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Caipirinha Craziness

I woke up a few days later back in the hostel in Rio, it was 10am and I was on the couch in the reception, I had crashed there a couple of hours earlier after a `quiet night´ had been Caipirinha-hacked. My head was pounding and my mouth was furry, like I had eaten Elmo. Bloody Caipirinhas, that was the third night that had taken a turn for the worse after they had been introduced, with their sugar extract liquor, squashed limes and glucose goodness coaxing me into drunkeness like a siren tempts a weary traveller into murky waters. Partying became a theme of our last few days in Rio, there was always someone going to a bar or heading to a party. We promised ourselves we would be yes men and accept any invitations to go out and it ended up with us doing lots, like (and this bit can be imagined like a montage from a road trip movie) squeezing through the carnival style streets of Lapa and then going across town to a party in Botafogo where I drank so much I threw up on some poor girl´s shoes, going to a club in Ipanema with a guy from the hostel who became so frustrated at not picking anyone up that he took us to a whore bar at 4am where I was accosted by an ancient hooker who looked like Steve Tyler, or downing Caipirinhas at a bar with a 20-year-old Brazilian lesbian and daring her to get off with random girls. Consecutive nights of craziness where the only rule seemed to be that there are no rules, shenanigans brushed off with a shrug of the shoulders and a “Hey! It´s Brasil!” The Cariocas (locals) will make you one of their own if you just say yes to stuff.

On Thursday, eyes blurry and head foggy from the previous night´s revelries, we slouched to the Copacabana Palace Hotel, an ornate and ostentatious place that has been the scene for many silver screen movies and no doubt the location for Hollywood deals and agreements of a more sinister nature. Although room prices are extortionate, entrance to the pool side cafe is free so we took a seat beside the oligarchs and movie stars, although the only person we recognised was Ken Hom of culinary fame, where we made one pot of coffee last all afternoon, dining like the elite, only not with the same bill at the end of the day.

We took a city tour the next day to see the tourist sights a proper gringo should not miss. Our guide picked us up in a cramped mini bus with broken air conditioning and a driver who spoke like Don Corleone but drove like Damon Hill, like he was completing a Top Gear challenge to get around Rio in the quickest time. Our guide Fernando was a Carioca who spoke in Borat style English and made quips every few blocks. All the tour guides did, they were probably failed actors or comedians, delivering heartfelt monologues on the history of the city like a thespian doing Hamlet at the Globe.

The views of Rio from Santa Theresa were good, the views from Christ the Redeemer were even better and the panoramic sights from the top of Sugar Loaf were the best yet. I found myself deleting previous photos on my digital camera to make space so I could take even better ones from the next location. Little did I know the views in Chile were going to be even more spectacular.

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Favela fellas

8 Jan

By the end of Tuesday we were rolling bottles of cold water over burnt skin, my sun lotion applying skills like the Rio pavements – uneven. I looked like a fruit salad penny sweet. But we slapped on the aloe vera and went on a tour of a favela. The bus turned up early, and we were ushered away after not two bites of our breakfast, but on the coach a Swedish boy gave us his spare cheeseburger and everything was alright again. Everyone on the bus was a gringo, and the Swedish lad and his friends talked to us of street parties in Lapa and how one of the group had lost at cards and had to get a man-zilian (Google it) as a forfeit. He was wearing a Mario Balotelli ´Why Always Me?´ t-shirt. Apt.

We rode motorbike taxis up the hill to the top of the favela, squeezing in between cars and buses like dental floss, until we reached the summit and walked back down, through dirty narrow streets, past bric-a-brac shacks, that looked like they could fall down at any minute, sad faces in the windows, children starting at us and talking in hushed chitter chatter, a procession of white sitting ducks. And yet there was no violence, no muggings, no stabbings, the favela now a tourist spot after exiting drug rule, with the locals encouraged to fuel their own economy – some painting life in the slums onto canvas, young boys dancing and playing trash can drums for us. There is progression, supermarkets sell Nivea and some children tap away at smart phones, mirroring life on the rich side of Rio, through dirty and desolate panes of glass. Depressing, interesting and endearing all at the same time, like watching Calvin Andrew play football.

Thursday was beach day again, a friend of a friend called Sebastian – a Rio native – picked us up in his hatchback and drove us up the coast to a secluded bay, where mist-capped mountains watched over holidaying Brazilians and local celebrities. We shared drinks, pot and dreams of returning to California, all while Sebastian´s car wound around the coast side roads like the 101 highway on America´s west coast. `It´s hard to leave Rio´ he said though. For whatever reason people can´t leave the city, be it from the stony grasp of the favela or the siren like embrace of the beaches. Rio is a city that doesn´t let its people go.

Having said that, 24 hours later, we waved goodbye to the city for a few days and took the ferry to Ilha Grande, a tropical island 150km rom Rio, that tempts travellers with postcard clear waters and film set beaches. A boat trip around the island gave us the chance to try and get skin cancer again and despite putting on more layers of lotion than someone painting a new room, we returned to the hostel pink as stereotype British prawns, our heads clouded with the island´s humid heat and questions on life. Could we live here? Do locals know anything of the outside world? Why did those two Australians ditch us for a barman and a waiter that wore a bandana, wife beater and Crocs with socks? There were no answers at the bottom of a glass of local beer Brahma sadly.

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Copacabanter

3 Jan

It took only twenty minutes after arriving in Rio before I met my first prostitute. Two in fact, in the hotel elevator with an unperturbed70-year-old local man. Eight floors of claustrophobic awkwardness later and we were in a taxi, heading from downtown to Copacabana beach. Andy and I. The rain was falling, like a British embrace, and the clock was ticking down to 2012. We got in the taxi at 11.15pm and had just to make it to the beach by midnight. What would be there we weren´t sure, where it was we weren´t sure, whether we would make it back alive we weren´t sure, but screw it, the new year was minutes away and we were in the party capital of the world. It seemed almost rude not to.

At 11.45 pm and we were still in the taxi, having moved about five blocks, trapped in the famously bad Rio traffic, while locals ambled past us like they knew something we didn´t. Which they probably did. We abandoned the taxi ten minutes later, a few blocks from the beach. There were so many people in the streets it was like driving through caramel and the taxi driver was getting more and more irate. The streets were heaving with people of all ages all walking briskly towards the beach frought with party fever, beers in hand and smiles on faces. On the beach the crowd stopped, and waited. So did we obediently. Moments later fireworks punctuated the wet night sky, more colourful and spectacular than any I had ever seen before. The locals didn´t seem to care about the rain, dancing and drinking like it was 100 degrees, wearing shorts and slip flops, umbrellas the only addition to otherwise postcard scenes.

After the fireworks we wandered the length of Copacabana beach, winding through the families and students dancing and drinking. Someone tried to put their hand in my back pocket but I batted it away expertly. Sadly it was the closest I came to contact with a local that night. After an hour of walking we – two weary and jetlagged Brits – headed home. Sadly, half of the two million people there were doing the same. There seemed to be only one road out and everyone was on it. Buses were packed, taxis were all taken, so we decided to start walking north towards our hotel, which was about six miles away. We followed local families to stay safe even though they led us through a road tunnel where we tip-toed along a narrow ledge while buses and taxis roared past at 70mph. On the other side of the tunnel someone threw a lit firework on the road from above, it exploded like a smoke bomb in Call of Duty leaving mist and a ringing in my ears. A few blocks later we finally hailed a taxi – what felt like at the 400th attempt – and headed home.

The night consumed us and we slept until 1pm , waking only to tell the cleaning lady no thanks. The streets in downtown Rio were deserted, it was Sunday. We got back in a taxi and headed back to Copacabana, this time in half the time and for half the price of the jacked up New Year´s Eve fare. It was still raining, like the city was mocking us, so we sat in a beach side bar, drinking local beer and planning our assault on Rio. Local boys played football on the beach and the world slowly spun by. We decided Copacabana should be our hub so found a hostel and agreed a price. Travelleres from various countries spoke broken English to each other in the hostel bar and laughed about football and music. We finished our beers and headed back to our hotel one last time.