MondayMorningMutiny.com

As I lay on a surfing beach near Ubatuba, some 3hrs bus ride away from the tourist feeding frenzy of Rio, resting and nursing my injuries, I reflect on the short but action packed last few days. If and when I return to Rio, I will walk the well trodden tourist path and take part in more sedate activities.

Hangliding perhaps..

(N.B. – pics to follow once they have uploaded) 

Sun and the sound of samba pound down on Ipanema with equal intensity.

As early evening approaches and the sun eases it´s grip on the day, I head back towards Ipanema, taking in the impromptu samba parades and wade through the rising tide of revelry filling the streets.

<<more pics to come>>

 This is thirsty work, so I heed the words of a street seller and enjoy one of his fine caipirinhas. Either his hand is shaky, hes overly generous or he has indulged in a little too much of his own wares. Whatever the reason, he is not shy with his measures. Half my pint glass is filled with cachaça, the rest with ice, crushed lime and sugar. This is potent stuff but incredibly tasty and I take care not to drink it too quickly. Midway through my pace has settled to a steady saunter and a familiar, friendly looking face appears in front of me – Nat!

We spend some time sitting on the beach, catching up and swapping stories. I tell her of a near death I witnessed a few hours earlier, whilst walking the streets. Shouts of `Oi Oi Oi Alalalallaaa!´ from behind me caught my attention and I swiftly turned round to see a boy, no more than 15, running barefoot as fast as he could. Making the noise and gaining on him were a group of well dressed young Cariocas. I press myself back against the wall and see the boy clutching a purse in his hand as he passes. The fastest of the chasing horde catches up with the boy by the crossroads of Rua Santa Clara and N S Copacabana, pushing him hard in the back. The boy flails forward and trips in the road. An oncoming bus slams on it´s brakes and skids to a halt, 1m in front of the thief, barely 10m from my dropped jaw. The boy springs to his feet and sprints away, leaving the purse on the floor by the bus´ wheel. The purse is returned to a woman, everyone goes their separate ways and life carries on as normal.

It is here the story gets more interesting.. What follows is an edited version for reasons too long to explain.

I rearrange my bags, packing a few essentials in one, leaving valuables in the care of the a 5 star hotel in the other and head towards favela, `Chacara do Céu´, set in the hillside at the far end of Ipanema. This is one the safest favelas, relatively speaking, due to an old, respected trafficker keeping the area drug and gun free for his family and other children there. Climbing the absurdly steep, twisting steps through the maze like structure, wondering how all this was built I stop at a clearing in the ramshackle buildings and admire the view. Ironically, in this, one of the poorest parts of Rio, there is one of the richest views – a beautiful panorama of the whole city, set above the fever pitch of the well oiled tourist machine that is Copacabana and Ipanema below. It is nice and peaceful here and I feel surprisingly safe, yet guarded and alert and the same time. Will this last? Time will tell.

I meet some locals here and they give me two small chunks of Palo Santa wood, a natural incense coming from a tree which lives for 12 years and then dies, it´s wood is collected and burnt in small pieces, giving of a pleasantly sweet relaxing scent. They also tell me of the giant Sheraton hotel, located only 50m away, looking horribly out of place, like a snowman in the desert. It is situated smack in the middle of two favelas and was built illegally, they tell me. The area is some kind of national park and it goes against all building regulations. Obviously a few greased palms helped this development.

After a few drinks, we head to Lapa, instantly recognisable by the giant dirty white arches of the aqueduct, the once grand, old colonial style buildings and in parts, the unmistakable stench of stale urine hanging thick and musty in the air. The area is improving, undergoing redevelopment and regeneration from it´s recent history as a red light district riddled with crack cocaine and the nefarious characters you would associate with such places. Nowadays it is still dirty looking but also a thriving hot pot of evening activity with bars and streets full of sociable young Brazilians partying through the night. We negotiate our way to a bar through the swarms of people, hopping from island to island amid the streams of piss under the arches and find somewhere fresh and clean to sit. I enjoy a stawberry bebidas – a cachaça based drink, like a caipirinha but with strawberries and vanilla instead of lime. It tastes delicious and is gone in seconds, so I order another and drink this one more slowly.

<<pics of lapa>>

After a couple of hours we decide to head back. There are more people now than before and everywhere there are drums, there is dancing. There are a lot of drums, making the path back tricky through all the hip shaking bodies.

To get back, we take a Combi. These are minivans, serving as jump on, jump off taxis, slightly larger than a VW transporter. At it´s most uncomfortably sweltering peak, I count 19 sweating bodies in ours. I open the window and stick my head out, gulping as much cool air as possible.

We get out half way back to escape the heat as more people try to squeeze into the Combi and catch a taxi the rest of the way, right up to the entrance of the favela.

As we walk back things start to go wrong..

In the middle of the maze, a guy, having consumed more of everything than he could handle starts to lose it a little. His confusion turns to muddled anger, in turn becoming directed at me. When he says he has a present for me when we get back I start to worry, knowing that he has a menacing looking machete at his house. It´s difficult to know what to do in these situations against such unpredictable people. One minute he is fine, the next increasingly threatening. I decided that not staying around to find out was the best solution and someone kindly offers to get my bag. I wait, alone at the foot of the steep, narrow concrete steps for a nervous ten minutes and there is no sign of my bag or my other friends. My instincts were torn between waiting and leaving. This was one of the few occasions in my life where I had no idea what to do. However I decided that the combination of my lack of portuguese, obvious foreigness and the fact that my presence was only agitating the situation all pointed towards it being better if I left quickly.

Being a maze like structure set in a national park, with a good measure of tiredness thrown in provides an ideal environment in which to get hopelessly lost. After two more hours of walking, my ankles are swollen and aching but the stunning sunrise cheers me, providing some much needed reassurance and clarity. Sticking to the road through the park and heading downhill, I think to myself that eventually the hill must spit me out somewhere. In the distance I hear the faint throaty coughing of a motorbike starting up. The sound gets louder and I turn around and watch as it rounds the corner and comes into view.

Using my trusty thumb to flag him down I hitch a ride to bottom of the hill. Burning my leg on the exhaust was of little concern at the time as I held on for dear life as we raced at break-neck pace down the winding roads. At the beach, I get off and thank my ride and wearily walk back the 10km to the hotel where I had previously left my bags. Unfortunately, many of the hotels were full and so I settle for something a little more more expensive than I would have liked but by now am too tired to care and physically can´t walk any more. Once in the room, I guzzle 2 bottles of icy water in less than a minute, think about what a long 30 hours it has been and collapse on the bed, passing out almost instantly.

Another day passed and to cut a long story short,  everything eventually ended well. I got my bag back, met up with Nat again and we travel to Santa Teresa, a charming, restful haven in comparision to the preceding days.

Santa Teresa is quite different to the parts of Rio I have visited. Situated along the ridge of the hill in the city centre, just above Lapa, it is a beautiful area of cobbled streets, hills and old homes. Here runs the `Bonde´,  the tram that runs to Centro, which used to serve Rio´s rich in the 19th century, taking them to work and back.

I stay one night in the friendly Hostel Trip, which would be a perfect base for Rio were I not leaving less than 12 hours later. We had our own private dogs, including a lumbering great beast of a dog that spent most the time in a hole barely large enough, looking melancholy.

<<pics of dogs>>

That night, we eat in a vibrant local bar and meet two guys, Henrique, a Brazilian from Minas Gervais who works in the UK for half the year and his son, who I forget the name of. We share some beers and food and are joined by Flavia, a woman from the Zona Norte in Rio who works for a large scale immunisation project.

As we talk, a man sets up a speaker on the table next to us and begins a puppet show very different to Punch and Judy or Sooty and Sweep. These were handmade marionettes, caricatures of the likes of Jimmy Hendrix and Bob Marley, expertly handled and made to dance, sing and play instruments to their real life counterparts´songs.

After this we revisit Lapa and than head back to the hostel.

A few hours later, it is time to get up and go to the ever teeming, ever noisy Rio Novo bus station.

Next stop Ubatuba for some much needed rest and relaxation. Surfing was the original plan here but my feet don´t work anymore, so recovery is top of the agenda. My right ankle is quite swollen, making a creaking sound when moved and the burn from the bike is blistered and sore.

<<pic>>

Waiting at the platform, the man 3 seats away falls to floor and starts convulsing. 2 passers by hold him down while I hold his head to prevent it from banging against the floor until the medics arrive. The frothing mouthed man is stretchered away as the bus pulls in.

I take my seat and sleep within seconds, too tired to take in what just happened.

This entry was posted on February 28, 2007 at 8:54 pm and is filed under Brazil, Photos. You can subscribe via RSS 2.0 feed to this post's comments. You can comment below, or link to this permanent URL from your own site.