Don't cry for me Argentina...

And so it was, after 5 months in Brazil, my stay had come to an end and my the final stop in South America, Buenos Aires, was looming. On the 20 hour coach journey from Foz I had a lot of time to reflect on my time in Brazil. Flicking through my photos on my camera, I kept thinking about my achievements to date - picking up three different jobs (construction work, receptionist and marketing, and a tour guide writer) in Rio, making numerous local and international friends, parading in the Carnival and learning Portuguese to name but a few. Though I arrived in Foz somewhat disappointed with my level of Portuguese, I had managed to hold a conversation with Rodrigo's aunt and uncle, who spoke no English at all, for half an hour without needing assistance, and knew I could leave proud of my accomplishments.

The coach ride was surprisingly decent, considering its minuscule cost - the seats were spacious and fully reclineable, there was no erratic South American driving, the air conditioning worked and we were even given champagne with our evening meal. Walking around the prayer circle that had formed by the passengers, trying not to interrupt the spontaneous sermon that had taken place (presumably in thanks to have been delivered alive and safe against all odds at our destination) I took a breath of the thick morning city air and set about finding accommodation. Giuliana had previously been living in Buenos Aires and so had hooked me up with a hostel, Kilka, to stay in in San Telmo with a friend and seemed like a good place to start.

The famous San Telmo Markets

San Telmo is considered the bohemian suburb of the city, though having lived in Santa Teresa, Rio's equivalent, I couldn't help feel it didn't match the standard I had been used to. This was in part due to the city's grid system, which, though practical, took a lot of soul out of the disorder that South America usually brings so much charm to. Previously so accustomed to the heat and vibrant colours of Brazil, the cold, grey streets felt all too similar to London at the end of winter as the overcast skies began to open with a downpour that was to last for several days. Having found my room I was feeling uncharacteristically down about leaving my last destination and crashed straight to bed, barely giving the quaintly quirky hostel or its intriguing group of eclectic guests a chance to charm me. Wallowing in self-pity is far from a usual personality trait of mine, however, and soon I was making friends, swapping travel stories and getting to know the best way to have fun in the city for my short stay. That night we went to a local outdoor performance to see La Bomba de Tiempo (Time Bomb) who were local artists playing a live percussion set and started to pick up the unique Buenos Aires vibe. I struggled with the desire to compare the music with the incredible carnival baterias of Rio, and finally resisted, taking it for what it was - a wonderful evening out with energetic, talented performers with a great crowd from Kilka.

Bomba de Tiempo

Everyone at the hostel seemed to have incredible culinary prowess and people would come together to share meals in the evenings, from stuffed peppers with risotto to fresh salads and fish dishes, all accompanied with generous pours of beer. Keen to contribute, I went to the local supermarket 'Disco' (my favourite shop name in the city) by apt chance wearing my 'To the Disco' t-shirt, then the local grocery and bought some ingredients, followed by 4kgs of beef spine from the butcher down the street. Though I'd never cooked with this before, I soon had a gargantuan pot of aromatic bubbling beef soup (with shallots, potatoes, sweetcorn, carrots, celery, herbs, spices, and the secret ingredient - a bottle of Argentinian wine) and everyone sitting round the living room table slurping and drinking gave a great homely feeling this foreign land.

Two days were spent on walking tours around the city, soaking in some of the culture, history and sights of Buenos Aires with local guides. One striking thing about the capital is that it is so visually distinct from many other South American countries, particularly in terms of architecture. Many nations have clearly been influenced by colonial designs, but none in quite the same way as the Argentines. Brazil being the only nation on the continent involved in the Second World War, Argentina was able to capitalise by sending supplies to Europe, making vast sums of money, enough to afford to fill their would-be empty returning vessels with all the valuables they desired. This chiefly consisted of entire Parisian buildings, packed stone by stone, brick by brick, so many classic French and Italian buildings were sent across the Atlantic that in many areas of the city it is easy to think you are actually in the French capital. There also is a distinct disdain felt by other nations on the continent that Argentines are stuck up, thinking themselves as Europeans and therefore better than anyone else... which many Argentines shamelessly agree with.

Buenos Aires or Paris?

This pseudo-European nation is, however, more distinct from its colonial nations in appearance than it would be proud to admit, for there are far more areas full of smashed paving slabs, piles of rubble and huge heaps of litter that shelter thousands of homeless people across the capital than there are these lavish buildings. Amid the parts of society that have all too good a life, one that is obsessed with fashion and figures (100 breast implant operations are completed in this city everyday - more than anywhere else in the world), the other includes the thousands that rally in the 40 - 50 weekly protests near the Constitution Hall, people banging drums, blowing horns, waving flags and writing political graffiti as they protest about working rights, pay and government legislation.

Since the military junta ended in the early 80s, Argentina became a democracy, though the country is still clearly finding its feet in this regard, having no less than 5 different presidents between December 2001 and January 2002 as just one example, and of course, political corruption is still desperately rife. The populous are also passionate about using their rights to protest since the severely oppressive regime of the junta fell. During the late 70s and early 80s, congregating in the street in groups of more than 3 was an arrestable offense, as was being suspected of revolutionary thinking - arrests that saw the 'disappearance' of 30,000 of residents - men, women and children, almost all of whom were likely to have been murdered by the state. The mothers of the lost children are still campaigning for the people in their 20s and 30s to get DNA testing as many children who were due to be executed were secretly adopted by their captors - controversially, over 100 children have discovered that, not only were they adopted, but their supposed parents had probably been directly, or at least indirectly been involved in the murder of their biological parents.

On the tour, we went on to visit the Big Ben style clock in the city - a gift from the old British rail workers - and the Falklands... sorry, ahem, the Malvinas war memorial directly opposite, commemorating nearly 700 Argentinian soldiers that fell in the war. They say they built it in front of the clock so they could 'keep an eye on us'... The antithesis to this sorry affair however, is that the war greatly expediated the fall of the repressive junta which liberated the nation from tyranny and feel less guilty about quietly humming Land of Hope and Glory at the monument. Perhaps if they weren't still so touchy about it I may not be so conceited...

The British Clock Tower - modelled on Big Ben

Don't mention the war...

The 16th of April was my last night in South America and I wanted to do it in true Argentinian style. I called Amanda, the first person who met me at Casa 579 and showed me the ropes of the guest house before moving from Rio back to her home city to study, and arranged to meet. It happened to be her mother's birthday, so 8 - 11pm consisted of eating and drinking with Amanda, her mother and a dozen of her friends, all drinking wine and all speaking very fast Spanish all at once. My abilities in Portuguese meant I was able to understand some of what they said (there is a significant overlap between the two languages) though still managed to cause some laughs as I struggled with the differences - 'Thank you' in Portuguese is 'Obrigado' and in Spanish is 'Gracias', and my accidental amalgamation would embarrassingly conjure 'Obri-gracias'. Fluent 'Portaniol', I've been assured.

Amanda's friend Maria was meant to meet us so we could leave for midnight (like the Spanish, the Argentines start nights out late), but though the international female phrase, 'I'll be ready in 5 minutes' always tells the seasoned male that pigs will sooner fly than 5 minutes being accurate, one cannot be prepared for the habbits of Argentine women. At 2am and another assurance of 'just 5 more minutes', my forehead was reddening from the banging of it on a wall. At just after 3am, when we finally left, I was told things are still just getting started at local bars and clubs, followed by Amanda's wonderful insight of local female time keeping, "If we're only an hour late then we're on time - three hours late is pushing it a little". Classic Latin America! As much as I jest about their time keeping, Amanda and Maria were great fun to go out with. We drank great wines and beers in local bars, made new friends and partied well past sunrise, all in time to have breakfast, send Amanda home to sleep and for me to go to the airport for my midday flight (which I was sure to sleep through, running on fumes for the rest of the morning)

Amanda, random Argentine & Lionel drinking some good old Malbec

Queuing for the Quantus flight on my next stop to Perth, the reality stepped in that the continent's Latin beauty had all but slipped away amongst the hubbub of the overwhelmingly thick Aussie accents of the sunset holiday makers and the 'Socceroos' football squad on the plane. My head started to throb for more reasons than just my hangover. As much as I initially doubted I would ever return, the vibrancy of the city did end up captivating me. During my short stay there was not enough time for a tango show or to enjoy nearly enough prime-cut steaks, but I certainly have a reason to go back. Though Argentina didn't quite win my heart as much as Brazil, it is still a fantastic South American capital that was a wonderful stop on my world tour.

Adventures in Foz

A quick precursor to this next blog post – though my current location is India, I realise that I am quite far behind with my write ups, in part due to having far too much fun with far too little internet in Asia. I now have more time to catch up and hope to have everything mostly up to date before I return home…

Sunday the 4th of April was shaping up to be a rather surreal day. Having urgently whisked myself away from 10 days of silence and existentialism in the Brazilian countryside, hurrying to make a flight, I was hit with the full force and mayhem of Rio International Airport. This shock to the system was joined by excitement, but also anxiety, for I would arrive to a foreign city - Foz Iguacu on the Southern Brazilian border next to Argentina and Paraguay, with no place to stay, no idea of where to go or what to do.

Upon arrival at 6pm, intending to seek out a tourist information point, the airport was all but abandoned. The one shop that was open that seemed to offer accommodation options - perfect. Alas, it was not meant to be... it had failed to occur to me that it was the Easter holidays and every single hotel, hostel and guest house in the whole city was, without exception, fully booked. I had one remaining option. Gabriel, my room mate at the Vipassana course, whom I spoke with for all of 15 minutes at the end of our Nobel Silence on the last day, mentioned he had a cousin, Rodrigo, living in the area who I might be able to go for a beer with or possibly stay over. He said he would try and call him when he got home, which would have given him about an hours warning, if he had called at all. Very tenuous indeed. Phone boxes don't take cash, only cards, and now all shops were closed at the airport. It was beg, borrow or steal time - my newly acquired phone rang... and as if blessed by my new accumulation of Karma, Rodrigo answered the phone and was more than happy for me to stay with him in Foz. Belesa!

Rodrigo turns out to be a dentist working for his uncle, Gabriel’s father, in the city and appears to be the friendliest person residing in it. “So, you must be starving – what do you want for dinner?” asked my new host. Nearly a fortnight of vegetarian food prompts the simple answer, “Meat. A lot of meat”, and it turns out he knew just the place. After a four minute drive from his house I was asked for my passport – we had already arrived at the Argentinean border and were barely another five minutes from a top Argentinean steak house. Two gargantuan slabs of incredibly tender chorizo steak later, all set to a background of life classical flamenco music, the sudden return to reality and the unexpected entrance into Argentina had left me exhausted, but ready to fight another day.

Me and Rodrigo in Argentina after our steaks...

Grateful to have the chance to practice his English and to share a cultural experience, my two day, one night trip with Rodrigo in Foz extends into a week long stay with him and his other Uncle and lodger, Rico. The Falklands is a big topic, naturally, though initially faltered by the fact that the Argentineans don’t know what The ‘Falklands’ are. The Malvinas, as they call it, is stubbornly claimed as Argentinean soil, written as such on every map (Malvinas [ARG]) and the fact that it has been owned by the British for over 180 years with a dominant British population has no relevance on things at all. At the time of my arrival, the news was full of reports that the British had found oil of the island coast and our intentions to drill was being met with the threat of an Argentinean blockade. Not the time to flex national pride considering my location and for every trip into our neighboring country, I was most definitely Canadensia (Canadian) – especially in restaurants..

And the location of Foz is excellent for Brazilians – anyone in the city is barely more than a 10 minute drive to Argentina or Paraguay, where prices are almost half that of Brazil. It was also great for my passport pride, collecting another pair of stamps every time we went to buy anything from the store. In my first few days of exploring the town, I had heard news from my friend, Giuliana (an American photographer living in Rio who, like me had been enamored by Brazil when staying at Casa579 during Carnival) had decided to come and join me and Rodrigo in Foz. The problem was in leaving Rio. The day I left, Rio suffered around 2 months worth of rain in as many days, the worst rains in 70 years. There were landslides around the city, 13 alone in Santa Teresa where I had been previously living, that killed 300 people (mostly in favelas) that stranded the entire city. I considered myself very lucky to get out when I did. While waiting for Giuliana, I visited the National Bird Park and saw hundreds of tropical birds, from bright purple and yellow macaws to bright pink flamingoes, rare and giant birds of prey to walking among hundreds of humming birds. It was a great day out, in spite of the fact I left with bleeding feet having been stalked and attacked over a 15 minute period by a crazed toucan.

The one on the left was my attacker - seeing this picture puts a shiver down my spine!

When Giuliana arrived, we finally got to see first hand why Foz Iguacu is a so highly acclaimed by travelers of South America. The waterfalls are a UNESCO heritage sight and are currently short listed as one of the 7 Natural Wonders of the World, and it is not hard to see why. As you slowly approach the falls, long before you can see them, one is already overwhelmed by the constant thundering roar as 400,000 gallons of water crash down into the river below every second. As the trees cleared during our approach, some of the 275 waterfalls, all around 250ft in height became visible. A vast cloud of spray shimmers over the falls catching the sunlight to create a myriad of vivid colours from a vast array of rainbows that sit in front of the rich greens of the forest in the distance.  After several minutes of stunned silence, we realised our mouths had been left hanging open for quite some time. This impossible place is literally jaw-droppingly beautiful. Following the trail down the canyon, more sights open up, revealing more and more waterfalls, big and small, until the path ends at the Garganta do Diabo – a walkway that leads out right in front of the largest of all the falls – at 280ft, the Devil’s Throat’s thunder is simply immense. Standing this platform over the middle of the river, within seconds the spray of water soaks through clothes and deafens with its titanic roar. As you turn to follow the water carrying on down stream, it travels just meters behind the walkway before cascading down more falls, deeper into the gorge and creating even more white spray - each droplet flaring into its own miniature supernova as they are caught by the setting sunlight beams through the trees on the horizon. Throughout this experience there are dozens of birds of prey circling above and hundreds of colourful butterflies at every turn. If you are ever in South America, I cannot stress enough how worthwhile it is to visit this monumental natural beauty.

A view of some of the Cataratas (giant waterfalls) at Iguacu

Garganta do Diabo (Devil's Throat) walkway

Views of the Devil's Throat

Spray rising above the falls, courtesy of Giuliana Mackler

Rodrigo and I went on several other excursions, including meeting his aunt and uncle for lunch at their place in Foz, and in the other circumstance, in Paraguay, where they, like a number of successful south Brazilians, have a second home. This was an exciting prospect - going to Paraguay had not been a part of the original travel plan and was keen to be able to experience another South American country.  Only a ten minute drive from Rodrigo's house, we were already crossing the border. Though I had my passport ready for another stamp, it turned out that border control was often unmonitored, and to go out of the way to get documents validated would probably arouse suspicion. I was assured that if I was checked on the way back to Brazil and found to not have the required documents, then purchasing the police a 'coca cola' would suffice. Though I visited Paraguay, I cannot honestly say I had a balanced view of the country. This once war-torn nation had around 90% of its inhabitants slaughtered in 1870 during the Tri-Nation war and still feels the effects of this today, so though most of the land is impoverished, many rich Brazilians live on a giant luxury estate near the boarders. Inside were top of the range sports facilities, club houses, hundreds of huge and custom built houses - 14 year olds would drive their parents' cars to the football field, from BMWs and Mercedes to Humvees and trucks, and enjoy the weekend with their friends in Paraguay before returning back to Brazil for week day school routine.

Leaving Rodrigo and Uncle Rico for Buenos Aires, I was extremely grateful for his kindness and hospitality. Nearly all who visit Foz to see the Cataratas (the falls) and go, but I had a unique experience seeing the city and learning even more about Brazilian, Paraguayan and Argentinian culture than I ever hoped possible.

A night out at 'Too Much Pub' in Puerto Iguazu, Argentina, with Rodrigo and friends

For whom the bell tolls

On the 24th of March, bags were packed and goodbyes were said to all at Casa579, and with a pang of sadness, and "saudade", Santa Teresa and the glorious city of Rio were left behind. My travels would bring me towards the Blue Mountains - a 3 hour drive deep in to the overwhelmingly picturesque Brazilian countryside where I would undergo 10 days of Vipassana over the next 12 days. This intensive course would involve following a strict routine of daily meditation with the goal of achieving mental purification, deep control of mind over body and an insight into the Buddhist way of life, along with 80 other willing volunteers.

After the first few hours of induction, we began what is know as "The Noble Silence", refraining from all forms of communication, from speaking and hand gestures to even the acknowledging others, for 10 long days. We then had our time table explained to us. 4am wake up follows over 11 hours of individual and group meditation sessions every day, each segment of the day denoted by the chiming of a bell. Food would be strictly vegetarian - breakfast would be served at 6:30am, lunch at 11am and no other food would be provided again until the next morning, with the exception of a lime juice or a piece of fruit being served in the afternoon. Music players, phones, books, writing, exercising and practicing any other meditation techniques, including yoga, were all prohibited - this was going to be 10 days left with nothing but my own head and guaranteed to be an titanic mental challenge.

The first three days would be centered around the discipline of Anapanasati - mindfulness of breathing. Clearing the mind of all thoughts, one focuses purely on sensations in and on the nose. Though this sounds simple in theory, in practice, trying to clear your mind is a mammoth feet. No sooner is your mind being distracted by simple things that slowly become out of control. You may start thinking about lunch, then what you would have for lunch if you could have any meal you liked - what it would be like if I opened my own restaurant? What kind of food would I serve? Wouldn't it be amazing to be a Micheline star chef? I wonder what Gordon Ramsey is doing right now.... Then all of a sudden, 15 minutes of meditation has evaporated into day dreaming nonsense. And this repeats over and over, for hours. This is made even more difficult sitting on a small cushion, back unsupported on a wooden floor, for a total of 11 hours a day - the discomfort is desperately hard to ignore - especially during each 1 or 2 hour sessions you are to remain absolutely still throughout.

A similar Vipassana meditation hall, though a little more established than our hut in the forest

Now, at this point, I can hear you asking the patently pertinent questions, "What the hell are you doing this to yourself - aren't you meant to be on a beach or something? Have you lost your mind?" And the answer is, or was by the third day, "I have no idea, yes, I should be on a beach, and yes, I think I have indeed lost my mind." By day three there had been very little explanation of what the goal actually was and what we would be doing over the next 7 days (other than simply focus on our noses - a tortuously unbearable thought).

The reason for enlisting on this course stems from a mixture of reasons. I have always been intrigued by Buddhism for its philosophical approaches and as a guide for having a happy, fulfilled life and thought this course would be an excellent way to asses, understand and practice their methods of meditation. This course also looked to be quite a challenge - holidays are for sitting on beaches, traveling should be about exposing yourself to new and interesting experiences, and this looked to be just the thing. Vipassana is not a religious practice. Its teachings are applicable for anyone, whether they be religious zealots or uninspired by these organised venerations entirely, and though Vipassana stems from Buddhism, on its own, it is purely a way to experience separation of the mind from the body - the technique Buddha used to achieve Nirvana 2,500 years ago. The purpose of separating the body and the mind is to practice, rather than just think about existentialism. It teaches self awareness, self control and allows the mind to subconsciously deal with past, whilst focusing purely on the present moment.

Gautama Siddhartha - the most famous of all Buddhas (enlightened ones) - is more commonly referred to as The Buddha.

Until the third day, we were practicing Anapanasati, but by the fourth day, we were to begin Vipassana. Rather than just observing breath, we would mentally scan all the sensory inputs on the surface of the entire body. The discipline is to be aware of all itches, tickles, tingles pains, aches, heat and cold as if you are a 3rd party observer, remaining perfectly still throughout - a technique that slowly begins to separate mind and body, rejecting impulses outside and focusing on what is occurring within. This was a joyous relief as I was uncertain of my stamina for ten days of Anapanasati - this gave me more to focus on and more to aim for during the days to come.

When it was explained during that Vipassana is not a religious group or cult, merely a mind purification technique, I took a glance around the room to see 80 people meditating in silence, chanting from time to time. I could not help but become afflicted by a dubiously cocked eyebrow with the severity usually reserved for the guy who tells you, "Now trust me, this is definitely not a pyramid scheme..." Proceding with caution, it became clear that this was primarily a meditation course with some focus on the teaching of Buddha (Dharma), teachings that are very insightful and logical - refreshingly bereft of fire and brimstone, orders and rules. All the doctrines are purely advisory and offer a guide on maximising happiness, tranquility and fulfilment in life - not blindly offering oneself to a higher power, but by questioning things and looking to yourself as the solution to any inner discord.

The most eventful part of the programme came about on the 5th day of silence. A successful day of backache and mental clarity had been followed by the evening video discourse to help with the technique, then all returned to the meditation hall for one last session before bed. As we sit down, our teacher summons us with a booming voice to "start again... start again..." As he speaks, a roll of thunder ominously shakes the air and resonates around the hillsides. The deeper we got into our states the stronger the wind a rain became. The backs of our eyelids started flaring light blue several times a second as bolts relentlessly hammered the forest around us, the winds went from a howl to a near deafening roar as trees began to topple around us, with the smash of branches the power for the whole site went out, and yet there we sat, unmoving, suppressing the adrenaline, becoming more and more intrinsic, even as the spray of fine rain hit us as it whipped into the meditation hall through the mosquito-netted window covers. Suddenly there was a loud crash - a tree only a few feet away was struck by lightning and came smashing down on the path outside the hall, vociferously showering the building with debris. There are times to find inner calm. There are also times for self preservation. We arose to inspect the damage and realised we were stranded in the hall, dozens of fallen trees littering the path back to our dorms. I finally broke my Noble Silence - "Oh bugger".

The path to our dorms, having been somewhat cleared during the remaining week, were still impassable at the end of the course.

I ventured back to our rooms in the dark with another participant (I can hardly say friend as, like with everyone else, we had not spoken over the week) who fortunately had a flash light. Showered by rain, climbing several felled trees in the process, we made it back, found candles to light our rooms and went to bed, trying, but failing miserably to get sleep ready for the next day.

Another blocked path at the sight

The 'Area of Permanent Silence' with an up-ended tree brazenly encroaching on its tranquility

Day six oddly started as normal. The bell chimed - that relentless bell - and we raised in the early dusk to view the aftermath. Everything was a wreck. Trees lay everywhere, paths were blocked and the power lines were so badly dammaged we were left without power for five days. Nothing was said - with the exception of candles instead of lights and a battery powered CD player to stand in for the evening discourse video, things carried on as normal. And the meditation continued, getting deeper and more penetrative as the day went on.

By the seventh and eighth days I was feeling the strain. My back ached, dozens upon dozens of itching mosquito bites were all over my body and 19 hour periods a day with only a fruit juice to sustain me was taking its toll, but more than this, trying to keep the mind clear and focused for such long periods of time was beginning to feel more and more masochistic. Dan FM became a hugely frustrating entity - 2 hours of relative clarity and self awareness would be unfathomably interrupted by "I feel good! Nana nana nana na! I knew that I would!". This would be expelled for a matter of minutes before, "Billie Jean is not my lover! She's just a girl...". Maximo Park's 'Gone Missing' was at the top of the charts, this appearing to be my theme song of the trip. Lunch was always ludicrously accompanied by 'My Angel is a Centerfold'. My inability to focus was frustrating and the feeling that I had got the idea of the technique and wanted to go back to the city was becoming overwhelming. Of my five other roomates, two remained - all others had quit and many more in other dorms had left too. The only thing that kept me going was the evening discourse and my personal oath to not quit at anything. G. N. Goenka, the leader of the modern Vipassana course is a charismatic guru who resonates wisdom and tranquility - a speaker to the United Nations, his discourses are fascinating, full of beautiful metaphors and at times very comic. Without these I would have been lost.

The bell, that ceaseless bell, chimed again at the beginning of the final day. It was over, we could speak again, and our hours of meditation were numbered and few. For the first time I spoke with my dorm mates, a bizarre experience after these 10 days of reticence, and we discussed the experience and shared our stories (mostly in Portuguese, which I was somewhat proud of). It also emerged that, when recalling a day where a meditator started having a fit of the giggles in the middle of a two hour session, laughter that went on to infect everyone in the hall so badly that we had to be lead out outside, all poorly suppressing uncontrollable fits of hysterical laughter... this event was cause by someone falling asleep during the session and loudly letting out a snore. I was unaware of this before, unsurprisingly, seeing as I was the culprit. Overcome with embarrassment, everyone was great about it, thinking it as one of the funniest moments of the course.

The remaining few - my room mates and I on the final day.

So, who is Dan now? An enlightened soul shining benevolence and peace wherever he goes, quoting scriptures and converting those who have yet to find the light of Buddha's teachings? Well... I wouldn't go that far, though I would say it has been an experience that has taught me strength of mind and self control as well as given me ways to find deep inner peace. Meditation will still play a part in my life, though after 120 hours worth in one hit, it will be taking a back seat for a while. I shall always remember an English guy approaching me at the end, dressed in hindu robes in the hippyish style of all the participants (myself excluded), and said, "When you arrived you looked like you had found yourself gate crashing the wrong party, but we were all suprised to see that you made it!"

There are many things that I will take away from this experience, some that I shall leave, but all that was in my mind as we drove back into civilisation was that I had a flight that afternoon to Iguaçu Falls on the borders of Brazil and Argentina - A UNESCO site cosidered one of the most beautiful natural sights on Earth. I was still in need of a place to stay and a plan for the coming weeks, but more importantly, I needed to scream, scream at the top of my lungs over these falls and get myself a big, juicy Argentinian steak... I think we can all find inner peace there.


Peace, love and tranquility to you all.

;)

D

Favelas of Rio

The latest research has shown that 1 in 3 Cariocas, that's a resident of Rio to you and me, live in a favela (shanty town). So it can easily be argued that if you have not been to one then you cannot truly say you have had full experience in Rio. Though I had previous visits to Julio Otoni, Babilonia and Male favelas with community projects, I had yet to be submerged in the culture and still had many questions and much more to learn. With this in mind, I was given the opportunity to have a visit Rio's 'Rocinha', the largest favela in South America, with a swelling population of over 300,000 residents. Having had my blog posts noticed, I was offered a day and night trip in return for writing an article promoting ethical tours to educate tourists and locals alike.

Favela housing

Favelas are notorious for violence, lawlessness and drugs and are often feared by the local Brazilians. Almost daily, there are news reports of shootings and troubles occurring in these areas - The British Embassy warns that, "they are characterised by poverty and extremely high levels of violent crime. Do not venture into a favela even with well-organised tours, as favelas can be unpredictably dangerous areas." Despite these warnings, it was clear during my stay in Rio that there is more to favela life than locals, the media and the embassy would lead you to believe. Though entering a favela unaccompanied would be far from wise, I was with Zezinho, a life-long resident of Rocinha who I had been working with through my job at Casa 579. Covered from top to toe in self-designed tattoos of his beloved favela, he is the city´s unofficial ambassador and has a mission to eradicate the stigmas of his community for both locals and tourists.

Rocinha from the sky

When arriving at Rocinha, enveloped by the Dois Irmaos (Two Brothers) Mountains, this fortress-like entity rests upon the landscape like a man made glacier. Standing at the mouth of the city within a city, you look up at thousands of simple brick shanty houses clumsily stacked five or six stories high. After an initial orientation, we ascended the steep slopes of Rocinha by mototaxi - a hair-raising experience where hundreds upon hundreds of motorbikes weaved up and down the small main road, three bikes to a lane, all racing each other up and violently swerving the giant potholes that plague the streets. At the top we got to see the beautiful, unique view across Rio before descending by foot to a small bar in the city centre to soak in the city sights over a beer.

I took this opportunity to get much more of an understanding about the fascinating history of the Rio favelas and how they operate. The etymology derives from the 'favel' plantations - black slaves from Africa were sent in their thousands to Brazil to work, though not allowed to stay in the city, they were sent far away to the hills to build make-shift shacks and mud houses to live in. The longer they stayed, the more permanent the structures would become, up to the point where the government set out to evict the population to keep them away from the city. Only when eviction was threatened the drug lords came, heavily armed, to take over and protect the favelas from the state. Before their reign, violence and crime within these communities was rife, but once they took control, all inter-favela violence and crime (with the exception of drug dealing) was forced to stop, pulling the community together against outside forces. Ironically, though the gangs brought drugs to favelas (most of which are sold to outsiders) they also brought stability and order to these towns.

Zezhinho

Today in Rocinha, the dealers of the A.D.A - Amigos dos Amigos (Frinds of Friends), or as Zezinho prefers to more subtly call them 'The Guys', make a total of around R$10 million (£3m) a month in revenue and make payments of R$240,000 (£100,000) a month to the police force in order for them to stay out of the favela. This leaves a city of 300,000 people running with zero police presence with almost zero crime levels (with the exception of drug dealing). A very counter intuitive and thought provoking concept that makes one question how societies are able to function in alternative ways... If there is any violence, it is almost always between the two other cartels in Rio - The Red Command and The 3rd Command, who will fight over territory and ownership of less fortified favelas.

Despite the bribes the police have to been seen to be active in the war against drugs and made a raid a week before my visit with 200 heavily armed police, 3 gunship helicopters and two tanks. A sizable force by any standards, although, upon seeing the capabilities and equipment of the 1,000 strong A.D.A, most armed with automatic rifles, anti-tank and anti-aircraft weapons, this rarely makes a significant dent in the fortress that is Rocinha.

Zezinho´s roof terrace

As much as the drug lords offer protection and, now the government has finally revoked their agenda to evict the residents and offer infrastructural support, there are still significant problems with public services. Poorly funded schools mean that education levels are extremely poor, there is a big problem with water availability, the sewage network is very badly maintained and health facilities are old, outdated and understaffed. Although the infrastructure and poverty situations do not compare to those of many African counties, there is still a significant gap between the favela residents and the children at R$5,000 a month private schools just metres away outside Rocinha. Considering the average wage of a resident is R$600 a month and houses are worth R$20,000, there is an overwhelming wealth and class gap that seems almost divided beyond reconcile.

Many people call a modern Western city the 'Concrete Jungle', though having seen Rocinha, this place is truly closest to the metaphor. Hundreds of wildly unkept and unmaintained telephone and power cables drape over the roads at staggeringly short intervals creating a canopy over the roads, joining at lamp posts and telephone posts that are so overwhelmed by wires, they look like black trees. A trip through the Bacos, the narrow labyrinth of capillary-like lanes that weave throughout the city feels like an intimidating, dark forest trail that open into areas where half a dozen dealers will be sitting around brandishing their guns. Though they are not being intimidating, it is hard not too feel ill at ease this being such an alien sight.

The Concrete Jungle

The favelas of Rio are credited with the creation of samba music - a beautiful cultural fusion and evolution of African music with the soul of South America. This has long since been in the main stream however and the 21st century is a new era of electronic music in the slums. A grimy, heavy set of pounding baselines with repetitive rap lyrics is not to everyones taste, but is hugely popular at the Baile Funk parties that begin at around 2am near the top of the city which is where Zezinho and I went after chilling out on his terrace and a meal. The most popular song of the year is about a Rio football player called Petkovik



The club is a warehouse with speakers stretching wall to wall, standing over 6 meters high, the base so loud you could feel your rib cage rattle and static electricity build up from the hairs on your head to the tops of the fingers. At 4am, I experienced one of the most incredible experiences I have had on my travels yet - an overwhelming roar competed with the club speakers - at least one hundred motorbikes descended upon the club. The Guys had arrived. All armed with assault rifles, some also carrying pistols and anti-tank weapons, the A.D.A. collected out the club before marching inside to join the festivities. I wish I could have taken pictures, but I was assured this would be a very bad move... There was nothing aggressive about their entrance at all, their weaponry acting merely as outrageous bling - the sight of their entry though will always stay with me as one of the biggest culture shocks I have ever had. A shocking expression of how culturally different the European and South American continents can be. By 4:30am, and with a 16 hour shift at Casa 579 at 8am later that day, it was time to depart. A mototaxi ride with Zezinho to the bottom of the city would end my final favela visit in Rio, leaving me with much thinking to do about my previous premonitions about how societies function, the Rio drug trade and the city slums. A truly eye opening experience.


Zezinho´s website for favela tours in Rocinha:
http://favelatour.org/

Life after Carnival

And so it began - the Winners Parade of the Rio Carnival - the best five schools of the competition were lining up to parade down the Sambadrome. Arriving early to get our seats, the rest of the staff and I on a rare collective night off cheered as fireworks and the baterias exploded into action. The Brazilian Carnival is more than just a party. Its history going back to the 18th century when the Portuguese brought the idea across the seas where the huge African slave population adopted it as their own. They played a vital role in injecting soul and vibrancy in to the event that still resonates today - so much so that the slaves were allowed these three days off a year to become involved. Rio Carnival is the embodiment of beautiful and glorious escapism - men dress as women and the proletariat are the Kings and Queens of Rio, looked on in awe by the bourgeois and the aristocracy, that is unless they themselves participated, usually dressing as slaves.


Clockwise from top left - Manguiera's first of 5 giant floats approach. The Bateria dressed as prisoners. Flag bearer and escort leading the Passistas (dancing girls). Heading toward the end of the Sambadrome, denoted by Oscar Neimier's famous arch.

Now a highly competitive event, as big as Brazilian football (if not more so) there are 12 schools in the top (Special) group, the most famous including Salguerio (last year's winners) Beija Flor, Mangueira and Grange Rio, and 12 schools in the second (Access) group. Each school desperately fight for the respect and prestige of winning the Carnival or to gain league promotion, and can achieve this title though the inventiveness and brilliance of their fantasias (costumes), dancing, floats, bateria (drum squad), flag bearer, Vanguard Commission (leading dance wing), school song and overall theme. Each school having anywhere between 2,500 and 4,000 participants, all in full costume, there are many different 'wings' to the parade, meaning that you will often see 20-30 different styles of costume per school with up to 100 dancers, each more brilliant, bright, inventive and fun than the next. An orchestrated explosion of colour and creativity, combined with the impeccably professional floats, a sea of dancing, drumming and song, the paraders wash through, wave after wave in all their feathered and bejewelled glory with beaming smiles - the Carnival brings tears of joy and admiration to hundreds of onlookers, and it's not hard to see why.


Three left-most pictures - dancer girls on the parade floats. The Mangueira flag bearer and her escort, bottom right and one of their impressive floats, top right.

The pictures can only tell some of the story - to see some of the work of this year's winners, Unidos da Tijuca, click this link to see their Vanguard Commission in their magical element of their theme 'Secrets':



Notice 6 costume changes in 2 minutes! This is just a small element of their show that included the mystery of the Library of Alexandria and Michael Jackson (who appeared from a pod in an 'Area 51' float dancing samba - so that's where he's got to...)

I feel very privileged, not only have watched this incredible event, but to also have been a participant and to be involved in the escapism by being someone I wouldn't normally be (a Roman Centurion, Transformer, Father Christmas hybrid being a less than regular alter-ego I tend to indulge in) and to see the wonderment and nature of this global spectacle.


My video of Salgueiro at the Winners Parade (more on youtube.com)

The days after the Carnival are sad days for Brazilians and unofficially considered the Brazilian New Year. Like peacocks without their tail feathers, the kings and queens of the past week are now faced with the realisation that this will fail to be the case again for another 360 days, and to quench this withdrawal they head to the beach (usually with a caiprinha in hand). I had written previously that Ipanema and Copacabana are some of the most beautiful beaches in the world. This is only true in the sense of famous, popular beaches, though any famous popular beach is often spoiled for this very reason - there are too many people. This is why I headed out with a friend to Barra da Tijuca beach during a trek out to the South West coast of the city. With fine white sand and light blue waters that stretch on for miles, the beach is tranquil and blissfully free of vendors - a swarm of salesmen pacing the busy beaches shouting "Cerveja! Cerveja! Agua! Agua!" constantly and harasing you for business. Cunningly equipped with sun cream this time to avoid previous pains, we stayed until sundown before seeking out a Bosa Nova club in town.


Sundown at praia da Barra da Tijuca

In more recent days I have been exploring new parts of town with friends including old coffee houses, the rocks overlooking the ocean in Aproadore, an incredible local sea food restaurant 'Sobrenatural', the best cake shop / museum in Rio and learning the joys of Nos Normais (Brazil's favourite sitcom), as well as just hanging out on the poussada balcony catching some sun with a good book. A special mention has to go out here to XB and FW for making the last weeks especially memorable. And while I am making special mentions, I also need to say farewell to Daniela who I have been working with all this time at Casa 579 who is returning home to Mexico. I couldn't have done this job without her here with me - we've had such a great time at the blocos during Carnival and at get-togethers at Casa Amarela making music and trying our hand (or should I say feet?) at samba. You will be sorely missed.

Daniela has since been replaced by another Mexicana, Lisset - someone who I appear to have already made an impression on. When I invited her to join me for a run the other day, I spoke in Portuguese asking if she wanted to 'correr', using hand gestures in the way that I now do to complement my speech. A shocked look appeared on her face and she left the room without a word... It turns out that 'correr' in Spanish is to 'have sex'. In this case, the hand gestures only seemed to make matters worse. Fortunately, all was cleared up and we did go for that run (and no, that's not a euphemism) and order seems to have restored at the house, though I remain ever conscious of the linguistic minefield that still lies ahead.

With more trips planned as my time here in Rio gradually reaches an end, it turns out there is life after Carnival after all...

Thanks for all your support by writing comments and sending emails - It's great to hear from everyone at home, so please keep it up! Until next time,


Dan


PS - if you want to see anymore short movie clips of the trip, type 'dandoestheworld' in to YouTube. Hope you enjoy!

Carnival Crescendo

As the red sun sets behind the Corcovado mountain the city lights begin to glimmer and, eventually, a single deep drum beat rises up from a favela in the valley below. By the time dusk transforms into night, from the shanty towns to the main streets, the whole Central district is alive, awash with thousands of Cariocas and gringoes alike moving to the beat. Eventually, at the height of the thundering percussion, all performers suddenly stop for two beats, leaving a silence even more resonant than their drumming, and when they crash back into their beat a moment later, they are joined by guitars and the crowd erupts into song and samba dancing - loud and numerous enough for the entire metropolis to hear and feel shake through the earth.


A local favela at dusk

These are the daily blocos and street parties in Rio at the moment. Growing in size and number in the week leading up to Carnaval, there are dozens performing in town squares and parading through the city streets. The locals are drinking in the streets from midday - every one of them in fancy dress costumes - moving on to parties at 11pm, dancing through the night until 6am before moving on to the early morning blocos at 7am. You would be hard pushed to find people who party harder anywhere in the world.


Me and the Casa579 staff, Daniela and Ziggy ready for a bloco party

In light of the popularity of the Carnaval, our pousada is saturated with guests, relegating my sleeping quarters to either Igor's house - a dark, insect riddled mosquito haven 200 steep steps down through the forest garden - or the moon and star-lit roof terrace. Pretty easy choice... with the exception of one night, in amongst 3 weeks of blissfully sunny days and cloudless nights (tough life), where we experienced a storm stronger than the likes you would have expected even Noah to have witnessed - the rain and wind was so hard on the terrace we had to put struts up to support the roof and guttering.

Though the night at Igor's resulted in over 50 bites and roughly 2 pints of blood loss, spirits were not weakened, for there was a plan brewing... After convincing the manager that I would take full responsibility for maintenance and cleaning, work began on reviving the roof top jacuzzi. I had earlier determined that there were a number of guests that would be aesthetically well suited to this new facility and work began immediately to take my mind off the incessant itching. To my dismay, repairs and the need for chemicals and testing kits delayed the process by a few days, and now after a job well done, and after a change of guests, for my efforts I am left with a space to join Pete, Ted and Karl in the tub if I wish. Not quite what I had in mind...

As much as I enjoy recounting my experiences in this blog, I can't help but notice there is always a negative factor to blemish what would otherwise be an idyllic stay, and was certain I would have better luck this week in avoiding this. Alas, it was not meant to be... My new work mate at the guest house, a Brazilian Paulista called Ziggy, has recently joined us and already set up a tour for the guests were you are taken on a forest hike and visit a number of cachoeiras (natural waterfalls) for the day. I joined our guests on his first tour where we had an excellent expedition through the overgrowth, heaving ourselves up steep slopes by grabbing tree roots and vines, to get to these remote waterfalls. These small waterfalls have beautiful pools at the bottom where you can swim and watch the wildlife that surrounded the area, from purple butterflies with wings the size of your hands, to toucans and monkeys. After enjoying the cleansing, clear water and bathing in the pools, we somehow resisted the urge to re-enact Peter Andre's 'Mysterious Girl' under the falls before having a lunch by the river. Ziggy was delighted by the success of his first trip and had great reviews. Unfortunately, yet understandably, the only thing the other guests focussed on when we returned to talk about our day was the dead body we saw at the begining of our ascent into the forest. Only a few hours before we arrived a local man had been murdered, having had his throat slashed, and lay a few feet away in a big pool of blood, still with open, glazed eyes. There were heavily armed police on the scene and explained that a suspect had been caught and the area should be safe - Ziggy explained that the man had killed himself to the guests to make them feel less ill at ease and tried to take everyone's mind off it, but to his dismay, this is all everyone wanted to know about when we returned. It was certainly unsettling to see this sight so close up and be reminded yet again of how dangerous this city can be, but remaining as light hearted as I can, I still find it entertaining to see Ziggy wince when I describe his trip as the 'Cachoeira Cadaver' tour.


Me and guests at the cachoeira in the Jardim Botanico district

In the last few weeks I have participated as a non-paying guests on other tours as a pousada representative and been to see some of the country's best known samba acts in free concerts to raise awareness for Haiti, but the most memorable thing I have participated in this week, and one of the eternally extraordinary experiences of my entire life to date for that matter, was at the opening day of the Rio Carnival at the Sambodrome. Last Friday I paraded in full costume with Estácio de Sá Samba school in front of some 80,000 people, not to mention a global TV audience, joined by 3,000 fellow dancers in a costume that can only be described as a Transformer / Roman Centurion / Father Christmas hybrid. After six hours at an all day bloco in Santa Teresa and work at the hostel from 6pm until midnight, a group of us left for the metro station in a pair of kombis (kombis being the city's mini-van bus alternative) after a few caiprinhas at 2am.

Waiting for the parade to start

The envy of the local kombi circuit, our driver had a TV screen and neon lights installed in his VW and had chosen to blast out music during our decent to the station. Though samba would have been more preferable, "I Want it that Way" by the Backstreet Boys was blaring out as our Formula 1 racing driver / pop star wannabe swerved dangerously as we sped down the hill. As we came out of the metro station by the Sambodrome, the full scale of the event came into focus. The streets were crowded with participants from the passistas (young samba girls) to the bateria and volunteer participants in glorious costumes like a myriad of a thousand shattered rainbows milling around a melee of illustrious floats. There being some five parades preceding us, our 4:40am entrance was somewhat delayed, and the blocos and work of the day were beginning to catch up with me - once left exhausted by the side of the road, we eventually began moving in lines of eight behind our float towards the entrance and the excitement began to build. The roar of the crowds and the thundering of the bateria drums intensified along with the pace of the parade. As we turned into the Sambadrome, a deluge of fireworks erupted along with the crowd. Adrenaline coursed through everyone as the bright lights and overwhelming noise enveloped us. We had fifty minutes for our parade to wave, dance and sing the Estácio song that we had learned earlier that day.

Though clearly not under as much pressure as the professional dancers, we still felt it our duty to do our best to perform well, as the Carnaval is strictly judged and schools are heavily competitive to win the event or be promoted in to higher leagues for funding and most of all prestige. By the end of the kilometre long parade, hot, sweaty and exhausted, we collapsed in a heap and watched the other participants filter through. A solid year of work by thousands and millions of Real spent on fifty minutes, and a mixture of emotions of elation of the experience and sorrow that it was over took over the participants, such that could never really be fully comprehended by a visitor - for millions of Brazilians, this is their life. How will they be judged? We would find this out later, but then our only mission left was to find our way home by searching for taxis in the streets that were slowly piling up with discarded and once so beautiful costumes that began melting into the rubbish piles by the road. The night was finally over and shall remain an utterly remarkable experience of my time here in Brazil.


Estacio do Sa - 2010

Com X Todo

Though it has only been a few weeks since the last update of my trip, the days have been inordinately busy, such that I am surprised to find myself already looking in to February - the month of the Carnival - which is only two weeks away now, commencing on the 13th. The heat has been relentlessly strong during the day, though there was a period of a week where the nights would be punctuated with tropical thunderstorms, the likes of which I have never seen or heard anywhere else before. Lightning would strike dozens of times a minute across the cloud strewn skies accompanied by titanic thunder, making one cower even in the relative safety of home. Nightly power cuts would have the staff and the guests of the house sat around candlelight contemplating how out of sorts we felt without our electronics and internet amongst lulls in conversation. Thankfully these episodes have stopped for now and we're back to the sweltering heat of the night time in Rio, and safely plugged back in to the internet .

I have finally had my first real taste of Brazilian football at a state league match between Vasco and Tigres which I attended with a Chilean guest, Mauro. The first half of the match was missed due to the palaver of trying to acquire tickets from touts / guys who thought they knew someone who had a mate who had a cousin who might have a few tickets going spare, with comical, if not frustrating charades to communicate our dilemma. It goes without saying that there are some marvellous talents in Brazilian football, and all players seem to have such a tenacious edge to their game. I couldn't help noticing, however, that the players seemed to have excessive tendency to play, where possible, on one side of the pitch that was shaded in the afternoon sun. In 38 degree heat, you can hardly blame them, though it was rather amusing to see all the players take a 5 minute break in the 70th minute to revive themselves for the final minutes of the game. Cheering for Vasco, we weren't left disappointed with a 1-0 lead going into the final minute, and though there was a near clutching of a draw from the jaws of victory by conceding a penalty in extra time, it was to no avail. A great day out at the game with all the flair and flourish you could want.


The squad on their 3/4 time water break at Vasco’s picturesque home ground

After a day out in the city, it is great to be able return the tranquil bohemian town that is Santa Teresa, there are some wonderfully quaint historic bars in the centre, Largo do Guimarães, where a few glasses of ice cold choppe (draught beer) go down a perfectly. After a drink or two, naturally you gravitate towards a street vendor (who would never be more than a few metres away) and cast a discerning eye across the spurious looking ingredients he has ready for your late night snack. Boldly, you chose the hot dog, and are reassured that this comes 'com x todo' pointing to the sign on his cart. 'Com' means 'with', 'todo' - 'everything' and keen to appeal to the Western market, there is an 'X' - a letter pronounced on its own in Portuguese as 'shees' and therefore obviously pertains to 'cheese' for the English speaking patron. i.e. With Cheese and Everything. Far from obscure when you think about it, right? You are then treated to Everything: Cheese, ketchup, mustard, mayo, hot sauce, lettuce, corn, peas, onion, and (my personal favourite) long thin potato chips, all over your hot dog. You are then left to make your happy way home, leaving a trail of Todo splattering and crunching behind you, suppressing the thought of the dire consequences that surely await your stomach later in the night. Wonderful.


Snapped by a guest at Bar do Gomes, Santa Teresa

I naturally have been busy acquiring new friends in my time here, but am proud to say this now includes new family. Before my family have a collective acute panic attack, I should clarify - I mean to say that I have been affectionately adopted by our cleaning lady, Vera, who has kindly nominated herself as my stand-in mother while I am here in Rio. A wonderful lady, who, alas, I fail to understand most of the time due to her resistance to speaking Portuguese more slowly for me so that I can follow her, I now have an arrangement whereby I bring her ingredients from the supermarket and help wash up in return for her delicious Brazilian meals of chicken rice and beans. I am truly set up well here now...


Me and the staff at Casa 579 (Vera in yellow)

With Carnival just around the corner, we are really getting in to the spirit of things in town at the moment and getting the guests out to see the best of what is around. Friday was a night at Centro Cultural Carioca - a free outdoor samba concert with a superb performance by a dance group showing their moves to wow the local crowd. The following day, we got a rare opportunity to parade with the samba school Estácio during their technical rehearsal at the Sambadrome - the same event that I described in my last post, the difference being that I was no longer just a spectator. In amongst the thousands of dancers and the mighty 'bateria' (percussion group), wearing the Estácio shirts and colours, the guests and I were lined up, given handkerchiefs to wave and sent down the Sambadrome with thousands of spectators cheering us on down the strip. Though this was a rehearsal and few were in full costume, the magnitude of the event was just enormous. The whole parade was singing the school’s song at the top of their lungs, dancing and waving as we slowly made our way down. The parade took just over an hour to reach the end of the strip where we waited for the rest of the parade to stream through, meeting everyone from the top dancer girls to the Samba Queen herself, in all her sparkling cat-suit glory. The atmosphere from start to finish was utterly electric and the excitement of the Carnival to come is hard to contain – it is going to be truly epic.


A view from the Estácio 30th January rehearsal parade

As you may have sensed by now, the city manages to ground you after such nights with startling regularity. The taxi ride home from the parade was going rather well - not only was I able to converse well with the driver in Portuguese, I was directing him up through Santa Teresa's darkened roads and showing him short cuts to get us home quickly. Taking a moment to reflect on the evening, I took my eyes of the road for a while, only to turn back to see a man suddenly step out into the road, holding a large rifle, the barrel of which was aimed straight at my head. The taxi hit the brakes and we came to a sudden stop. It became clear that the man was a policeman, though far from a reassuring factor as police robbing tourists is not exactly unheard of. After checking out the cab, we were left to drive on and returned home without further incident... I was later informed that the police can be rather direct in attempts to prevent the drug trade going in to the favelas, and that all was safe, which is understandable - it is more the feeling during that split second moment when a gun is suddenly pointed at your head that stays with you than the motives behind it.

With all these adventures, both positive and negative, all in all I am really having such an incredible time here and enjoying some amazing experiences. I am also in high spirits as Vera has brought me some spaghetti bolognaise - Brazilian style, much the same as traditional spaghetti, with the wondrous exception that has been sprinkled, not with cheese, but with batata fritas (potato chips). Well, they say you can't knock it until you've tried it, but forgive me for being less than optimistic. Bom apetite...


A samba girl from the Estácio parade

[For those keen on seeing some of my photos, for those who have not already, do have a look on my facebook page (email link: danrobertson2@hotmail.com) or a couple of the photos (more to come) on http://www.flickr.com/photos/dandoestheworld . By the next posting I also hope to have a youtube account to share a few short videos too for the real die-hard fans – collector’s limited edition DVDs to come in late 2010]