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Published: March 5th 2007
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Rio (3); The Party Goes On.
Sugar Loaf and Botafogo Bay from Cristo. Thursday 22nd February to Sunday 24th February 2007
On Thursday morning I was just preparing to visit Ipanema Beach in the heat of the day for the first time when an English couple from the hostel who I´d yet to speak to asked me if I´d like to share a cab with them in a trip to see JC. The sight of the sun outside was enough to persuade me that it would be a preferable option to baking alive on the sand so I took myself off, for the third time in just over a year to see, in my opinion, one of the world´s most spectacular and dramatic landmarks.
After a week in Rio without excercise getting back on the road to fitness had become a priority so on my return I dusted off my trainers and set off on a run around the Lagoon. It was, needless to say, forty minutes of hell.
My jeans have been worn maybe three of four times since I left the UK and as a result my shorts, inevitably, have suffered the consequences. Margy did some excellent running repairs in New Zealand but by now both pairs were in
Rio (3); The Party Goes On.
JC overlooks the whole City. a severe state of disrepair and it was time to go shopping. The Metro in Rio is one of the world´s shortest underground systems but also one of the cleanest and safest. From Ipanema you take the Metro Bus to the start of the line in Copacabana and then once underground, travel in comfort to your destination. I was headed downtown to the Popular Market, so called because it seems to be just that, a huge and busy maze of streets and stalls that all appear to be selling exactly the same things at exactly the same prices. Unfortunately for me my thrifty side always seems to prevent myself from realising this until I´ve visited every shop and stall three times and after four hours of wandering aimlessly around and feeling close to collapse I purchased a pair in the very first shop I´d visited.
Upon my return I was sitting outside the hostel with just my thoughts for company when I looked up to see a familiar face creeping up on me with a huge grin. It was Fernanda, Silvia´s cousin, who had made a special journey to see me and after we had chatted for a while
and caught up we arranged to meet up later that evening.
When you stay in a hostel as small as The Lighthouse for any length of time it doesn´t take long to begin to feel comfortable and notice all new arrivals as though they were coming into your own home and I was in the dorm rooting through my bag when a slight girl with a backpack nearly as big as herself came staggering in. Adam, the young Australian who was in there with me held out his hand in greeting ¨Hi, I´m Adam¨he announced.
¨Hi, I´m Anal¨ she replied.
Poor Adam couldn´t believe his ears and stifling a cough just about managed to say ¨excuse me¨ as I rocked with mirth with my head in my bag. It was a good few seconds before I was able to compose myself, straighten my face and face her to introduce myself. It turned out her name is actually Hynal.
Fernanda called the hostel around eleven o´clock to tell me she was going to watch a friend appearing in a concert and that she wouldn´t make it out until 12.30am so I arranged to meet her in Bukowski,
Rio (3); The Party Goes On.
Despite Fernanda not turning up I still had a good time at Bukowski. a rocky style club in a residential area of Botafogo. When I arrived there was a queue so I took myself off to a corner bar about fifty metres away. Corner bars, or a group of plastic tables on the street where people drink are omnipresent in Rio but this one, being in Botafogo was not the most affluent and I recieived a couple of strange glances as I drank my beer before returning to Bukowski. I cannot explain why I do things like this, many people would say it is asking for trouble and against all the unwritten laws of personal safety and common sense and they are probably right but anyway. I looked everywhere for Nanda, upstairs, downstairs and in the large back garden but there was no sign of her and this was my first example of several to come that if you are searching for reliability to never turn to a Carioca. She never showed. Despite the fact I was alone I somehow made a few friends who at the end of the evening warned me to be careful in the neighbourhood on my way home. Fortunately for me a cab was waiting.
Saturday was
Rio (3); The Party Goes On.
Cheeky!! The costumes in Rio come in three sizes; Small, Smaller and Even Smaller. rugby day and after a midday run along the esplanade in Ipanema I headed off to Lord Jim´s with Ryan the Canadian to watch the England Ireland international. When we arrived the doors were locked but peering through the glass I could see Sylv and the boys who opened the door whilst the staff´s backs were turned. The place was packed to the rafters with Irish, so much so that you could have been in any Dublin bar and despite Englands dismal display we still had an enjoyable time. Sylv rang Nanda to ask her to explain her none appearance the night before but when I spoke to her she nonchalantly told me that she had gone to a party with her cousin instead with not a hint of an apology.¨I´m going there tonight instead¨ she said and asked me to come along but I thought not.
At 5pm a Bloco had started on the beach at Ipanema and after a quick nip back to the hostel I headed to the beach with Ryan. A stage had been erected and a band was playing Samba to a dancing, drinking crowd of about 2,000. This was Rio as I remembered
Rio (3); The Party Goes On.
Half time in the Rugby at lord Jim´s. Dave, Silvia, Glennu and Canadian Ryan and me. it. Brazillian people love to dance, even the TV commercials are full of dancing cartoon animals and there is none of the fear of embarrassment that we in the Uk suffer from, it is a totally natural thing to do and I love it. Not Ryan though, ¨this music has no energy to it¨ was his excuse for staying with both feet firmly planted in the sand. I think he was just kidding himself.
We were joined by Elaine, Caroline´s pal and her friend and returned to the hostel about 9pm having arranged to meet up at Emporio about 11pm. Sylvia had told me that she did´t trust Elaine and that she was just a Gringo hunter and, without wanting to sound full of myself I think she had her eyes on me. En route we bumped into Caroline and Jelena who were just on their way to the beach to join Sylv, Dave and Simon and I about turned and went with them. I never did make it to Emporio, the Cariocan unreliabilty shamefully rubbing off on me.
The Samba party finished at eleven and we moved 500 metres up the beach where a dance party had
just started. Dancing in soft sand is a hazardous event, your flip flops can disappear from sight in a matter of seconds and I returned to the hostel in daylight barefoot, one Haviana in hand, the other reported missing in action.
Sunday, although five days after the last of the ´official´ Carnaval parades is generally considered to be the last day of celebrations before everyone returns to work and at lunchtime I donned my trainers and headed off on a slow jog to Copacabana where a ´mono´ bloco, the only one in town, had commenced at 9am. The whole six lanes of highway were closed to traffic and the place was teeming with revellers, mostly Carioca´s desperate to squeeze the last possible life out of the party season. I rested under a tree and a girl standing just a couple of feet away suddenly dropped to her knees then slumped to the floor. Initially I thought it to be a drink or heat thing until I noticed a coconut rolling away from it´s victim, that would have been all I´d needed so I purchased a replacement pair of footwear and returned home.
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non-member comment
Beware the Cuervo Gold and falling coconuts! You are now a Gringo and are being hunted? How things change!