Copacabanter

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.

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