The Whole Sordid Buzios Bunch

6:12pm and we arrived in Rio, the final leg of the adventure, one where the walls would hopefully collapse on me at the close of this year long fiasco. Through the heavily blacked out windows of the taxi cab it was difficult to make out the exhalations of the city, passing white washed amphitheatres and graffitied derelict buildings adding political slogans and caricatures to concrete. Our first night was spent at El Misti hostel in Botafogo - enough time for us to watch Fluminese gather an entertaining stalemate with Botafogo in a crowded bar where we ate a sizzling plate of chicken strips and spicy chorizo sausage before returning to our three storey bunk beds, swaying violently with every passing snore.

Going coco-loco on Ipanema (muscles not shown)

For the morning check out I wheeled rollerpig past the bear sized yet placid German Shepherd hostel guard dog towards Copacabana and our new hostel, CabanCopa (see what they did there). Excitement grew in waves as our havianas led us to the infamous stretch of beach, encased by mountains and ill-themed and hastily built high rise hotels and apartments. I managed to split my big toe on a crack in the pavement and solace was soon found from the excruciating pain in the murky depths of an Agua-Coca by Ipanema beach as blood gushed from my carved open skin.

The bruised digit was in better shape the next day, the camp limp was still on show, much to the public´s delight, but the wound was healing slowly, enough for us to take a bicycle ride circuit of the Rodrigo de Freitas Lagoon (Matty denied me the joy of a tandem). Shortly afterwards we took a brief tour of the Centro district, taking in the magnificent, if slightly overly ornate, Teatro Municipal as we then hunted down the largest plate on offer at the all you can eat buffet Temperante Restaurant near our accommodation.

Having a ball by the swaying fishing boats in Buzios

For our final short trip we opted to travel to nearby Buzios - known adoringly by the proletariat for being the Brazilian millionaire's weekend resort of choice. Suffice to say we did not fit in among the deftly paved stones leading to the bay and the fairy lit seafood restaurants. Brigitte Bardot unearthed the town in the late 60's and it has since maintained its allure and prestige within the country, enough for them to display an unflattering bronze bust of the silver screen nymph overlooking the rocking fishing boats.

We dined at a Chilean restaurant (utterly budget but copious amounts of frango y arroz was served) where we enchanted the hostess with our rowdy rendition of Chi-Chi-Chi Le-Le-Le! to remind her of our Andes allegiance. A curious turn of events ensued soon after. A Brazilian couple, sat at a table nearby, interrupted our meal intermittently with strange and sporadic queries. The blond girl from Sao Paulo (whose English was very good but her accent strayed towards Borat) and her beast of a boyfriend who looked the spit of Lou Ferrigno from the Incredible Hulk series, joined our table uninvited and continued to litter us with more questions in between our panicked sips of Caipirinha. Among the barrage of inquisition were 'Do you like dancing girls?' and 'Are you married?'. After consulting each other in Portuguese they asked the pair of us to join them for a trip to a secluded beach the following morning. Matty and I agreed nervously knowing that we would be leaving the next day back to Rio. They left shortly afterwards, leaving a trail of relief.

View from the Mix Bar, around the time we started mixing with the underworld

We gathered that the two of them were most certainly swingers and breathed easily knowing that we would never see them again. Until a few minutes later, that was, when The Hulk came back to the restaurant, clubbed a giant fist on Matty's back and demanded that we join them for a drink next door in his colossal baritone. We nervously dragged our feet to the Mix Bar and were relieved to see that the swingers had captured a South African traveler and had duped him into joining their sleaze fest the next day as well. Safety in numbers.

As the night unravelled we discovered that the Durban based tourist was nothing more than a narcotics dependent, negotiating on the beach with his local dealer and scoring off passing strangers in between hurried conversation. Amid our bewilderment, a Boston born lad named Eddie - all East Coast drawl and Tony Soprano ideals - came over to us in a serpentine swagger, and sneered through his discoloured teeth "tell yer boy to watch his back, he's messing with the wrong guy" as he pointed his opaque beer bottle towards the South African who was by now handing some dirty paper notes to a shadow in a hat. Wise guy Eddie then cornered the two of us and implored us to entertain three 'mature' ladies, sat on the bar stools in their evening dresses under a heavy miasma of Chanel #5, and to take them back to his 'castle'.

Me: I think they are going to hurt us
Matty: I know, just smile politely
l-r (A terrified Jack Johnson, A South African crack head, A Brazilian Borat and The Hulk)

It transpired that the ladies were nothing more than elegant night walking harlots and that Eddie was the ringleader of their twilight income. Who was to disclose us of their criminal intent but the Brazilian swingers who were the most trustworthy of all the sordid group. Each individual conspired against one another; the South African to obtain more funds for his hit, Eddie to sell the services of his petticoat squaws and the debauchees for their natural vice. It was all too much for two boys who just wanted a pudding before bedtime and we decided to take the brave choice of running away like lightning back to our hostel.

Back in Rio, on Pão de Açúcar

Buzios Song of the Day: Alanis Morrisette - Hands Clean
The Brazilians appear to have a fascination with Alanis, wherever we go, be it a juice bar, cafe or an emporium, they play either her best of or the entirety of her debut, Jagged Little Pill. Can´t complain though as it has been a while since I've listened to 'Alan Morrissey' as Thom Yorke calls her.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DbrbhJttNu8

i-Pod Song of the Day: Vanessa Carlton - A Thousand Miles

I think somebody must have bought this on i-Tunes and added it to my i-Pod when I was not around as some primitive jest.
Ok, ok, I bought it, and must concede this song is brilliant. It reminds me of driving my pine green Saxo (1.1 litre engine, manual windows, tape player - the works) back home after a days work in the Volvo factory in Rotherham, shaping metal and being shouted at by gruff Yorkshiremen for not being strong enough to carry sheets of corrugated steel to the basement.

Matty is also guilty for singing along merrily when I played this on through the PSP speakers in the dormitory.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Cwkej79U3ek