked at after one too many caipirinhas and thought ‘let’s jam some cable cars between them’. But the true beauty in the visit is that to be able to travel on the cable cars, they have created a ‘choose your own adventure’ method of getting a ticket. You get there to an absence of signs and multiple lines spewing out in random directions. You choose one and slowly shuffle forward only to have the entire line dissolve around you. It seems that security men appear at intervals, decide they aren’t happy with the current set up, and start some new lines. We were left standing like a confused little oasis in the middle of a car park after our initial line was decided to be invalid and just melted away around us.
We eventually unwrapped the line riddle and were faced with the next challenge; the race to a window view for the trip up. Without it you might as well save yourself the time and replicate the experience by just jamming yourself in a street phonebox with 15 agitated locals as they bump your head with cameras in that never ending search for the perfect picture of the side of a hill. But we were good; a family’s slight indecision meant Krys could slip through a gap meant for a young child and we got to enjoy the ride and the view with our faces smeared hard up against the cable car glass.
We have been warned that Rio contains some hidden dangers and that we should always be careful. But despite all the warnings we walked straight into one of the most dangerous Rio situation of all; we made the mistake of wandering into a Rio supermarket.
Like the rest of Rio, what appeared to be a simple concept came apart on execution. Imagine a huge supermarket with tiny aisles. Jam this market full with elderly Brazilians deficient in both eyesight and patience. Then arm them with little metal shopping trolleys. I was one bottle of gatorade and a packet of biscuits into the shopping before I was overwhelmed. Krys found me, pinned hard up against the soft drinks in aisle 5, frozen in fear as geriatric Brazilians swooshed aggressively past me with little regard for the pain that metal on shins creates. If not for Krys’ heroic appearance I am convinced I would still be there now, clinging desperately to the top of the Coke Zero stand.
Then the check-out; we fought the tide to the front and were greeted by row upon row of check-outs, each staffed by a lady who had been set to super slow motion. Lines were indiscriminate; snaking across different check-outs while also twisting through fruit and vegetable displays. We got into what we thought was a line, only to be guided out of it by what appeared to be a friendly local assisting us to find the quickest path to the exit. Instead it seems we had a cunning local taking advantage of two terrified and confused tourists. All she had wanted was to get us out of her line, and she bumped us into the elderly and disabled line where we endured elderly stares and tut tutting before making a hasty retreat before an attack with zimmer frames could begin.
While in Rio we continued with the ‘when in Rome’ approach so alternated between waiting in lines and getting drunk. One night we found ourselves in Ipenema in a cute little bar seated next to what looked like a table of Brazilian models. They were so pretty I can only assume it was a test set up by Krys to see how much control I had over my neck muscles. So as a distraction we decided to explore our translation book a little further. Given it provided assistance in bribery we thought we’d see what gems it contained in the field of romance. It didn’t let us down.
We started with practicing ‘eu gosot mesmo de ti’ (I really like you), before working on to asking for a kiss (posso dar-te um beijo). Krys for some reason was fond of nailing down ‘calma!’ (Easy tiger!) while I found two essentials that I’ve had to use in English many times before. They are ‘nao te preocupes, eu faco isso sozinho’ (don’t worry, I’ll do it myself) and ‘ajuda ter sentido de humor’ (it helps to have a sense of humour). With our romantic Portuguese taking shape, and a sense of oblivion to what was around us increasing thanks to the Rio alcohol, we decided to branch into the remake of the ‘Harry Met Sally’ scene. For some reason I was allocated the role of Sally, and was left banging the table while saying ‘fantastico, fantastico’ (I think you can manage your own translation for that one). Our movie recreation was only broken by an elderly Brazilian waiter walking up and offering an exuberant high five for my efforts. I’m not sure what he said but he either enjoyed the show an uncomfortable amount or was offering me a role as sound effect assistant for Brazilian adult movies. Sometimes a language barrier can be a good thing.
One thing we haven’t been able to do yet is use any of the salsa we learnt before coming away. So after our Harry Met Sally moment we wandered across the road to a bar playing what sounded like traditional Brazilian music. My ears must be off because when we pushed through the front door we were greeted by the Grease mega mix at full volume, with locals yelling ‘dosh suhumber Naaahhaaats’ in a pitch that would make a donkey try to locate and eat snail pellets. Can only assume that Brazilian Idol hasn’t had much of an impact in the local market.
As for dancing, the closest we got to a salsa beat was that early 90’s Brazilian classic by EMF ‘You’re Unbelievable’. But it did allow Krys to develop a Running Man / Salsa hybrid dance; her own little battle version of mixed martial arts. We considered trying to find another dance fight opponent for her, and bumped up against a girl flailing her arms excitedly but with very limited rhythm. Here was our chance; Krys could take down a local. We engaged in some broken Portuguese before the girl cracked a huge smile and said ‘awww you speak English too. I’m Jenny from Wollongong. Sh#t this place is awesome. Woohooo’. So the dance fight was abandoned. Taking down a local is one thing. But it seemed pointless trying to out dance a drunk and uncoordinated girl from the outskirts of the Gong. Would be like building a fight record by punching armless midgets in the back of the head.
Our trip to Rio also took in New Years Eve. The night could best be described in one word – madness. 2 million people cram the beach and this night it was pouring. So 2m people all dressed in a mix of white and protective plastic jammed into a small area trying to drink and dance at the same time. Given the volume of people and the lack of facilities there was only one option for a bathroom break – the ocean. For me it was fairly easy, but for Krys a little tougher. But she embraced the process, converting her poncho into a dress, discarding her shorts and wading out waist deep into the ocean. Then came a half hearted water ‘frolic’ in an attempt to cover the obvious, despite about 100 guys and girls lining the shoreline doing exactly the same thing. Either that or Krys had placed herself amongst a very poor and drunken Brazilian synchronised swimming practice session complete with man made fountains. So the celebrations up until midnight were done in plastic ponchos and underwear and any ocean swimming the next day was done with mouth and eyes firmly closed.
Then comes midnight when a fireworks display lights up the length of the beach and people jump deeper into a rough ocean. I think Brazil uses their relaxed attitude to the combination of alcohol and beaches as an effective form of population control. But it was quite a night; at various stages of the night I though I was going to be crushed, drown, poisoned by urine or involuntarily impregnate a stranger given how tightly the city was packed together.
One thing I have begun to appreciate is that perhaps I was a touch hasty in judging Mr Peter Allen. For while a ‘flesh fest’ conjures up images of impossibly lithe and beautiful people in minimal clothing, the ‘Brazilian way’ is not bound by any measures of weight or age. Seeing an Eva Longoria clone wander the beach in a strip of material so small Christina Aguilera would have called it inappropriate is one thing, seeing that same outfit on a 60yr old female version of Meat Loaf is another that will cause lingering nightmares.
This was brought home to me while we were sitting in our hotel foyer waiting to get picked up for a favella tour. Across from me sat a lady that resembled a pit bull that had been taught how to sit upright in a chair. She sat there panting after what must have been a tough breakfast session, in an outfit that could be described as snug. Her shorts were tight; so tight that I couldn’t take my eyes off the little gold buttons that strained to keep it all together, and presented themselves like poised missiles ready to launch across the room at any time. I actually shifted seats to avoid what appeared to be an inevitable eye threatening explosion. If Rio is ever attacked, that lady should be positioned on a strategic Rio hill, and fed an extra cream puff as the invading hordes approach.
On our last night in Rio we were recommended a cute little restaurant in Ipenema called ‘Zaza’ and to sit upstairs as it was very romantic. But they do romance differently over here; the ‘romance’ that we got was 3 of the other 5 tables engaged in a mixture of face licking, head eating and borderline dry humping. I have not seen a public display of affection like it, let alone while trying to chew and digest a filet mignon. It was like we had been thrown into either a grown up version of spin the bottle, or the opening scenes of some low budget Brazilian soft p#rn.
So parts of the Rio trip was tough, but we’ll miss it. From the toothless men hanging out of van doors blending 4 destinations into one indecipherable dribble, Brazilian morning tv which contains a Kerry Ann with more extreme hair and a talking parrot puppet as a side kick, favella tours conducted by Norwegians, and driving where lanes, blinkers and speed limits are entirely optional. Industrial strength caipirinhas have made Rio one hell of a place.
Adeus.
Trent, Krystal and a room suffering from pash rash.
smallthoughts 