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.

The Runway Towards O Cristo

Once the uncomfortable feeling from Buzios left the veins like a warm black river, we returned to Rio with the consummate ease of the seasoned sailors that we had become. On return to our hostel we were heckled by two teenage troublemakers, who shouted out ´Hey Luigi and Gary!´. It was none other than two upstarts that we had adopted in Foz do Iguazu that we named Effy and Mia (to compliment their Skins generation repertoire), who in turn greeted us with the monikers that they believed to be most suitable for us.

Every Friday night, the Central district of Lapa is renown for the street party that they host, and as the entire hostel were joining in on the festivities we couldn´t shy away from the event, even though a packet of Oreos and hot milk before an early night was always more preferable. After a few experimental drinks of $5 Riel Vodka (around £2 for the litre - classy stuff), lime and Pepsi light (it was on offer at the supermercado) prepared by the kids, we samba´d on to the public bus following our hostel tour guide (who looked strikingly like David Seaman) towards the carnival. Upon arrival we were greeted by a cacophony of kettle drums, whistles, food stalls and pools of spilled mojitos and poured rum.

Lapa Friday Night Street Party

Taking a slight detour from the roof top samba bars a handful of us took in the eclectic delight of the lapa steps - created by the Chilean artist, Selaron, and watched on at the procession of revelry wandering and dancing by.

We had been forewarned by the staff at CabanaCopa to be wary of our belongings and possessions as the plethora of ravers was a cheap invitation for petty theft - even with the heavy police presence looming in the backdrop. Within the first hour a young foppish English dandy got pick pocketed by a swift and precise move. His Bolivian purchased pyjama pantaloons and rowdy manner exposed him to the thieves like a Pyramid atop the Pyrenees.

View from Corcovado mountain

With me nursing a mournful head and a bowlful of excess the next morning, Matty in his enthusiastic dawn delirium forced upon me a day of sight seeing. A prelude to this was a wretched hour long queue outside Fluminese´s home ground as we attempted to purchase some tickets for the evening game at the Maracana stadium. Following a miserable half day detour back to our hostel on the metro only to return back to the centre by the public bus towards the towering Modern Wonder of the World and the largest Art Deco statue in the world - O Cristo de Redentor / Christ the Redeemer sat aloft the Corcovado mountain. By the point we had arrived we were informed by an official guide that we had missed the final train to the summit and had to negotiate a rather steeply priced minibus to see the site. I was ready to crawl into bed and lock up the world, firing my musty arrows of torture onto passersby.

Big Jebus on a hill

However, the grandeur of the 40 metre high ivory white statue overlooking the burning city under the sun emblazoned the fading embers of the day. Better still, the King of the Jews provided us with a blessing of such exquisite fortune it was hard not to fall at the feet in gratitude. Taking place behind the torso of Jesus was a photoshoot for the next series of Brazil´s Next Top Model. The girls appeared like an epiphany and it was only respectful to their burgeoning careers for us to have a little chat with the contestants and allow them the privilege of a photograph to commemorate our meeting.

We were running fine of time, as kick off for the football game began to draw ever nearer, so we parted sadly to the models who evaporated from view as suddenly as they had appeared.

Fluminese fans cheer at the opening goal

Further uptown, via the crowded metro, and on to the boiling pit of the Maracana stadium, observed by a swarm of military personal complete with batons and handguns within their pockets and belts. We entered the ground and heard the barrage of thousands of home support singing boisterously to spur on the team to victory. To their delight, as firecrackers hit the pitch, Fluminese won an open game 3-1 against Atletico PR (not my old work team) after a virtuoso display from their nimble and creative number 10, Washington.

We slept that night with the echoing songs of the Fluminese faithful ringing within the ear drums as thoughts of our model friends burned red behind the eyelids.

A fine day indeed.

On Sunday, it was time for Buckinghamshire´s favourite and UEA´s coveted Hockey Player of the Year 2003, to leave my side and return back to his patient fiancee in their Surrey Hills apartment in Sydney. After six weeks on the road and a disorientating trail of long haul bus journeys, Pisco Sours and misdemeanors, we parted with our first successful Around The World high five.

Time to say farewell to so many bad ideas that we had on such beautiful days.



Rio Song of the Day: Selena Gomez - Round and Round
I am slowly catching up with what the kids are into as the bar at the hostel displays VH-1´a mood chart during the evening. Darling Selena makes Rio´s song of the day more for her visual qualities rather than her vocal talents. I can not believe I never watched Disney´s Wizard of Waverly Place when I had the chance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UfcvO2t8Ntg



i-Pod Song of the Day: The Temper Trap - Fader
The Brazilians are still enamoured by the song Sweet Disposition by the Melbourne five piece, which is a lovely song, for sure, but it is time to delve deeper into their debut album Conditions for a rather more uptempo composition.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L18tjO2GYnU

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