Ipanema, Rio de Janeiro

Chapter 29:  Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.

Wednesday, September 8

I enjoyed my first ever Brazilian style self-serve lunch buffet.  They charged for the food by its weight on the plate.  It became a roast dinner piled up high and promised plenty of sustenance for the day ahead.  I returned to collect my stuff.  The hammock remained in the hotel as I already had enough to carry.  Helena the host gave the thumbs up when I told her how much I’d paid for my bus ticket.  From the first-floor balcony she started calling out hearty shouts for a taxi.  A guy appeared at the front door.  He helped me with my bags to his car and we were off to the terminal.

I’d remembered to put my watch an hour forward.  The terminal’s digital information board also read 34 Celsius.  It was oppressively hot.  Beads of sweat were running down my face.  I walked down to the departure lounge, checked in and climbed up the steps onto the outer platform.  A nice young couple were waiting for the same bus.  So was a happy, talkative lad from Belo Horizonte.  It promised to be a pleasant and sociable trip down to Rio.

Our TransBraziliana bus arrived just after 3pm.  There was just a handful of passengers boarding the brand-new bus.  The drivers were quite thoughtful and sincere.  They appeared relaxed and happy with their lot.  We were travelling down to Rio, so why not?  I was happy to leave my guitar, protected in its padded case, in the baggage compartment.

When we stopped along the way for a buffet dinner the drivers called me over to eat with them.  A tiny old man appeared from the kitchen.  He smiled and sliced more meat for me.  The two drivers urged me to eat as much as I wanted.  I think they could see I needed to regain the weight I’d lost.  I also bought some guarana juice.  Thankfully my stomach was holding up well.  I was relaxing, which helped.  Back on the bus, I had two seats to stretch out on.  I slept for a few hours as we averaged a steady speed on the smooth road.

Thursday, September 9

We stopped for breakfast at 7am.  The familiar sweet coffee was becoming quite sickly for my taste buds.  I drank another Danone Activia yogurt drink, a diet regular since I became ill in Cusco.  Perhaps I was a strange one to persevere with such long bus journeys?  However, I saw lots of the changing landscape, which I wouldn’t see from the air.  There were lush looking scenes and vast pastures.  Cattle grazed in their hundreds.  Some of them were dead on the roadside though.  The farming looked a bit too intensified.  There were large patches of scorched earth and what appeared to be forest clearances.  The Brazil I’d seen so far on this latest trip looked quite developed, or even reclaimed.  It remained that way as we headed south on Route 222.

There was a far less oppressive heat, and the beautifully blue sky was dotted with fluffy white clouds.  We came to a terminal stop at Palmas.  A serene looking young woman warmly embraced and kissed her boyfriend on the platform.  She boarded the bus and took her allocated seat next to mine.  The bus was steadily filling up at regular stops since leaving Belem.  It remained full for much of the journey.  The woman next to me was so quiet.  We said very little to each other apart from exchanging friendly smiles.  She had a calm aura about her and seemed to be consumed in thoughts of love.

On the clean new bus, I comfortably read Wild Swans.  There were hardly any shakes or rattles to contend with on this journey.  I didn’t have an iPod or any music with me apart from my guitar.  Instead, I had plenty of thought space and time to look around me.  It was a day dreamer’s delight!

 Friday, September 10

There was still room to rest in my comfortably reclined seat.  I briefly woke up at about 4am to an incredible sight.  The snaking road lights leading down to Brasilia, the country’s capital were otherworldly.  A few hours later we stopped for a coffee beside the Route 40.  There was a gorgeous morning freshness to the air.  We reached Belo Horizonte’s bright, wide sprawl at 10.  As the bus crawled along towards the centrally located terminal I glanced out of the window.  I observed the relaxed and rhythmical body movements and language of various drivers.

It was a day of snacks and only slight stomach struggles.  The bus was equipped with a couple of toilets in case I needed to go.  I felt an increasing excitement as the day progressed.  The frequent road signs for the southeast displayed the diminishing distances to Rio de Janeiro.  There were only five passengers left on the bus as we reached the elegantly curving and rolling, steep hills.  We skirted our way down the passes and ever closer to the Cidade Maravilhosa (The Marvellous City).  The unique rocky peaks around Rio enveloped an exciting, rush hour town.

The bus entered the Rodoviaria Novo Rio terminal just before 6pm.  It was 51 hours since the journey began up in Belem.  I saluted and thanked the courteous drivers.  Thinking ahead, I briefly looked around for buses to Iguacu.  There were two companies offering regular services.  My trusted Italian sandals were torn to pieces.  Rio was to be their final destination.  I booked a taxi at the information desk.  It would take me on my first trip into Copacabana and Ipanema.  The scenes were electric without the power surges.  Everywhere I looked there was a fast-paced equilibrium rather than a frenetic weekend rush.

From my Rough Guide, I’d picked out the HI-affiliated Che Legarto Hostel on Rio Paul Redfern.  I hadn’t reserved anything, so it came as no surprise to find the place fully booked on a Friday night.  It was now dark, but it seemed safe to walk up to Rua Barao da Torre.  I checked out the Ipanema Beach House.  There were a few spaces left and I took a bed in a ground floor dormitory.  I’d found a really nice place.  It had a large courtyard and swimming pool at the back.

I went for a leisurely stroll along the streets nearby.  There was a lively, well stocked juice bar where I enjoyed a refreshing, mixed fruit drink.  Ipanema looked very exclusive and luxurious.  The shop fronts twinkled and even the streetlights shone like diamonds.  Back at the Beach House a lively atmosphere ensued.  It was Friday night, and I was in Rio de Janeiro!

Saturday, September 11

The Beach House served up a tremendous breakfast in its courtyard bar.  I had ham, cheese, bread, coffee, milk, sponge cake, fruit juice and a banana.  It was enough to keep me going for the day!  I went out and bought a new pair of Brazilian made Grendene sandals in the local supermarket.  They fitted perfectly and were so much lighter than my old sandals.  I also bought a bottle of Locao Bronzeadora Sundown Gold Factor Four and a new toothbrush.

I walked along to the Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas.  Joggers and cyclists exercised in the bright, morning sunshine.  Then I ventured further along.  I turned towards Mirante do Leblon for a memorable view.  It was a simply stunning scene.  There were throngs of people on the long stretch of Ipanema beach with Rio’s amazing backdrop completing the picture.  I walked through the deep, white sand of Ipanema beneath a deep blue sky.  My heart was melting.  It was a day to be sunbathing, smiling, and daydreaming.  There were bronzed bodies everywhere I looked, young and old.  It was a proper sun worshipping social scene.  Closer to the shoreline I dipped my toes into the cold, clear ocean.  The waves were massive.  I’d never seen anywhere like Rio.  It is one of the most spectacular locations on the planet.  Boys were practicing their football skills.  The girls were joining in as well.

The beach was famous for the vibrant cultures dominating various parts.  There was the gay section in front of Farme de Amoedo.  Posto Nine was where the rest of the young and beautiful crowd gathered.  Families dominated the beach around Posto 11.  To be honest though, everybody mixed and there was no domination.  International gay-pride banners, so like Cusco’s rainbow flag, fluttered away in the light breeze.  Everyone was gay with happiness in such surroundings.  Oh, to be in Rio!

I wandered up and around the outcrop of rocks around Praia do Arpoador then returned along the beach.  Up on the Avenida Vieria Souto promenade I stopped a while to enjoy fresh coconut juice from the shell.  What refreshment on such a sparkling day!  I had a late lunch in a busy Italian restaurant on Rua Visconde de Piraja.  A young lady dined on the next table with her grandmother.  After finishing their meal, they elegantly left the premises arm in arm.  There was a refined air of civility everywhere.

Internet cafes were hard to find but clean roadside phone booths were ubiquitous.  I had to call Mam to tell her where I was.  It was such a joy to hear Mam’s lilting Welsh tones.  Firstly, I had to thank her for the help she’d provided during my time in Venezuela.  Mam would have none of it.  It was just a relief for her to know the transfer worked and I was free again.  Mam had a very gentle and understated nature about her.  It belied her stoic inner strength.  These were the qualities she had in abundance.  This was a lady who, whilst caring for her ill husband, vulnerable brother, and elderly mother, still found time to bring three children up.  Mam now sounded very excited and pleased with my progress.  Just mention the name Rio and it resonates with positivity!   Her validation for my journey meant everything though.  She was the rock our family survived on in 1989.  Mam was there to comfort and reassure Dad when on one awful Saturday in April of that year, they both didn’t know whether Arfon and I had made it out alive from the horror of Hillsborough.

In just a matter of three weeks I’d be returning home to Wales.  I was feeling quite emotional by now.  Mam just told me to relax, take care and enjoy the rest of my travels.  There was never a better time to find an Irish bar which I soon did.  Rio had to be the place to sample my first pint of Guinness in South America.  I sat back and savoured the moment.  The football scores from back home were flashing up on the television.  Then there was news about John Toshack, the Wales football manager.  Tosh had sadly quit after a defeat to Montenegro in the European Championship qualifiers.  That reminded me to book a seat to go and watch Sunday’s big football match.  When in Brazil….

Sunday, September 12

Continuing stomach issues became all too boring again.  They hadn’t curtailed my travels since Cusco, but some days were still quite uncomfortable.  This was especially the case on this particular day.  If I ate anything I was soon running to the toilet again.  I was taking my Floratil and Pepto-Zil tablets, but I felt so knackered.  Was the stomach infection still there or should I just slow the pace a little?  I had been on the go and travelled a vast distance in recent weeks.

At least the daylight hours of the weekend encouraged me to spend a leisurely time on the pristine white sand of Ipanema beach.  I really wanted to experience a top football match though.  A minibus arrived at 2 in the afternoon.  The bubbly tour guide called Sara came rushing into the hostel to call for me.  I was off to see my third live football match in South America.  Botafogo were playing Sao Paulo.  Sara was excited.  From her front passenger seat, she updated us on the significance of this match.  Her beloved Botafogo needed a win to jump up to second place in the Campion Brasileiro 2010.

The famous Maracana Stadium was closed for major renovations in preparation for the 2014 World Cup Finals.  So, the match took place in the newly built Estadio Olimpico Joao Havelange.  There was an assortment of nationalities on our bus.  We stopped on a side street adjacent to the ground and agreed on a meeting point after the game.  There was a carnival atmosphere.  We made our way through the crowds of fans in their black and white striped Botafogo shirts.  We all kept together, and the guide regularly counted us up.

The stadium offered a marvellous spectacle on a balmy late afternoon.  Outside the ground were large statues of the Brazilian footballing greats like Jairzinho.  The stands were about two thirds full when the game kicked off.  We were sat in an upper tier with the home supporters.  They were an animated and friendly bunch.  Botafogo supporters also packed into the opposite stand where most of their big banners and flags were being waved.  There was an atmosphere of great anticipation.  The first half remained quite a cagey affair though.  Botafogo just couldn’t find a way through a solid Sao Paulo defence.  Defenders on both sides were soaking up any pressure.  They cleared out of their areas with a finesse akin to Alan Hansen or Franz Beckenbauer.

When finding my way back to my seat after the half time break, I heard a distinctly Merseyside accent from one of our group.  I stopped to talk.  He was John from Heswall on the Wirral, a Liverpool fan.  We both hoped for a better second half and, of course, some goals.  They were duly delivered in a fine second half performance by Botafogo.  They stepped up the pressure and broke through by capitalising on a Sao Paulo defensive mix-up for the first goal.  Botafogo’s second goal was pure class.  A bit of link up play from the midfield set up Edno to cut in from the left.  He then drove an unstoppable shot past the helpless Sao Paulo keeper and into the far corner of the net.  The stadium exploded with noise and colour.  Wild celebrations greeted the 2-0 final score.  These spilled out onto the streets as the home supporters partied away.  It was a thoroughly enjoyable evening.

The minibus became snarled up in thick traffic, but we all got back safely to our different hotels and hostels.  I gave in to the temptation of Bob’s Burgers, a tasty fast-food joint.  Then I bought some postcards at a roadside kiosk and returned to the hostel.  Football provided a good flavour of Rio’s life and tempo.  I felt so happy and rejuvenated.  I tuned up my guitar and got talking to a Colombian lad called Agustino.

Monday, September 13

There was a well-chilled out atmosphere throughout the hostel.  Even though the dormitory could be a bit cluttered and busy at times, I was getting a good rest at night.  My tablets for my stomach were working.  I felt lots better after another fine breakfast.  Ipanema being the exclusive end of town, I found myself easily spending about £40 each day.

There were HI-affiliated hostels to check out in Copacabana.  The City Hostel was a huge place with 108 beds.  It was spacious and cost just 35 R$ with my YHA hostel card.  Che Lagarto on Rua Santa Clara wasn’t affiliated but seemed nice enough.  Rio Rockers, near to a tunnel on Rua Pompeu Loureiro, looked to be the one though.  It was manageable and felt more relaxed.  Again, it cost 35 R$ with breakfast.  This really was a bargain for the centre of Rio de Janeiro.

Enrique the receptionist was so polite.  He also liked his football.  I booked a dormitory bed for the following four nights and went back out for lunch.  There were many self-serve buffet restaurants.  I chose a busy looking one on Avenida Nossa Senhora de Copacabana.  I piled up my plate with a variety of vegetables, rice, and some meat.

I later walked to the end of Copacabana beach and back towards Arpoador.  It was the start of the working week and there were less people on the beach.  A few lads were playing some tidy, possession football.  The sparkling sun over the weekend had filtered into a slight haze.  I had good colour.  Even my feet were completely brown from recent exposure to the overhead sun.  I’d stop at times, to marvel at the atmospheric scenes.  There was the pristine beach and crashing ocean waves, the luxurious multi-storey hotels on the front, with Cristo Redento, skirted by thick forest, up on Corcovado and the Sugar Loaf hill behind me.  What an iconic place to be, on a Monday afternoon in September!  It was so peaceful as well.  There were many scare stories about daylight beach muggings, but I couldn’t see or feel any signs of malice.  I just had to be aware though because it only took a moment.

Back on Ipanema’s front I enjoyed another refreshing coconut juice and returned to the Beach House.  The sun was setting behind the high rounded hilltops of Pedra Bonita and Pedra da Gavea.  I found my guitar and went out onto the beach.  The light red sky left a strange glow on the white sand.  I sat on a large wooden box.  A young can collecting character called Jose stopped to chat.  He was happy and liked my guitar plus the Rasta wrist band I was wearing.

Jose earned two US$ for every kilogram of empty aluminium cans collected.  He reckoned he averaged 30 US$ a day, enough for him to live on.  If only there were similar financial incentives for the individual to recycle back in Britain, I thought.  We saluted each other and I banged out a tune as he danced away and found more empty cans to throw inside his big bag.  I returned to Bob’s Burgers for tea and then bought an International Herald Tribune from a street vendor.  Ipanema in the evening looked even more stunning as the twinkling shop front lights reflected onto the streets.  I was in such a positive mood.

Tuesday, September 14

Ipanema Beach House was an enjoyable place to stay.  There was always someone to talk to and exchange travel tips.  The hostel hosts were also very nice, especially the friendly pop and rock enthusiast receptionist.  There were plenty of yellow taxis passing by outside the hostel’s security gates.  I took one to Rio Rockers where I checked into a six-bed dormitory.  The Rockers team were so courteous and offered bags of practical advice.  They seemed to have the space and time to deliver it.  Rockers didn’t feel overstretched like the larger hostels I’d visited.

I shared a bit of English conversation while having a grade three haircut at a nearby barbershop.  Then I enjoyed an ice cream on Copacabana beach where I went for a sundown walk to the far end and back again.  Strolling in the heavy, white sands was good exercise for the legs, especially the calves!  A beach vendor in a sleeveless Liverpool football shirt pestered me to buy his produce.  I had little money on me, as the guidebooks advised, when walking on the beach alone.  Further along the beach I suddenly came across a small bundle of notes partly hidden in the sand.  Quickly looking around to notice there were no people nearby, I nonchalantly picked up the cash and walked on.  There was definitely a 50 R$ among the notes!  What strange fortune.

I walked up diagonally to the promenade then through the streets.  They seemed overwhelmed by the big apartment blocks as Christ rose in the background on top of Corcovado.  The group stages of the European Champions League were kicking off.  I stopped to catch up with a bit of Barcelona, as many football lovers quite happily would.  I was also keen to catch up on those traditional old foes Manchester United, but Barcelona dominated every television in the bars I passed.

Back in the dormitory I met two young German brothers Daniel and Matthias.  Daniel had hooked up with a sweet looking Brazilian lady called Vanessa, leaving his brother to play gooseberry.  They were leaving in the early hours and apologised in advance for any noise they might make.  I laughed and waved them away, saying no worries, do what you’ve got to do.  They were nice people.

I went out for a snack at the Big Bi food stall, sitting on a high stool and surveying the comings and goings on Copacabana’s lively streets.  With a bag of supermarket snacks and two large bottles of Bohemia lager I retreated to the hostel.  I settled in the bar lounge for a nice evening talking to another guest, Fabrizio.  He was a petroleum industry worker from Brazil’s southeast.  The beer brought on an acute tiredness, so I called it an early night.

Wednesday, September 15

The British were generally well liked in Rio.  There was still a significant English ex-pat community according to Enrique.  He said most Brazilians liked the understated nature of their northern hemisphere friends.  Rockers provided a good, solid breakfast.  By mid-morning I was on my way to the beach again.  I hired a deckchair nearby a digital sign, which was already reading 33 Celsius.  I finished off the harrowing Wild Swans.  It really was time for something lighter again.

In the afternoon I went on the Inside Rio Tour.  Naomi Campbell lookalike Isabella was our guide.  Outside the Adventure Hostel we waited almost half an hour for a French man.  His two friends, already inside the minibus with their National Geographic camera equipment, were extremely apologetic.  They seemed to be a professional team.  When the guy eventually turned up, he seemed rather oblivious to the hold-up.  This clearly irritated Isabella.  She then blew her top when he threw a plastic wrapping out of the side window.  The round-trip ticket stub clearly stated Respect the Environment which Isabella angrily pointed out to him.  He seemed offhand and played up throughout the tour.  Perhaps they weren’t the professional set-up they were making themselves out to be.

Isabella was a nice young lady.  She was working as a tour guide to finance her final year in university, studying politics, economics, and the environment.  We reached the top of Corcovado and the outstretched arms of the Cristo Redento (Christ the Redeemer) statue.  It was a long climb up there from the bus park.  A strong wind threatened to blow us all off the edge of the dramatic hill.  Isabella explained that an approaching weather front was heralding the change of season.  There were hazy views of Rio far down below.  Isabella took some photographs of me with my arms outstretched in front of Jesus Christ.  Perhaps we were all going to fly away at any moment!  We were running behind time according to Isabella, as she cast a sly looking glance at the French guy.

Our next stop was the famous Maracanã Football Stadium.  Pitch side was closed to the public but there was still access to the concourse.  There was plenty to see and pictures to take including the footprints of all the Brazilian greats.  I fitted my shoes into the steps of Ronaldo!  A bit of camp action followed at the Sambodromo on Rua Marques do Sapucai near Praca Onze’s metro station.  It was where the Carnaval’s main parade took place.  Katie, from Ohio, and I donned on some flamboyant looking headgear.  We danced along, showing off our samba moves.  I’d started talking with Katie on the bus.  We hung around together for the remainder of the tour.

Katy was a soil scientist.  She had been attending an environmental conference.  We visited the Catedral Metropolitana.  Before I could say anything, Isabella smiled at me.  She remarked in a questioning manner that there was a similarly designed Catholic cathedral in Liverpool, also called the Metropolitan?!  She knew her churches, did Isabella!  The inside differed slightly but the exterior wigwam structure looked so similar.

The day was topped off with the high cable car ride up to Pao de Acucar (Sugar Loaf).  I shuddered when I looked up at the precarious looking second ride from the middle hill.  The mist descended and our cable car wobbled its way to the summit.  The lack of visibility cancelled out any fear but also denied visitors any view whatsoever as it quickly became so dark.  We came to the end of an enjoyable trip and said our goodbyes and best wishes to the happy and vibrant Isabella.

I accepted Katie’s kind invite to join her and a colleague for dinner.  We met up with David in his hotel room and found a promenade restaurant serving some fine Italian dishes.  Katie and David were at the environmental forefront concerning the biochar charcoal process of carbon capture and storage.

Thursday, September 16

I slept in but the receptionists saved a late breakfast for me at the bar.  Whilst chatting away, they mentioned another tour, this time up to a favela.  I jumped at the opportunity.  Soon after, Botafogo fan Sara reappeared on the scene.  She was to guide us on the afternoon trip to Rocinha, situated south of Leblon.  A Chilean guy who came with us to Sunday’s football match was also on the minibus, along with a group of young Home Counties lads.

We reached the foot of the hill.  A group of motorcyclists were there waiting.  We each hopped on to the back of a bike.  Before setting off Sara gave us a serious rundown of dos and don’ts for when we arrived at Rocinha’s main street.  We whizzed up the snaking road and reconvened two kilometres further up.  A hive of street activity greeted us.  Like any busy high street, Rocinha’s had the essentials.  But there were gangs of young lads on their mobile phones.  This was why we had to keep our cameras hidden.  On no accounts were we to arouse the suspicion of these characters.  They were likely to be conducting drug deals.

From the busy centre Sara began the tour.  We made our way up a narrow, steep sidewalk which became big steps and then flattened out.  The only uniformity in the favela’s appearance came when one looked at the sprawl from afar.  Close up inside the favela, everything was added on and individually designed.  People made do with what they had, and added on as they went.  Sara showed us the improvisational techniques.  There were electric lines disconnected from the metres and likewise the water.  The community had its own ways of survival.

There was no planning permission sought for dwellings in the favelas.  The ad-hoc developments, with buildings on top of buildings, felt the full force of nature rather than the weight of bureaucracy.  Earlier in 2010, hundreds of people were tragically killed in Rocinha and other favelas when landslides and flash floods from heavy rains swept away or tore into many homes.  There was evidence of the devastation in the favela’s lower parts.  This was the most vulnerable place to live, where the most recent development would be squeezed in.  It was much safer higher up in the favela.

I noticed a pile of rubble from what was once a family home.  I asked Sara about it.  She said the family had thankfully escaped.  In most cases people just redeveloped despite knowing very well that nature could produce a repeat performance.  The government intervened in the latest tragedy.  It set aside space for the construction of 3,000 homes on the land of a former school, but it just wasn’t enough.

Clouds and persistent drizzle condensed the consistent smell of home cooking, marijuana, and raw sewage.  The smell of paint and aerosols then came into our nostrils.  We stepped inside a community art workshop where shy and reluctant boys worked away on their latest designs.  Home grown techniques were used to decorate doors, walls, and ceilings.  The expression was well sharp and resembled a graffiti factory.  We circled the favela along what was the main alleyway.  It took us up to the top centre and down to the right against the hill facing north.  We stopped to admire the samba rehearsals of some happy, smiling boys.  They were well into their sound.  The obligatory football sat in the middle as a mascot or symbol.  Sara told us how the children seriously believed they may become famous in the western world when the tourists started snapping.  Therefore, it was important to show all those pictured how their photographs turned out.

We continued downwards, passing households where children would shout gringo and money!  Sara told us to continue and only exchange money when a Rocinha local had a product to sell.  One of the English lads thought this also applied to drugs.  Quick as a flash, Sara read his thoughts and lightly laid into him.  Not on my call, mister, she made it quite clear.  She had a familiarity with the place and its people.  You could tell she’d put in a lot of effort to build a long-term mutual respect with the locals we encountered.

We were introduced to some craft sellers in a small shop.  I bought two wrist bands for about £3 each.  We really were in a fascinating place full of fast people.  The young English lads were a good bunch.  They showed a mature consideration especially when we visited a nursery.  It was funded by an English lady who visited Rocinha a few years ago.  We were inspecting the place and listening to Sara.  She told us to wave at the young children.  One of the little girls turned towards me, smiled, and pulled out her tongue!  We all laughed.  What a lovely place of hope for the young families.  It was a great facility to give the little ones a happier start to life.

I chatted away with one of the English lads as we took wide photos of Rocinha.  It was a real eye-opener of a day.  There was a real edge at the foot of Rocinha.  Lads with guns and bikes crowded together, smoking, chatting, and glancing sharply over at us.  Only a wide road separated the homes of the rich and wealthy from the impoverished favela.

In the gathering gloom we journeyed back through Ipanema.  Rain began to fall as the moody grey sea tumbled its waves close onto the front.  I felt enriched by the afternoon’s experience.  It gave me a broader view of the social structure in Rio.  I felt encouraged to venture out for an evening in Lapa.

This time I didn’t need a tour guide.  I wanted to sample the atmosphere independently.  Thursday night was the start of the long weekend.  Live samba bands assembled in the clubs and ballrooms of the historic Lapa district.  I took the Metro to Cinelandia and popped into McDonald’s.  Then I wandered over to Rua do Riachuelo where the night-time action was warming up.  The darkened old street was closed off to traffic and was busy with people.  Wafts of marijuana and sounds of samba filled the air.  It was a happy and exciting place, and where the highly recommended Democraticus was located.

The old venue had been hosting ballroom and live samba nights since 1870.  I immediately sensed its history.  It conjured up a unique magic and reminded me a bit of the atmospheres one can feel in some of the old, cellar and cavernous venues in Liverpool.  I paid 18 R$ to go upstairs to the main floor.  A slow atmospheric build-up was happening as the first band busily tuned up.  I went close to the stage to check out the different instruments then wandered over to the bar for a beer.  I took a seat further back where the tables weren’t reserved.  The low lighted, large venue slowly filled up.  The band likewise filled in the space with a mellow sound of deep harmonies, laid back rhythm and a Sixties Bossa Nova beat.  More samba dancers flocked onto the floor and swung into elegant action.

It was a gorgeous scene as the young musicians steadily raised the tempo.  I later caught up with the lead singer, a cross between Gruff Rhys from the Super Furry Animals and Michael Glazier from Starsky and Hutch!  I thanked him for such a cool performance.  The subsequent bands brought a more modern sound floating into the old arena.  Many young lads took the initiative and led their gorgeous young ladies onto the dance floor.  It was a sparkling sight to behold.

I joined a table where a group of happy, chain-smoking doctors implored me to take a girl onto the dance floor.  I could move but I couldn’t dance like those on the floor.  I just stood and admired from afar, engaging in small talk.  I was often asked where I came from and felt a warmth in all the reactions.  It was a stunning evening and still going strong when I left at 4am to take a taxi back to Rockers.

Friday, September 17

On another hot, sunny day in Rio, memories of the night before caressed my thoughts.  I walked to Arpoador and checked out Karioka.  It was a recommended t-shirt shop.  I bought a bright yellow Brasil t-shirt and another yellow and black design imprinted with Pele celebrating Brazil’s iconic 1970 World Cup victory.  A young woman called Mireli Karioka worked at the shop, which her parents owned.  We got talking.  Mireli was a bright, happy character.  She was working there until the evening, then planned to go out afterwards to celebrate a friend’s birthday.  She then asked if I’d like to meet up with them.  I thought why not.  I thanked her and we both promised to keep in touch through Facebook messenger.

I walked back along Copacabana beach.  The wind whipped up the sand as the clouds lowered onto the Rio hills.  A hat seller approached me as I sat at a kiosk drinking coconut juice.  He had a persistent selling technique and a family to feed.  I bought two baseball caps for 50 R$.  I felt rather washed out so took an afternoon nap.  A message later came through from Mireli.  We arranged to meet up at her friend’s apartment just a few blocks away in Copacabana.

I went along after 9 and took a lift up to the high-rise apartment.  Mireli was there with her friends Cristina and Carlos.  We had a couple of beers and then took a taxi to Ipanema.  Shenanigans was our first destination.  There was a heady mix of stylish Cariocas (the locals) and sun burnt gringos bopping away to a live rock covers band.  The drinks were flowing.  I bought an extra one for Carlos to celebrate his birthday.  There was a warm atmosphere with nice company.  The tequila games then began, and we cheered and sang Happy Birthday to Carlos.  We paid up at the front desk then took another taxi, this time to Lapa for the famous Friday night street party.

I suddenly became quite drunk and remained subdued until we reached Lapa.  We stuck around the Arcos do Lapa, sharing beers and tasting the variety of snacks frying away at the many different street stalls.  It was the fun place to be on a Friday night in Rio.  I soon felt reinvigorated by the food and the busy open-air atmosphere.  Mireli and Cristina had a wide circle of happy and interesting friends gathered close by.  I got talking to a couple of characters called Marianna and Corina.  Corina had wicked purple pleats in her frizzy dark hair, to match the colour of her figure-hugging dress.  Marianna seemed the quieter but smarter of the two.  She smiled every time she caught me glancing at her.

There were plenty of Americans and Australians hovering about.  A couple of tall Aussie dudes came barging in between me, Marianna, and Corina whose wild English words told them to move on.  Cristina came over to talk with me.  She had a heart of gold but a stern Grace Jones type of expression.  It kept me alert to her words.  I asked her how she knew Marianna and Corina.  They weren’t her close mates, she confided.  Then she asked me if I felt comfortable with them.  I did, and we were having a laugh.

Marianna didn’t speak as much English as Corina, but I felt more attracted to her.  At about 2 in the morning, they asked me if I wanted to go somewhere with them in a taxi.  A tall European lad suddenly intervened.  He warned me not to go with them.  Corina became very annoyed and shouted at him.  Mireli and the others then reappeared.  They said they wanted to leave but assured me that if I was happy to stay then there was no problem.  Cristina winked and smiled, so I thought why not enjoy a very, very good time!

We took a taxi ride.  I sat in the back with Marianna and Corina either side of me.  Corina drew up close.  Marianna chuckled.  She said I was so shy and asked me if I wanted her to be as shy.  Corina laughed and her hand slipped down the inside of my right leg.  We hadn’t told the taxi driver where we were going.  Whilst looking into his rear mirror, he saw that we certainly weren’t paying attention to his questions.  He screeched to a halt, and we got out near to a hotel.

The surly looking receptionist folded her arms as we approached.  She demanded to know what we wanted.  I immediately suggested returning to the Escadaria Selaron steps.  On our way back there to Lapa, my rapid conversation suddenly wavered.   A short lad with a wide grin on his face and a big spliff in his mouth sauntered past.  He had a pistol in his hand but happily acknowledged us.  My new friends started giggling when they saw my concerned expression.

For a couple of hours until dawn, we sat on the world famous Escadaria Selaron steps.  This original artwork was created by Chilean artist Jorge Selaron.  Since 1990, visitors from around the world have continued donating tiles to help Jorge add an international colour to the steps.  We moved closer to listen to a guy happily playing his guitar.  Marianna really opened up.  We were smoking some fine weed.  Draw it deep in! Marianna happily urged and nudged me.

With the first glimpses of daylight, we retreated to a corner table in a nearby pizza bar and continued chatting away.  Corina disappeared again for a while. Marianna opened up even more, and actually spoke good English.  She had studied literature and knew a fair bit about great English writers.  Corina returned.  She bought some pizza and shared it around.  My mouth was very dry from the weed, so I just drank some lemonade.

When I later returned from the bar, they’d disappeared but there was still food on the table.  I wandered out to find a taxi.  As I was about to get into the back of one, Marianna suddenly reappeared, shouting from the other side of the street.  She ran over to me and asked where I was going.  I shrugged.  We then hugged and kissed.  It had been such a lovely night full of fun and cheer.  I was on my way back to the hostel and looking forward to many more happy times ahead.