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]

Samba & Shoot-outs

Two weeks in to 2010 already - time seems to just be flying by. And what has this new year brought so far? Well, starting from the beginning with the striking of midnight on the 1st of January, a myriad of kaleidoscopic pyrotechnics fire into the night sky over the length of Copacabana and Ipenema beaches. A spectacle for the two million strong crowd that lasts for quarter of an hour, followed by samba dancing, hugging all in sight and wading into the ocean, clutching lilies and roses, throwing flowers into the water to make new year wishes. I was joined by three girls from Ecuador, Sweden and America who were staying at the hostel - all feverent about keeping a steady flow of beer, caprinhas and sparkling wine throughout the night in spite of their 9am departure for the airport in the morning. The atmosphere on the beach was awesome - an incredible experience and I can't have imagined a better way to begin the decade (particularly assisted by stealthily cutting past the 3 hour long queue for the metro for a quick getaway home!)

Needless to say, the first full day of the year was a write of, spent re-hydrating and avoiding excessive sunlight. In the days that have followed I have made numerous trips, including to Jardim Botânico (the botanical gardens), Museu de Arte Moderna and Academia do Samba Salgueiro (Salgueiro Samba School). The gardens I would recommend to any visitor in Rio. The 140 hectare UNESCO protected site is a dazzling collection of eclectic varieties of plant life from around the world, containing well over 6,000 different species of plants, compartmentalised into separate cacti, orchid, palm-tree, Japanese and rose gardens, amongst others, and more than half of the site being an uncultivated Atlantic Forest running up the breath-taking Corcovado mountain.


The Jardim Botanico

The MAM (Modern Art Museum) was a somewhat strange experience whereby a strict set of rules were imposed with ruthless rigidity, having an unfortunate dampening affect on the experience. No photos, no phones, no water bottles, no talking, and especially no diving in the shallow end - some of the more textural pieces in the first gallery were worth getting close to in order to see the finer details, but this would cause a petulant fuss by the curator's weaselly minions who would quickly scutter over to usher me away to a more acceptable distance. The same went for displays of photographs in glass cabinets on tables where people would rest their hands on the woodwork in order to lean over to get a better view - more scuttling and ushering of startled visitors would ensue. The collection is relatively small in comparison to its counterparts in other major cities and sadly bereft of numerous great works that had once inhabited its walls, from Picasso and Dalí to Miró and Magritte, an unfortunate fire in the 70s saw to the end of this beautiful era. Impoverished of the works of many great Brazilian artists (with the exception of Carlos Vergara), there was an overabundance of French collections, and though they had their merits, it was disappointing to see such a lack of local talent, especially being that these is such a saturation of wonderful home-grown art in and around Santa Teresa. In its defence, a saving grace of the museum, it has to be said, was the blissful air conditioning saving me from the 43 degree heat that was sweltering everyone outside - Rio in the height of the summer is becoming really quite extreme.


Untitled by Carlos Vergara

Academia do Samba Salgueiro is the samba school who won the 2009 Rio Carnival and are a now synonymous with the partying spirit of the city. On a trip to the school with some of the guests at the house, we squeezed ourselves into the packed hall that easily fit 2,000 people, and watched the Salgueiro supporters dance the night away. The percussion troop, the bateria, were playing their carnival procession music lead by their samba queen and were later accompanied by the gorgeous group of female samba dancers in full dress. The infectious rhythm and fast-paced, alluring dancing is incomparable to anything else I have seen - and every Brazilian can do it. From young girls to old men in their seventies, everyone in the academy was moving with mesmerising skill and speed. Those who know me well will be fully aware that I am far from a distinguished dancer, even when presented with the most simple steps, and needless to say, I joined in and danced all night having a ball, though clearly failing to impress in this new environment... A week after the visit to the academy another group of us went to the Sambadrome, an Oscar Niemeyer building with a stretch of road nearly a kilometer long where the schools parade down during carnival. This was on the night when Salgueiro were performing a dry-run (without costumes or floats) of their upcoming performance. Everyone builds up the hype and the size of the carnival, though I was still astonished at the scale of the event. Thousands upon thousands of dancers trailing as far as the eye could see passed through the Sambadrome with an electrifying presence. If this is what the event looks like without floats or costumes then the main event in February, combined with the attendance of a dozen schools, will truely live up to its title of 'The Greatest Party on Earth'.


One of the Salgueiro dancers at the Acadamy


The Sambadrome of Rio de Janeiro

Rio has a peculiar habit of oscillating from showing its incredible beauty, fun and passionate side, to revealing its more rough, deprived and dangerous elements without notice. Still buzzing the next day from the night at the Sambadrome, I took a walk from Santa Teresa to Lapa and was soaking in the sun and sights during my descent whilst listening to music on my phone. I had barely made it 5 minutes down the hill before I saw agitated policemen armed with rifles peering around walls along the road looking down at the local favelas, when one gestured to me urgently to put away my headphones. It didn't take long to discover that there was a gunfight in progress in the shanty towns. In the arid mid-day heat, plumes of dust were rising behind distant men running behind buildings for cover, followed by multiple kinds of fire, from pistols, machine guns and high powered rifles. There was no police presence in the epicentre - this was clearly a gang or mafia matter that are often let be by the authorities when contained within the favelas - and there was an strange lack of screaming or shouting, the only sound amongst the gunfire being cockerels and chickens making a rucas in their pens. The road down the hill was full of men from Santa Teresa overlooking the events in silence, understandably concerned about the events unfolding below. This was another eye-opener, reminding me that you cannot allow yourself to become too relaxed in this city and that no matter how much fun you are having, to always have an element about you of being alert and cautious.

Loathed to end on a solemn note, we did have fun this week when we went to look into the garden at the bottom of the house. First drawn out by toucans occupying the trees outside with their jet black and bright orange feathers, we were also greeted by small monkeys (whose species I am yet to determine - see picture below). After some time spent coaxing them closer, the guests and I spent the morning feeding them all pieces of banana. Being in a grand capital city, it is peculiar to think that we have such visitors, though Tijuca is such a dominant forest in the near distance and brings extraordinary wildlife to out door. Toucans, monkeys and geckos being more popular, giant ants, mosquitoes and moths bigger than your foot less so.

I am looking forward to what next week will bring and will be in touch again soon, hopefully with more exciting stories and pictures. Until then, take care everyone.

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