I Think It's Time To Head Home

A last week in Rio and one spent saying fond farewells once again to a spray of volunteers from my August intake. Bimo had the misfortune of leaving just before another Lapa Friday; Jennifer flew back to Seattle and almost shed a tear to the casa as she gave a very proper royal wave from her departing taxi; Emma-Jayne caught a cab and plane back to Sheffield via Croydon to pursue her Architecture studies in the city of lavish cutlery and snooker world championships and Aaron held tightly to three tumblers of Red Label Johnnie Walker in Bar Simplesmente as he contemplated his voyage back to Los Angeles to continue his valuable work in urban reforestation.

In my final weekend in the Cidade Maravilhosa I headed to Ipanema, taunted by a bothersome midday sun to explore the hippy fair. Walking past butchered wooden idols of Christ and pearly shells from the Atlantic I desperately sought asylum from the heat and the casual listlessness of a Sunday remembering once again my utter distaste in retail. Back in the casa, new recruits from Iko Poran - Sofie from Belgium and Lea from Freiburg, took pity on my lonely mood and invited me to their evening laptop cinema sessions in the sitting room as the clatter of the passing bonde tram worked its hardest to destroy the audio. I was sure glad that no one back home saw me wrapped up in a blanket on a cream leather sofa eating chocolate biscuits. It was a new low, but do understand it was part of my winding down exercise.

Hard at work / Bored at work. And why is my laptop so small?

On my final day at Tatiane Lima in Batam, eleven year old Pedro dumbfounded me when I dismissed class ten minutes early (I was hungry) and he begged me to teach him more scraps of the language. Little did he know that I had no more to tutor. Beyond translations of fruit, colours and parts of the body my skills as an educator were limited, especially without the aid of any reference books.

It was a fond last goodbye to the team at the project. The co-owner, Eliane, lovingly prepared me a special meal for my work - consisting of beans, rice, salad with a refreshing dressing and a beef and potato stew. I had to distract her keen eye as I shovelled only the chunks of potato on to my plate, not having the heart to explain that I didn´t touch the bife.

My appetite was serenaded later in the evening when a group us went out for my last meal at a Rodizio Pizza restaurant in Gloria. Sarah, David, Lea, Sofie and I were left exhausted by the barrage of waiters offering us slices from the silver trays. We just about had enough room for the much anticipated dessert pizzas - filled with hot chocolate sauce, strawberries, bananas and smarties. It was an accomplished and glutinous ending to proceedings.

My legacy at Tatiane Lima. Some idiot drawings for the kids

I absorbed a lot about the plight of Brazil during my two month stay. The country is in buoyant mood with the exciting few years ahead hosting the FIFA World Cup and Olympics which should both be an extraordinary fiesta of sporting celebrations and the opportunity for so many individuals to take advantage of improved infrastructure in the country and serious economic investment. The blue collared and nine fingered President Lula looks to end his term later this year under encouraging egalitarian social programmes which as a whole have gotten to the heart of the extreme poverty issues for many communities (but of course, not all). It is a good foundation at its core, but by simply walking through the more impoverished districts of Rio such as Realengo or Tijuca one can still observe desperate inequality in comparison to the affluent areas in Zona Sul such as Leblon and Ipanema.

The activity of trading narcotics within the communidades has still not been addressed effectively. When you can hear the distant blades rotating from flying helicopters I often cringe at the thought that they are more than likely to be organised police raids ready for a bloody showdown in a nearby favela in order to dislodge the drug lords - not taking into account the hundreds of stray bullets sprayed through the thin walls of the houses and towards civilians.

The people, in all their shapes and sizes and array of descent be it Italian, German, Black, mixed, Native Indian, have amazed me with their attitude from my tourist safe voyeurism. I have witnessed most restaurants and cafes offer free glasses of water and small meals to the destitute, an act that I have similarly been brought up with due to my Kolkata roots. On the buses we have been often approached by friendly passengers informing us kindly as to where to get off had we been unsure, even candy sellers would drop their merchandise, exchange swift pleasantries in broken English or Portuguese and then disembark without even asking for us to buy their sweets. Once when I was standing (and violently swaying) on the racing omnibus back to Centro from Batam, a young girl snatched the thick textbooks I had under my arm and without a word in passing placed them on her lap with a smile so that I would not have to struggle with them during the trip. These small gestures count for much.

Donald Duck´s trip to Brasil and the Carioca he meets is reminiscent of mine:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a3Fit31LXDo

My fellow volunteers at Casa Amerelinho say goodbye. Ok, so this may have been for Jen´s leaving but mine was very similar.
Just with much less people and wide smiles replacing tears.

There are many aspects I shall not miss: acclimatising to ´Brazilian time´ whereby our Western etiquette for punctuality is contorted to abide to a standard of tardiness; the addition of spoonfuls of sugar in every drink and food item - a bad omen for obesity and diabetes; the exchanges of cocaine, guns and menacing glances on some darkened street corners - I can´t wait to carry my wallet, phone and wear a watch again; every taxi, car and bus driver pretending to be Ayrton Senna behind the wheels (it isn't fun when it isn't you); the repulsive corruption on display from the authorities and the uninhabited sexism and open sleaziness of the men towards the women - many have explained that it is extended flattery to the fairer species but I hasten to disagree.

However, with streets lined with kids playing football and with the air scented with all manner of music escaping each door and alleyway it is easy to get lost in such a place.

And now an an end to the technicolour Odyssey, with the fondest of memories ranging from catching sight of the bright orange cloaks of the monks walking serenely on the grounds of the Temples of Angkor Wat and learning in depth of the brutal past of the beautiful and bruised Cambodians; weaving in and out of the siege of motorcycles in Saigon when all I wanted was a plate of Bun Cha; trekking in Sapa on the border of Vietnam and China; sleeping in a tomb in Hong Kong; having two very different experiences with a masseuse in Shanghai with my old friend Rob; a haphazard daytime wine tour in Hunter Valley with Matty, his fiance Katie and Paul; skydiving, kayaking and glacier walking in the achingly majestic New Zealand landscape; eating all the helados and empanadas in sight in Buenos Aires, hiking with the Inca legends and freezing in the Salt Flat deserts of Bolivia alongside Matty. It has all been a breathtaking distraction.

Brazilians talk of a state of mind referenced in many of the scratched Bossa Nova records called saudade - an abstract terminology for a deep melancholy or yearning for something one is fond of, be it in the past, present or the future which has been forever lost. I will be prone to flirt with this and carry like an ornate pocket watch. The longing that remains once something disappears.

Caged Futebol, Caged Spirits

In the space of five days Casa Amarelinho had the fortune of celebrating the birthdays of three of its most notorious members. After Alex´s ocean view fiesta in Ilha Grande came the turn of Seattle Jen who toasted her 23rd at the well known establishment down in the centre of Santa Teresa - Bar do Gomes. The bar´s previous incarnation was in the form of a pharmacy in 1919 and little has changed since; old newspaper clippings line the walls, glass cabinets and counters of its pharmaceutical past lay in the presence of leaning regulars on the wooden bar as they snack on the various salgados and half drunken chopps.

In Bar do Gomes, Santa Teresa
(l-r): Sue, me, Jen, Bimo, Aaron, Sofie, Sarah, Magali and Lea

After sampling the sublime tonic of the more hazardous of the 32 types of cachaça available, we once again bumped into a colourful character with whom we had already made a memorable acquaintence with. We first met this Carioca individual, alongside his volatile partner, on our very first Sunday in a local live music bar where they demonstrated their richly assorted shambles of samba, sleaze and dipsomania. They persistently attempted to take the group of us back to their house for what they called a ´late night barbecue´ but we were savvy enough to awake to their real intentions.

Birthday girl Jen, Aaron - enjoying the reunion a little too much, the swinger and I

Being nothing more than swingers we had to rely on our cunning and guile to escape their amorous invitations on numerous occasions. Rio, it appears, is not as large as one would like to think as in the past two weeks we ran into the couple on four unattached occassions in four separate establishments and precincts of the city. We thought the previous attempt to feed us peanuts with the lurid broken sentence that "it is good. It is an aphrodisiac" would be our concluding chance meeting.

Towards the end of the week our Programme Coordinator at Iko Poran and avid Botafogo F.C. supporter, Felipe, invited the casa for a traditional Brazilian barbecue. The early arrivals - myself included, were slightly baffled at being greeted with a chopping board and a few blunt knives as we were asked to prepare some of the vegetables for the ratatouille and garlic bread. However, we were soon able to savour the rewards from the charcoal grill in one of the finest feasts to date as well as watching ominously as Felipe provided the group with an expeditious lesson in constructing the perfect Caipirinha, revealing that the secret is all in the revolutions of the cocktail mixer.

Felipe, you have been pouring in the cachaça for almost a minute now

Brazilian barbecue. No swingers in sight.

Back within the seminar room´s walls in Batam all was progressing rather admirably with my students. Teenage Lucas´s pronunciation of the weather forecast variants was coming on fantastically; middle-aged Eliane, who works in tourism and already loaded with a good grasp of the language, was improving her future tense construction; little Vanessa continued her exhaustively slow copying of the whiteboard but more than made up for it by staying late after class to help me clean said whiteboard and tidy the room - what a sweetheart; tiny Laurany was overcoming her shyness and shining like a star with the topic of transport. All of whom entertained Alex, Jen and I with their desperate cries of ´Teacher!´ every time we attempted to clear the board before they had finished writing in their exercise books.

Turn your back for one minute and the rotten brats cause havoc on the whiteboards

Little Laurany offers some sound advice on presentation

Due to a week of temperatures stable in the mid thirties and a searing atmosphere I opted to shelve soccer school in the midday sun and instead retired in the cool still air of the classroom and made the most of the delicious meals on offer at Tatiane Lima - this week´s favourite included spicy fish fry with the usual sides of rice and beans with farofa. Always rice and beans with farofa.

Lunch is served at Tatiane Lima - and like detention at school, eaten on our own in the classroom

The one lesson that did manage to stick out in the memory was the one with the precious six year old boy Daniel, sat on the back stool with his legs dangling endearingly and alongside him, and the only other student for that particular lesson, sat a fifteen year old transsexual whose splendid princess facade was only marred by her / his husky bass voice. It was an awkward class but Wesley was an otherwise conscientious pupil.

One last Lapa for Alex - as he looks on at our favourite ´Caiprinha lady´

On Lapa Friday for Bimo´s birthday - the third feliz anniversario in a busy week

The start of the week brought an end to more volunteers´ tenures in Brazil. Alex flew back to Vienna with his endorsement of Austria still ringing in everyone´s ear and effervescent Éabhall with her bottle of Bohemia returned back to Cork. I was now desperately in need of some replacements for their departed company and instantly found refuge with two easy victims: Ailton the Brazilian housekeeper and David from Santiago. The fact that neither of them were fluent in English made the transition all the more sweeter for now I didn´t even need to pierce the thin fabric of their opinions or thoughts.


On route to the street cage soccer in Santa Teresa - no pictures taken on court amid safety fears

The two of them offered me to join their five a side team at the local favela park up on the hill during Independence day. After some gentle conversation on route (namely any Portuguese in the present continuous - I am hungry and I like Manchester United) I resigned myself to playing in goal due to arriving bare foot (I thought that was how they played street football in these parts) and I did not own any trainers. Surrounding the concrete playground that was the pitch was a looming rusty wiry cage fence, a group of rowdy youthful supporters, and the presence of heavily graffiti tagged derelict housing on either side.

All very downtown L.A. thus far and the teams made up of roaming rogues with torn vests, cheap jewellery, shaved eyebrows, obvious sneer and loosely worn baseball caps all added to the drama. The game rules were of two goals and the winner stayed on, with around five squads taking part. Once playing, our team of makeshift scoundrels provided what can only be described as dynamic street theatre. My goalkeeping display was a revelation after conceding only a solitary goal in six unbeaten futebol matches - though my aerial prowess was much to be desired, for obvious reasons. The opposition and boisterous crowd even began to heckle my elastic athleticism with aghast swearing and abuse for keeping the goal ratio down. It was a most satisfying ordeal, almost worth the portfolio of bloodied and bruised feet, elbows and knees. I believe only I could have come to the land of entertaining soccer flicks, mazy dribbles and tantalising skills and numb it with European styled stubborn resilience.

i-Pod Song of the Day: Paulinho Moska - A Flor E O Espinho

A flute assisted guitar strummed turn from Rio born songwriter Paulinho Moska who used to be in a band in the seventies called Deep Throat. This has given me wonderful company when looking out from the roof terrace of the casa over dusk lit downtown Rio when no one has been around to break the silence.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q_-Y7zS82VM

Many thanks to Miss Frazer and Miss Stevens for some of the photographs in this installment. My camera has decided to fail me.

Under A Palm Tree You Cannot See The Fireworks

Still unable to discard the bitter taste left by the excesses of sugar sweetened liquors, I decided, alongside Viennese Alex and a new Australian arrival - Sarah, to find refuge in the lotus womb teachings of Siddhartha Gautama at the Japanese Buddhist Temple. Marie, our German house manager, organised the meditation session on a thickly perfumed Monday evening to coincide with the full moon - a deeply significant day of the month for many eastern religions and philosophies. Ancient belief in India recalls that as the moon is the controller of the water, its weight circulates through the universe sustaining all living creatures and is the counterpart on earth to the ambrosia of heaven. It is commonly thought too that the lunar phase occurred during the enlightenment of Buddha. With this in mind it was far too arduous to purge the often wistful mind and the constant passenger of worry, though the peaceful surroundings of the temple were enough to realign the soul to some degree.

Angra Dos Reis

Later on that night, L.A. Aaron and South African Susan generously prepared a sapid chicken soup with mixed salad - its core ingredients sourced organically from their projects´ garden - of which they plant and sustain crops and vegetables for the community to sell on for a small profit. The pair then invited us to the Cine Santa Teresa to watch the late night viewing of Uma Noite em 67, a documentary of the turbulent 1967 music festival in Sao Paulo. The movie featured such Brazilian musical luminaries as Roberto Carlos, Gilberto Gil, Chico Buarque and Sergio Ricardo and focused on the mixture of euphoria and political freedom brought by the show in an era of repression and discontent in this land. However, with it being projected wholely in Portuguese and having no subtitles and with little footage of the concert itself, I was not surprised to be disturbed ten minutes in by a gentle iterant sound which was nothing more than the choir of snoring emitting from Aaron, Alex and Susan in blissful unison.

We had a little drama at our project in Batam earlier in the week. One of my kids, whom I spend time learning his violent karate and jiu jitsu moves for future defence, excitedly informed me of a terrorist attack - which I laughed off and instead continued to ask about finishing moves with flying kicks to the throat. Finishing our lunch of fried chicken, arroz and farofa, Luciano calmly mentioned to us that we ought to stay put within the shelter of the building due to an exchange of rapid gun fire taking place in the neighbourhood between the police and the drug lords. After a few hours of eagerly craning the neck out of the balcony in order to obtain a better vista of the action (there was only an eerie silence and deserted dusty streets) we were given the green light to return back to Centro, with Luciano adopting the role of guardian in case we took a wrong turn towards a bullet sprayed back alley. All very exciting indeed and exactly why I signed up for the programme in the first instance.



Local catch at Ilha Grande

More astonishing capers ensued back in a deserted Centro. After barely eating a rather disgraceful attempt at a pizza in Gloria (no tomato base and more cheese than an Abba tribute band) Alex and I walked back towards Casa Amaralinha swinging our leftovers in a plastic bag with the admirable intention of handing it to the same tramp whom I so ruthlessly fell on top in the previous episode. However, a gang of sunken faced beggars surrounded us on a darkened street corner and snatched the bag from our hands. In their dull glassy gaze they spat that they were hungry and hurried away with their stolen fromage catastrophe. Still, I have heard of more violent incidents in this Cidade de Deus.

With Shakira´s imminent departure approaching, the entire house sauntered in single file towards Gaucho restaurant, a hidden gem on the fringes of Santa Teresa, for a farewell supper. Overlooking the favelas sparkling intently with a disarming drum of twilight activity, we heard the sudden cracking of gun fire and the spectacle of fireworks as we tore into mouthfuls of delicious frango grelhado and meaty spiced sausages. Maria informed us that this ritual was simply a sky lit sonnet from the drug lords of the communidade with the open message that a new shipment of narcotics had safely arrived in their hands and that the police were once again hapless in their limp chase to prevent it. We were told that the colour of the display informed the clientele throughout the city as to the specific type of drug that had been dispatched and that the ceremony was also a machoistic symbol by the defiant gangs to show off towards the authorities, though in most likelihood they in turn would be celebrating with fattened pockets.

With the weekend at last in sight, a cluster of us (Bimo, Alex, Jen, Sarah and Monica) departed from the claustrophobic bubble of the city and headed on to the bus and ferry to the island of Ilha Grande located on the Costa Verde coast. On our first full day I decided to investigate a number of trails leading towards the discarded prison now left to debris in the tropical heat.

Must. Breathe. In.
Bimo, Alex and I sample the beaches. Note to self, flowery swim wear is most probably in at the moment.

Later on we all supped a few cocktail-shakes by the beach listening to the retiring ocean and with it being Alex´s birthday, we took him to the exclusive-as-it-sounds Kebab Lounge which to his delight and modest Austrian principles, was run by a pack of Germans.

Celebrating Alex´s birthday at Ilha Grande
(l-r) - Jen, Monica, Alex, me, Sarah and Bimo

Of course we had no lie in the following morning before check out and soon after breakfast we passed the option of resting motionless on a hammock and gesturing casually to the nearby hummingbirds and instead hiked for a number of miles in the thick burning sun towards Lopes Mendez beach on the opposite side of the island. To its eternal credit, the strip of seafront was exquisite. We were greeted by the soft coral and chalk green ocean surrounding sand finer than gold with the feel of crushed velvet snow. It was enough to make one long for it whilst already in its presence.

Making casual acquintances in Lopes Mendes, Ilha Grande


Rio Song of the Day - Maria Creuza - Obsessão/Não Me Diga Adeus/Pois E/A Flor E O Espinho

More sultry laments, this week from the versatile Brasilian artist, Maria Creuza. Her voice soars tenderly to words I am not quite sure the meaning of, the Portuguese classes don´t appear to be helping much.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hnYF0_ciTsg


i-Pod Song of the Day - Ryan Adams - Come Pick Me Up
Time now for a classic song from our favourite troubled singer songwriter from Jacksonville´s debut album, Heartbreaker. A wonderful version of this was performed a few years ago on The Late Show With David Letterman with his band The Cardinals to coincide with it being the lead song for the Cameron Crowe film Elizabethtown. Humorously David Letterman makes a real mess of the introduction but reigns in his string of mistakes with good grace.

Hopefully Ryan is feeling a little less bruised now that he is married to America´s sweetheart, Mandy Moore.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dRnoh86FD2A