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Published: March 2nd 2007
Rio (2); Imprisoned.
Half way up to Sugar Loaf.Monday 19th February to Thursday 22nd February 2007.
After the general excesses of the weekend Monday arrived with me feeling less than energetic, a feeling exaggerated by the unusually high temperatures. Seems global warming literally is just that. By 2pm all week the thermometer has risen above thirty five degrees ensuring that, allied with the high humidity, you are feeling sapped of all energy by late afternoon. And that was exactly when I chose to visit Sugar Loaf, the one attraction I´d neglected last time around.
A group of six of us, with Caroline leading the way, bussed it to the bottom of the hill and then joined the throngs of Gringo´s waiting to board the cable car to the top which when we finally arrived forced me to decide that it is, although a wonderful landmark of this place, just another hill in Rio with just another view of the City and not a patch on Corcovada home of Cristo which dwarves all around it.
I´d arranged to finally meet up with Harriet and Catherine the girls from the road trip in Chile in Ipanema at 7pm and so, with the others hanging on to see the
sun set, headed back alone. I made it back for ten past and there was no sign of them, not surprising given their time keeping record in Chile and the masses of people that were starting up yet another party by the beach and I sat on the rocks at the end of the beach watching the sun go down. In a way I was relieved they´d not shown, it would give me an opportunity for an early night to recharge and I was just heading back to the hostel when I felt a tap on the shoulder. It was 7.45pm and it was Harriet.
They had another friend, Jenny in tow and we went for dinner at a place near to The Lighthouse where they polished off five bottles of wine between them which at one stage caused H to miss her chair and end up howling on the restaurant floor. With the bill settled I was ready for my pit but not a chance. They insisted I join them for a nightcap and having declined their invitation twice I realised there was no way I was going to win so reneged and showed them the way to
Rio (2); Imprisoned.
From the top of Sugar Loaf. Emporio. Five hours later I returned to my bunk !
I slept for ten hours solid, which meant having retired at six that I woke at four in the afternoon and checked my e mails to find that Jenny and Ali, the sisters who I´d met back in Santiago wanted to meet that evening in Lord Jim´s, Ipanema´s very own English Pub. I can never understand the thought processes of travelling half way around the globe to spend time, other than to watch a sporting occasion, in a place that invariably resembles the nearest boozer back home, give me a gaff full of locals any day but unfortunately e mail is not an immediate means of contact so I headed off there.
We´d arranged to meet between 8pm and 9pm and I arrived dead on nine. There was no sign of them but fortunately I had Arsenal in the Champions League to keep me occupied and at ten to ten they arrived accompanied by some pals from back home including one interesting guy who had worked with Nick Leesing. They´d initially arrived at eight and waited until five to nine then gone to meet their friends and whilst
Rio (2); Imprisoned.
Dinner with Harriet, Catherine and pal. An early night was on the cards. it was nice to see them both again and catch up it soon became clear they were in there for the night and in Rio during Carnaval that just didn´t appeal to me.
Silvia had invited me around earlier so I headed there and when I arrived Dave, Simon and Glennu, her friend who I´d met last year and who greeted me like a long lost pal where just preparing to go to one of the local street parties. I was still chatting to Silv when they emerged onto the street seven floors below so I said goodbye and jumped in the lift to catch them up. Security in accommodation in Rio is perhaps understandably high and Silv´s apartment is no different. A thick dead locked plate glass door and a locked steel gate blocked my path. To open the glass door you need a key and as I pressed my face to the glass I could see the guys waiting for me thirty metres away. Yelling was pointless, not only were the doors sealed but the omnipresent sounds of samba and laughter filling the air would drown any noise that managed to get through so I got back
Rio (2); Imprisoned.
Our Favela guide Gabriella with some favela graffiti. in the elevator and went back up to the 7th floor, Silv would give me the key and I´d be free. Or so I thought.
I rang three times but there was no answer. Shit. Back to the elevator, down to the ground and no change except the guys, thinking I musn´t be coming out had vanished. Back to the 7th, by now shirtless due to the perspiration that was leaking out of me and no answer, back to the street and forty five minutes later, fraught with frustration and having tossed all alternative options through my mind a million times I pressed the bell one last time swiftly followed by six clenched fist thumps. It worked. A light appeared followed by Silvia´s voice. ¨who is it?¨
I very nearly responded with ¨who the **** do you think it is?¨ such was my frustration but resisted and two minutes later a laughing Silvia, who had been submerged in the escape of her headphones set me free.
The chances of finding the others were slim to say the least, the streets packed with revellers so I headed to the beach to watch Rio party. It was about 1.30am
by this time and I was sat alone on the concrete steps leading to the beach looking through the pictures on my camera when two young lads sat next to me warned ¨be careful¨. They were both local lads, both sixteen and I chatted to them for another hour before heading home.
Last year in Rio I went on a trip to one of the Cities biggest Favela´s Rocinha and found it very interesting. Having lost all memories of last years visit when my memory card decided to go into early retirement I arranged to go again. The trip involved a cab to the bottom of the hillside settlement, a hair raising pillion ride through the steep winding streets and a walk through the narrow pathways of the Favela down to the bottom. Our guide was Gabriella, the same girl from last year only with different coloured hair and she remembered me immediately. It was her that had influenced me to buy the painting of the Brazillian flag that now hangs in my kitchen.
Before we commenced our descent she filled us in with facts; Rocinha is run by the gang ADA, or Friends of Friends and she
told us the hierachy of officialdom from the 24 year old General, his ten leiutenants known as Golden Guns, so called because they all carry one through to the army of lookouts, runners and dealers under their control, how the police never enter, how the drugs for the whole of Rio are distributed from within the Favela´s and how almost everything we would see, from bricks to TV´s, were stolen goods. She also told us not to give money to the kids but that they love to have their pictures taken believing that they´ll be half way to being movie stars and that sixty per cent of what us gringo´s had paid for the experience goes straight back into the Favela for useful causes such as education and sanitation of which, admittedly, there wasn´t much evidence.
When I returned to the hostel I was met by an excited Ashley, the crazy Dubliner. ¨Matt, we´ve got the footie starting in the hostel, c´mon the reds¨. She told me she´d been a staunch Liverpool supporter for fourteen years since she was six and spent the first quarter of an hour watching silently biting her nails with her legs clutched up to
Rio (2); Imprisoned.
The kids were a delight. her chest. Then Barcelona took the lead. ¨Ya feckin c***¨ she bawled at the TV causing me to smile in a mix of surprise, amusement and dread at what she´d be like if Liverpool went on to get trounced. Fortunately they didn´t, both their goals were greeted with a huge jig around the whole room and the final whistle with a grin bigger than any Cheshire cat.
Despite my ten hour snooze of the previous day I was still tired so, after dining alone, I had my earliest night for ages. In bed for 12.30am, wonders will never cease.
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non-member comment
Matt in the City Of God.You have a dull life.I hope you're keeping all these photos safe! Burn 'em to disc or something.