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Published: January 18th 2009
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You have to love the Samba drum, the beat and fever that it produces amongst its avid listeners and the result in a hip wiggling movement only seen in one of the most vibrant cities in the world. Everyone has seen the pictures, most have witnessed video of the place but until you touch foot with earth you have not been Rio-ed.
The place is a sprawling city that encompasses hills and mountains that all direct themselves towards the sea, only too be met with beautiful beaches that encompasses masses of near naked people. In Rio it is seen as uncouth if you have more clothing on that could also fit onto a four month year old baby, if bum is not bear then you are square and nipples are seen and not heard. It takes a while to get used to the vibe of it but most of the local male population have their three top vertebrae removed at an early age so that they get the full range of movement to oggle a good look of the female passer by. This is not to say that everyone here is of the beauty category, they do have a large
percentage of little piglets, the ones that have asked for seconds at the all you can eat buffets, so Dunc there are still some people that you could pull.
We arrived in Rio from a small hop north from Paraty, the bus journey left not a little bit of discomfort in your seat but by the end of the two hours you were positively fearful for your life. I think that the bus driver must have had a seat reserved for a Rodizio where meat is the main attraction, there are many of these type of restaurants. It is like a buffet but the waiters bring samples of meat to your table and ask if you would like to have a slice, they continue until you are full or in Franks case, if the seam of your trousers has exploded due to an massive increase of your BMI.
We had booked a Hostel called the Happy Rio, so our journey from the bus station into town was with a full hopes and masses of good will. Why? Why? Why would you have your hopes so quickly dashed, well the answer is that you have chosen a place to
stay where they believe a hostel must resemble a chicken pen, all people crammed together and no place to fart. The place was small, not as small as my bank account but still tiny. The service was troubled, with most responses from the staff being accompanied with a look as if we had asked them to eat the contents of a soiled nappy. Emma was over the moon with the fact that our co hostelers were a group of fashon models working the Rio fashon week, Stuart is stating that he has no opinion on this subject at all. The rumour of fashon people being quite mentally challenged was not put to bed by these guys, I think they shared the brain cell around themselves, each taken it for their day of castings. The first evening we found a lovely little sushi bar and with the diminishing fear of being robbed, we sat and watched the world go by. Rio has its fair share of mad people and I think that most of them passed us that night, all with a slight stare our way, just to check us out.
The next day started with a quiet removal of
ourselves from the hostel and we thought that we would place the hat of tourists firmly on the heads and go explore the city. The two main sites are Christ the Redeemer and the Sugar loaf. Most of the wet westerners here take a tour but as Em and I hate these affair we thought the local bus would do the trick. One thing to mention, the sanity of each bus driver in the city has to be questioned. They are maniacs, each of them has the roaring hormones of a teenage boy (and Dunc) which results in the bus been flung from the view of a rounded rump to the depths of a heaving cleavage. So as we were sat on the bus heading to the statue of Jesus we had to say a little prayer ourselves, mainly to arrive with our pulses intact. After the bus we opted for the more sedate travel of a the train, Jen would have loved it. The slow moving carriage took you all the way to the top of the mountain, to where you were met with hoards of Brazilians all moving to get their glimpse of the statue. It is very
impressive up there, the views are amazing and the mere nostalgia that you receive by being close to a view that you have seen hundreds of times gives you a real buzz. The only problems is that you share this with the population of Cardiff all looking like they have got dressed in the dark going out to a fancy dress party with the theme being 'cheap and nasty'.
Getting back to the town was a long process, taking the circular bus through all of the outskirts. People speak of the 'favelas', the places that are well documented and mainly house the poorer residents of Rio. From the top of the mountain you get to see some of them but they do not sprawl as much as you think. We have been warned not to go into them as near death experiences would be imminent, to which I always reply 'Have you ever had a home cooked meal from Jen, well that is far more dangerours to your health.?' We were staying very close to Copacabana beach and decided to take a walk along the famed sands. It is a crazy place, the lack of cothing is outstanding, not
meaning good but overwhelming, everywhere you look you are met with the crack of a jib or the metronome movement of a flagpole. Enough said eh? We had a little sit down, watched some beach football and realised that these people were a couple of grains of sand short of the sahara. With a short walk away we found ourselves a nice little bar and sat with the locals, chilling out and being treated with absolute kindness. The barman would shout England every couple of minutes as well so as to make us feel at home, we did try to teach him Wales but got stuck quite quickly.
The night ended with a swift walk home, down a few dodgy places and back to the worst hostel in the world. I wonder what 'manana' will bring, hopefully a new place to stay.
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