Feliz Ano Novo

It is hard to adequately articulate my current view as I sit in the living room at Casa579 in Santa Teresa. The magnificent Corcovado mountain and the Tijuca national park are being hammered with a gargantuan torrent of rain, the early evening sky flickering alight with the stabbing of lightning into the flooded valley before me. 'Captivating' barely comes close.

I am accompanied by ambrosial chicken soup that I made earlier today - an unfitting meal perhaps in the 38 degree heat, but I was keen to use all the remainders of the Christmas lunch we had a few days ago and prove to the doubting staff at the house that there is a use for a stripped chicken carcass. This entailed Vera and Anna, our cleaners, sitting somewhat uncomfortably close in the kitchen, heads cocked, hands on chins and wearing furrowed brows, analysing my every chop and slice. They will be trying some later and no doubt become hardened converts.

The last two weeks at Santa Teresa have been a fantastic reflection of the duality of the city of Rio. Lapa is the closest town to Santa Teresa, yet Lapa, the 7 night a week party hub, could not offer more contrast to the tranquility and peacefulness of this arty bohemian district. Well famed for the yellow `bondi` electric trams that have been running for over 110 years, the quaint museums and coffee shops, the town has distinctive and colourful graffiti art that covers every wall on the climb to the hill-top centre. On the bondi trip, you can either pay 60 cents for a seat (20p) or if your are keen for a more adrenaline-filled ascent, you can hang off the side for free - an experience that can easily include sudden, self induced whiplash and you pull yourself close in to the tram in the face of wildly driving on-coming traffic, overhanging branches and dangerously close walls, amongst other things.


Casa579, my new place of work and new residence, has been a fantastic relief over the last few weeks. This guest house has a lot of charm and many friendly occupants all keen to share their stories and impart wise travel tips. After a daily 3 hour shift, I have found myself being uncharacteristically lethargic, spending most of my days immersed in a good book on the balcony (in a possibly over-precautious factor 48 sunblock following previous events - I'm told we only have seven layers of skin and I'm pretty sure I'm down to my last two) and watching movies in the evenings. A large part of me is finding this lifestyle difficult to adjust to considering the heavy work demands that I have had over the last few years, and a part of me cannot help feel partially guilty for not being more productive, though am letting all this be for now and have numerous ideas to get more from my stay in Rio in the new year.

My stay at the guest house can not go without mention of its two most honoured guests, Molequi and Belinha - two rescued stray dogs, now both settled residents who have the privilege of taking me for a walk every morning. By far the most challenging event in my day is to try to contain the rocket powered 6 month old puppy that is Molequi, who has taken to greeting me with a leap that involves a consistently well-aimed shot with his paws in to my crotch, leaving me bent over double with every meeting. During our walks, Molequi attempts to charge down every passing car, bus, cyclist, man, woman and child, accompanied by the slow, plodding Belinha who has a tendency to want to run, then suddenly stop to sniff posts, plants and passers by. A combination of temperaments that, this morning, led me to be walking normally down the street one minute, both dogs in front, to suddenly having my arms snapped and splayed in opposing directions, to look on to the Christ The Redeemer statue, having adopted much a similar pose - the singular difference that 'Big Jesus' is without dogs, though perhaps an interesting idea for an addition to the sculpture in the future.

Christmas in the Southern hemisphere was a peculiar experience for me the first time this happened in Perth nine years ago, and I am sure it will take a lot more than one episode for it to ever feel right (if at all possible). Christmas Eve brought mid-thirties heat, high humidity and intense sunshine across the city on the day where all Brazilians celebrate Natal - Christmas. That night I arranged to meet up with three Brazilian friends I had made at Samba Villa who had recently moved to a new apartment, suggesting that I came round for 7pm. I got the impression that I had made a faux pas in my choice of timing and offered an earlier and a later suggestion, but they concurred with seven, only for me to find when I arrived that the Brazilian tradition is to wait to eat until midnight. The proceeding 5 hours involved too many caprinhas (one caprinha is too many caprinhas) and cervejas (beers) on an empty stomach, but was followed by an exceptional meal of pork and pineapple, boiled lamb, rice and roast vegetables, with the leftovers later brought out to the homeless children on the street. Much entertainment ensued from talking with the Brazilian's French companion, who spoke very little English, some Portuguese and a little Spanish - our conversation flitting between the French that I didn't know, the English he didn't know, and thankfully a mutual level of Portuguese comprehension but that which was unintentionally breached from time to time by Spanish... which I didn't understand. It was a lovely way to see in Christmas (with the exception of the unique brand of hangover provided by the cachaças - the elemental liquid-evil in our caprinhas) and closer than I dared hope to getting to a traditional, homely Christmas.


In my attempt to become perceived as a Carioca, the holy grail for any long term visitor to Rio (Carioca being to Rio what a Londoner is to London) and to ensure a reduced chance of being forcibly relieved of my camera on my way home at 7am from Christmas dinner(a strong possibility considering my Brazilian host had been mugged the morning before at gun point in the middle of the street I was currently walking on) in an area totally absent of taxis, I opened my shirt, ruffled my hair to match a more local style, stuffed my camera down my trousers and wore my rarely seen "Dare even look at me the wrong way and I'll be sure to leave you with no teeth" face, I stormed down the road to the distant bus station, pretending I was too busy and important to see the opportunistic street residents evaluating their chances. I have a mental image of how I had fit in seamlessly, radiating an air of streetwise austerity, though can't help but wonder if a giant, pasty, middle-class English gringo with an expression that could perhaps have been interpreted as constipation, can ever be described as a 'seemless Carioca'. I did, however, arrive home with all limbs intact and camera safe, and based on this success, I have chosen to stick with the former interpretation.

Being that my musings have over-run, it is now the 31st of December and we are now faced with the last day of the year. The plan is to meet up with friends at Copacabana beach after a BBQ at the guest house, watch the Samba schools show their might on stage and make our way down to Ipanema where it is said that one million people will be joining the beach party, with world-renowned DJ Tiesto bringing in the new year. A big part of me wishes I could spend it with you, my loving friends and family, though I can't deny that I am delighted to be here on the other side of the world and making a go of it on my own. Have a fantastic New Years everyone, wherever you are - Feliz Ano Novo!

A Dan of all Trades

Well, it's been another busy week in Rio, though thankfully significantly less riotous and wild as the last. A more noteworthy element of my time since I last wrote has been the fact that the bar job I alluded to fell through due to management issues, however, never being one to shy away from more practical jobs (in spite of a distinct lack of professional experience) I have been recently labouring in construction and maintenance. Well, what else was I going to do?

Working for a half-Serbian, half-Australian named called Elvis, I have been breaking holes in walls, sanding, drilling through several feet of brick and concrete, fixing electrics and painting walls, amongst other things (photos to follow) in Copacabana. Elvis, the son of an army General, recounts to me his service in the Serbian army (fighting against NATO), having been shot twice in the leg, his house in Australia being bombed, and being a significant part in a number of large international arms deals, as well as how he has set up a successful chain of hostels in Romania and Brazil. He is quite the character as you might imagine and a great guy to work with (though certainly not to be on the wrong side of).

It is certainly eye opening to see the work ethic of the locals in this kind of industry. There is clearly a huge lack of training and apprenticeship programmes here for construction workers, combined with a general haphazard approach to the job at hand that I recall being analogous to my efforts of cleaning the family car at the age of 9 - a blitz of water and soap with highly questionable precision and care. Quickly I was completing twice the work in half the time of the professionals, all to a to a soundtrack of bellowing and gall from Elvis at the magnitude of their constant mistakes - all a group of men whom he assures me are the best workers he has been able to find in the city in four years (being that others have been known to take drugs and sleep at work, amongst other things).

On the excursionist front, I have finally managed to go and see Christo Redemptor - Christ the Redeemer, otherwise known as 'Big Jesus' to locals and tourists. This is, of course a must-do trip even if the visit lacks religious influence, and it has to be said, that on a sunny day (of which there are many to choose from at this time of year) there are some amazing views ascending the Corcovado Mountain in the Tijuca Forest and even more so at its summit. As you wait for your tram, you are given a somewhat limited history of the statue, which was opened in 1931 as a symbol of the nation's Catholicism, and relies on Brazil's first ever electric tram to reach the top. For a more illuminating experience, it is clearly worth doing some extra-curricular reading, but well worth going nonetheless.



Last week I was invited to join a Frenchman and an old Belgian lady from the hostel to go on a forest trail in one of the national parks - a truly fantastic experience. Walking up a well-guarded private street voluminous of millionaire's homes, we reached the beginning of the forest trail, just in time for my right sandal to break. It was as if I had been dropped into a David Attenborough documentary, witnessing an array of bright butterflies passing, each with wings the size of your hand, giant beetles and armies of huge black ants - all of which became an obstacle for me to avoid treading on, wearing only one shoe. Finding a hollow in the vegetation, we lay on the rocks, watching and listened to the roar of a beautiful waterfall in front of us. The tranquility of the day was only somewhat broken when I had to strongly insist to the old Belgian lady that I was quite capable of applying suncream to my back without her assistance, despite her somewhat overzealous attempts to get her hands on me.

There is also continuing entertainment being provided during my language acquisition in Brazil. There is a phrase book that I have borrowed which assists with helpful day-to-day translations for when you are about town. There is a large amount of very useful content, though my favourite has to be with, "Excuse me, I did not understand, could you repeat again for me please?" the suggested translation in Portuguese being quite simply, "Huh?" - certainly not to be knocked for being concise at least. On a slightly different vein, last night, I was speaking with an English friend I had made when a Brazilian came over and spoke to me in Portuguese. He was explaining how he had a very tough day because his wife had recently left him and had taken custody of his 10 year old daughter and ownership of the family home, gesturing that he was heart-broken by grabbing at his chest. I translated this to my English companion, who immediately looked highly embarrassed. He informed me that the Brazilian was trying to explain this to him earlier that day but he did not understand, but in an attempt to help the situation of the man's broken heart, he had misinterpreted his hand gestures as heartburn and had offered him medication to ease his pain... an offer that was rejected with much confusion.

On a final note, I am pleased to inform you that, I have managed to escape the clutches of construction work, albeit both enlightening and entertaining, and moved on to greener pastures. Following a successful interview for reception and administration work at a wonderful guest house in Santa Teresa - Casa579 - I am now moving out from the now somewhat cramped Samba Villa hostel in Lapa. It will be a great feeling to be settled and have secure work over the New Year celebrations and Carnival, giving me plenty of time to become more grounded in Rio and prepare for the rest of my trip. Now if you will excuse me, I have some packing to do.

The beating heart of the city

So, it's been a full week away now, and the complexities of Rio de Janeiro are really starting to unravel. I have seen a number of characteristics of the city now that will no doubt intensify and my time here goes on. Poverty, parties, police, perverts and, not least Portuguese, have all been central in this first week. Let me explain...

Firstly, being that English is not very widely spoken here at all, combined with the fact that I am trying to learn the language as fast as I can, I am experiencing the strange nuances of being a 'gringo' (foreigner) here. I find myself thinking in Portuguese, which despite being quite an interesting experience, is problematic for general cognition considering the extent of my vocabulary. I also am finding myself in a peculiar situation where no one seems to understand me when I say 'metro' - as in 'onde esta o metro?' (where is the metro). I am assessed, on multiple occasions, as if I have just asked for directions to the cheese cake. Having discovered that the stress of the word is on the final syllable, not the first, I have tailored my inquisition, only to find the same result. It is bizarre, considering that fact that I am able to talk with a Brazilian for a few minutes now with full fluency. Either it is just me, or perhaps it is a national prank to gringoes - either way, I shall keep you informed.

One of Brazil's beauties is that so many of its inhabitants are extraordinarily friendly, always welcoming and, especially in Rio, constantly in the mood for a street party on nearly every night of the week. The party music is a far cry from Britney's new hit being blasted from a stereo - Starting with a deeply hypnotic, rhythmic drum beat in local squares and dance schools at around 10pm, the percussion music crescendos, before miniature guitars and similar string instruments accompany the traditional sound with singing and mesmerising impromptu dancing. Within seconds, you cannot help but be drawn outside to watch the dancing, and not a moment later, at no less than 10 meter intervals, are vendors selling beer, bracelets, bags, hotdogs, hats, harmonicas, sandals, sunglasses, samba CDs - anything you can (and can't) think of, there is someone there hoping for your business. These parties are usually on Monday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday night, lasting until 2am during the week, 4am on weekends. The live music is accompanied by open-front bars loudly playing live Bossanova and Samba music, and attracts hundreds of visitors.

I experienced a similar atmosphere on Sunday when Flamengo, a Rio football team won the National League for the first time in 18 years, at the Maracanã (the world's largest capacity football stadium, below - with 120,000 seats) that I visited the day before. A nail-biting 2-1 victory against Grêmio ensured a big night celebrations, and proved that as popular as football is in the UK, there are none more passionate than Brazilians... a fact, I discovered, that has an unfortunate flip side.



A team's supporters that were suffered relegation that night began a riot at the stadium. Pictures on the news showed riot police unconscious on the pitch and being airlifted away. Opposition fans were left blooded on the street, some clearly without their teeth. I had befriended an English couple, Scott and Laura, at my hostel and enjoyed celebrations with them at Copacabana, and on our way back to the hostel from the metro station at 9 o'clock, we were ambushed by a gang of teenagers, a dozen strong, from a local favela, at least one carrying a knife. We only suffered a few light punches and a few grazes - the couple were relieved of their camera (and holiday photos), watch and glasses, and I was fortunate to not have lost anything. As we collected ourselves and made our way to the hostel, we saw police caught up in a fight with the same boys. Perhaps more shocking for me than being robbed was seeing two policemen strike two boys simultaneously in the stomach with their batons, trying to disperse the gang. A few days prior to this, there had been a grenade set off on a commuter bus in Copacabana - an assertion, I am informed, of the Maffia's grip on the city.

It is clear that there is a lot of passion and a lot of poverty in Brazil, and this emerges in many fashions. As welcoming and enjoyable as the city can be, it is clear that one has to always be aware of the other face to this and never be without savvy at the best of times.

I´ll get a job where I want...

And so, I have arrived in Rio, and my adventures have truly begun. The BA flight, though delayed, was greatly aided with an upgrade enabled by my fantastic aunt Sally, meaning the 13 hours on the plane was blissful on my ridiculously long legs. Arriving two hours later than planned, Rio airport at midnight was manic with Taxi drivers, all looking perplexed at the address of my hostel which I offered. It took around 20 drivers to shake their heads (with no response to my cries of "por que não? por que não?!") before one agreed to take me. After some hair raising driving and four stops at gas stations for him to ask directions, we pulled up at an abandoned car garage and the driver proudly claiming we were at the destination. It was not so...

Luckily the erroneous hostel address came with the correct phone number and we were redirected at 1am to the opposite side of town (not without a price), eventually arriving at Samba Villa in Lapa, Rio:


The hostel is just fantastic, and above is the view. It is one of the cheapest in the city, clean, friendly, well situated and seemingly only frequented by Brazilians who are visiting from around the country. The Brazilians speak a lot less English than I speak Portuguese (infinitesimally small - i.e. the most fluent of the 10 inhabitants can proudly count from '1 - 10' and declare that 'the book is on the table'). I clearly had my work cut out for me on the language front...

Despite the language barrier, the few months I have been learning Portuguese before arriving have been invaluable and have found myself chatting with the Brazilian Petrochemical students from Belem (in the north of Brazil) every night, which is great for my learning. There is a lot of pantomime and I will no doubt be a Sharrads world champion upon my return, but, more importantly, my confidence is really growing.

Although there were gloomy forecasts the day before my departure (5 solid days of 'heavy rain'), I have enjoyed three days of blistering sunshine - and I'm not exaggerating. I am literally covered in blisters. After only four hours walking the length of Copacabana (see below) and Ipanema beaches, I discovered these four things:

1. These are clearly some of the most beautiful beaches in the world
2. They are visited by some of the most beautiful people in the world
3. You can make friends with anyone on the beach so long as you can vaguely kick a football
4. If you wait for an hour and a half before putting on suncream, you may well turn bright red (not pink - red) and stay as such for at least three days.


There now exists a rather attractive collection of yellowy blisters on my nose, forehead and shoulders. I quite clearly do not count as one of the beautiful people... No one likes long winter nights and bad weather in the UK, but at least it can't give you melanoma and painfully red skin.

There is an up side to my so-called suffering - my continuing efforts with speaking Portuguese, and talk of needing extra money for my trip have caught the ear of the hostel's bar manager, Ivan, who has just offered me a bar job working at the weekends for a few nights free accommodation during the week. Great success! (with obligatory Borat accent).

I'll most likely catch up with everyone again once I'm more settled and have seen more, but for now,

Boa Tarde,


Dan