Without pictures, without
recording the new faces to Finish the Sentence, it feels like last week just
didn't happen. It's a
blur as fast as a strobe light and as hazy as the smog that sits on Sao Paulo,
like cigar smoke on a crackpot military general. There were no crazy Gonzo adventures, no extreme
sports, no knife fights, chicken tosses or back flips down sand dunes. Just living with some
resemblance to normality, which in the context of the last three months, was unusual
in itself.
The flight from Salvador to
Rio cost about $30 more than the 24-hour bus. If time is money, then I just made a fortune. The red-eye flight took only 2
hours, and would also save a night's accommodation, so we partied right up
until it was time to board the TAM flight. On the plane, sardines were laughing at our leg space,
and if you stand up against a wall and push back hard, you'll get a picture how
far our seats reclined. I
was returning to Rio to do the tourist must-sees I had missed first time round,
such as seeing the Corcovado (the massive Christ statue that overlooks the
city) and revisiting Copacabana where "the girls shake what their mama's gave
them, and so do their mamas."
Phillipe and I checked into a hostel in Copacabana called Mellow Yellow,
which does its best to be Rio's Milhouse, which, if you recall, was the
traveler's frat party of Buenos Aires. Bar, pool table, foozball, DVD's, a notice board with
the day's activities, BBQ's, and too many of England's sunburnt slacker
youth. Our bunks were three
high in a crowded room where the only place to store your backpack was on the
floor. One room had over 24
bunks, and smelt like cheddar.
The Yellow also had a genuine working hot tub with water so milky you
could spread it on toast.
Still, the vibe was incessant, with speakers blaring everywhere, even in
the bathrooms. We got a neat 60%
discount because of the construction noise on our floor, which I couldn't hear
because of the party noise on our floor. So we walked Copacabana, having fun making eye contact
with hookers, taking in a stellar churrascaria (where they come around with
meat until you stop or pop) for a bargain $7. Phillipe bought a Brazilian bikini for his friend's
girlfriend, and it was so small it cost more per thread than gold. Our second
and final day in Rio took us up a steep mountain to the Christ, where the full
beauty of Rio was on gorgeous display. In the Miss World City, Rio would easily win the
swimsuit division with its firm, pointed mountains, soft sandy beaches and
coiffed city jungles. Quite
possibly, it would seduce the judges but ask for payment back in the hotel
room. This is Rio, after
all.
Under the shadow of the
giant, hippy-looking art nouveau Jesus, we drank our first acai, the small, red
Amazon berries with more protein and vitamins than any other fruit on the
planet. Blended with
ice and with the weight of pudding, acai is a meal on its own, with the added
bonus of having natural "uppers"
equal to several cans of Red Bull. Why it isn't available outside of Brazil is a mystery,
considering its obvious benefits for a fast-paced, fat conscious western
society. Perhaps acai is the
secret behind those damn Brazilian bikinis. Earlier we visited the tranquil Jardin de Botanical, with
mammoth trees from the Amazon so Brazilians know what they look like before
they cut them all down. I've
never been one to ogle at plant life, but some of the orchards were so blatantly
sexual its no wonder witches used their roots to enhance fertility.
That night I took Phillipe
to Lapa, and back to the same venue I had visited two weeks ago. The street party was buzzing, but after
Salvador I've had my fix of drunk, loud locals with no concept of personal space
and a penchant for peeing on cobblestones. Fortunately, the Estrela featured a fantastic
8-piece band performing an acoustic Dave Matthews tribute. This sing-along was followed by a
quality rock DJ, and we danced and drank and, for the first time in weeks, held our own to tunes that did not
require us to dry-hump our dance partners. I regret that after a month in Brazil I have not
mastered the traditional fohhro
danceÉin public anyway. And
thus ended Rio de Janiero. I
had hoped to get a private tour of a favela with a gang overlord, but my
connection into the paramilitary underworld called in sick. It is always important to
leave something for next time.
The six-hour bus to Sao
Paulo was memorable only for my popping my first Imodium. I had picked up a bug in Rio,
which, like most bugs, was a nuisance and needed to be squashed. Or plugged, if
you will. A city of
some 17 million people, the third biggest in the world, Sao Paulo is the New
York of Brazil, where people work hard, play hard, make cash, and would love to
live in Rio but would never say so.
A cab driver told me there are over 5 million cars in the city, and
traffic was every local's constant woe. "Look at the fog," said Phillipe, his island
upbringing denying him the joys of rush hour. "That's smog!"
corrected Juliana. We met
our hosts, Juliana and Camilla, in Jericoacoara and they did a great job
schlepping us around the city. It
was wonderful just to drive in someone's car and not watch the meter tick over
(I realize how paranoid I have become of taxi drivers, which does not bode well
for the journey ahead).
"This is how we live," said Juliana. "We work, we eat out, we party, we go the beach, we go
to the park."
Other than the beach (about an hour's drive away), that's exactly what
we did too. The
wonderful Ibirapuera Park was so alive with people and pets it reminded me of
Central Park on a Sunday, without a New Yorker's pretension. It was winter, but we had missed
the flooding and the sunshine was baking. Here is a guy doing capoeira, to the
amusement of a poodle with a blue bow in its ear. Here is a street performer dressed as an angel, heavenly
music drifting from inside the box he is standing on. He gave me a precious stone, and just for a moment, I
believed he was the real deal.
Paulista Avenue, Sao Paulo's
main drag, crackled with life. Modern apartment blocks were everywhere, or
being built where they're weren't.
Girls handed out promotional pamphlets for new condominiums at traffic
lights. On Friday we went to an
underground samba rock party in an old theatre, with the feel of an underground
rave except the band were rocking out the kind of music you hear in Nike soccer
commercials featuring Ronaldo. On Saturday we went to a yuppie club where
people queued for four hours to not
get in. Of course, nobody
denies Modern Gonzo, and inside the club was an upscale sushi restaurant
adjacent to a dance-floor pumping remixed 80's music (Right Said Fred?) It was like a gay bar full of
beautiful women, with the subtle odor of raw salmon.
I was looking through
Phillipe's Lonely Planet (something I regret every time I do it) and came to
Sao Paulo. Under their
ever-prominent Dangers & Annoyances, it mentioned the horrific crime in the
city, the carjackings and gang wars and prostitution. "Take special care of your belongings! Muggings, even worse, have been
reported in the downtown area!" Which is where, according the book, I was
staying, and where I walked alone at night to the Internet place and alone by
day to the mall, and not one person bothered me, and I never felt the slightest
bit threatened. Sure, in the
land that produced Ayrton Senna, people drive like lunatics and the traffic is
horrendous. But I found Sao
Paulo livable and likeable, a South American New York, with all the pros and
cons that title brings with it. Something in the wind and the stars tells me I'll be back.
Sao Paulo Airport
Sao Paulo, Brazil
June 7, 2005