Episode 4 - Rio and Rain...
Trip Start
May 10, 2001
1
5
Trip End
Sep 28, 2001
Rio and New Orleans, Brazil
Sunday, June 10, 2001
Following the final night out of the tour, and hence a bleary eyed breakfast, I headed for the hotel's Internet connection to get details on Rio's hostel. Call me a cowardy custard but following my experience arriving in Sao Paulo, I wasn't a big fan of the 'turn up and ask in Portuguese' option. 90 frustrating minutes of connection problems, temprementality and just plain slowness (mine and the pc's) left me rushing back to my room at the time I planned to leave - unpacked, unshowered and unpaidup. With more people turning up all the time, the good-bye's took a while too, but following a final photo with Sheers and Dave on the hotel's steps I put my bags and throat lumps in the taxi and headed off.
I was all-alone in a foreign land again, with only 8 (less than inspiring) local words for company. However the airport was sufficiently well prepared to get me a ticket to Rio, a check-in and then provide me with a pleasant run to the plane. Spilling bewilderment behind me, I ran waiving a less than informative boarding card, inquiring "Rio?" of anyone in my path. After several sidesteps of which Barry John would be proud, I managed to hook up with the correct gaggle of briefcases crossing the tarmac and bounced onto the plane, asking "Rio"?
Now I don't know whether it's because it was the city airport, but the pilot required only the briefest of looks at the runway before swinging out and flooring the accelerator. The sudden speed and vertical take-off pinned me into my seat, where I met a fellow astronaut's knee coming the other way. Any lingering sadness was now trailing on the runway and the boyish excitement of adventure had returned. Rio was appearing beneath my feet.
Helpful advice of "get a window on the right of the plane" from Dave gave me islands, beaches, mountains and a harbour on my way in to land. A cab to the hostel was easily arranged, and I was soon relaxing with a bottle of water watching the Corinthians play a cup semi-final. Fortunately my reaction to their late winner was quite muted as the hostel manager (and only other person in the room) was less than chuffed by the result. I later discovered that, contrary to what the Corinthians fans in Sao Paulo told us, their appeal does not extended into rival cities!
Upstairs I met Ranj from East Ham in London, who was on a 4-week world tour. Rio was first stop, and he'd already paraglided over the city. Following a recommendation from his pilot, we headed to an open-air restaurant where we missed the band but met Raphael and his wife Jill. Jill, an actress from Rio, didn't speak any English while Raphael, a lawyer from Chicago, did. Alot. And a good thing too as my confident attempts to confirm and then order what I believed to be beer had already brought us 2 large shot glasses of paint stripper. "The only way to treat these is down in one" suggested Ranj before his first mouthful removed the lining from his throat. Spotting our discomfort - mental and physical - at facing the menu again, Raphael directed us to the house specials. Ghantos ('little chicken') was what "everyone" was there for, and carinya the local drink made from lemons, lime and sugar cane. The latter diluted the paintstripper to something more palatable - like firewater. Skipping on through the drinks menu we eventually settled on Maltzbier, a sweet stout that tasted like coke - useful given that the Brits clearly weren't yet up to local favourites. With food and drink finally sorted, we kicked back with the locals in the shadow of Christ the Redeemer (Corcovado). I couldn't help noticing the statue's white lighting against the black mountain gave it a haunting 'flying in mid-air' look, as well as giving me the 'wow, I'm in Rio' look.
Next morning's breakfast again featured fruit, but this time with cheese and jam rolls and preceded a bus trip to Sugar Loaf mountain. The shaking, swaying green house, also known locally as a cablecar, provided an eventful ride up, terminated by literally bumping into the top of the mountain. None of this amused the lady firmly gripping the central pole, nor the school trip who were lined up inspecting, playing with, and finally eating their tickets. From the top we could see across Copacabana and Botofogo beaches, hear the clear shimmering waters lapping on the base of the mountain and stand above the planes cruising into the city airport.
Avoiding the urge to recreate James Bond's fight scene on top of the greenhouse, we returned quietly to the bottom and some helpful locals. We passed up the "very good price" for a taxi ride to the Corcovado, and once Ranj had bought an "official" Nike Brazilian shirt for 20 Real (8 quid), we boarded the first of 2 buses that transported us to the foot of the cog railway and face to face with more taxi drivers.
We shared our Swiss-made carriage with a local tv crew, and an amateur who became so inspired that he aimed his video at every passing tree, bush and wall for what will surely make compulsive viewing. There wasn't even any sign of the monkeys that live in 'the largest inner city forest' that keeps Rio's pollution at bay. From the top the views exceeded those from Sugar Loaf, as Copacabana and the airport were joined by the Maracana stadium and the city's huge cemetery. The statue itself was, at 120 feet tall, much bigger than me, and probably cleaner too. The facial detail was very impressive and the wide outstretch arms and open hands symbolised a welcoming Rio (according to the station's video).
With the afternoon ending, I played 'Frogger' across 6 lanes of traffic (with a limp for added fun) to discover a true 'Kodak moment'. Stood on Botofogo beach's creamy white sand, I watched the orange light of sunset play at the water's edge as boats swayed and reflected in the blues, oranges, yellows and turquoises of the bay. Overhead, the moon had climbed above Sugar Loaf Mountain while the birds were down wandering on the wet sand past a group of teenagers. With no noise from the nearby road, the only sounds were the rustling of the tiny waves breaking, and the swish of two fishermen hauling their nets through the water in their red trunks. A beautiful moment in a bustling city.
The sun may have gone but the day was far from over as we headed for Panama beach and a bar that we'd heard was where everyone went to practice their English. The 'Lord Jack' turned out to be a sparcely populated English theme pub, with a red phonebox outside and a union jack fluttering overhead. Inside, the dartboard, oak beams, glasses hanging from the bar and cool UK tunes were failing to fully re-create the atmosphere - perhaps it was the waitress service, half-pint tankards and baseball on the television. There again it could have been the 'authentic' pennyfarthing hanging in one of the door frames...
We didn't stay long with Lord Jack and were soon across town to eat. Over pizza we encountered a very ample woman, both in age and girth, wearing a white lace see-through top and black ra-ra skirt. She was offering diners a 'Jolly Pecker', which appeared to be the world's smallest clockwork dildo, Playboy condoms and polaroid photographs of herself. When none of these offers produced money from my wallet, she gave me a full-frontal flash of her red knickers and moved on muttering something I doubt I'd have understood even in English.
Nearby the Samba dancers were in full flow, their feet flashing to the rhythm on the warm late night pavements. The rhythm was being set on a bongo drum and an instrument that appeared to be a 1 string guitar and drum combined. With Skol beer being sold from cool boxes, and hot dogs from the back of campervans, people were mingling, chatting and enjoying the atmosphere. On all sides were smiling eyes and faces, though whether it was the alcohol, conversation or my attempts to join in the Samba, no-one would comment. Suffice to say I was awesome until I started stepping on my own feet.
With the main attractions ticked off, the next day provided an opportunity to explore. 1st stop was a small museum (too small for my guide book) documenting the history of the Indians in South America. With no English translations and 40 primary school kids as our guides, it posed more questions than it answered but was fascinating all the same. Disappointingly, for this story at least, I resisted the temptation to buy a souvenir spear. From South American history the next stop was obvious, the Maracana football stadium.
Actually, Maracana is only the area, the stadium itself is named after Marcel Luis, an important journalist at the time it was built. We learnt this and other such nuggets as seat prices (6 to 50 Reals), seat design (the difference between green and yellow seats is that the green ones have no back rest) and the capacity (135,000 now, but the record is over 183,000 for the 1950 World Cup Final against Paraguy) from "Juliaaaneeeena" our guide. We also discovered she is rather camera shy, speaks English as a 3rd language and supports Vasco de Gama which leaves her unable to watch the other 3 sides that share the government-owned stadium for "religious reasons". The rest of the tour was self-conducted, as Julianeena stood looking awkward in Portuguese (or was it Spanish), while Ranj and I commented on the blue public telephones immediately behind each goal, which presumably were there for besieged goalies to phone for reinforcements. Following the tour of the HUGE changing rooms, with their own full size goal for warming up in, we discovered that Julianeena doesn't go to many games there because by then she is "tired, and just wants to go home". We took this as a hint, gave her a tip and left via the concrete footsteps of the footballing greats. Pele, Zico, Roberts, they were all there.
Getting a taste for adventure we played another game of Frogger to jump on a random bus heading in what my Spider senses told me was the direction of the city centre. This was eventually correct, kind of, but it took us through some very run down areas before we jumped out when I recognised the Arca de Lupa from a postcard. This impressive, 2 tier former acquaduct, now carried trains over a square that I'd have preferred not to be lost in. Still, I reasoned while remaining moving, if we followed the train line away from the mountain it would lead us into town. With no better suggestions (apart from not going exploring with Welsh people again), Ranj agreed. Sure enough we soon reached the cathedral, a concrete creation inspired by early NASA space capsules, that wasn't likely to make many postcards. Even its seperate concrete bell tower in the carpark left it a far cry from the Corcovado staring down on it from the mountain. "A reflection of the changing position of Catholism in Brazil?" I mused rather deeply, while lining up a picture of the two. Damn I can be so intelligent sometimes!!
On through the bustling cobbled streets, the lunchtime crowds were gathered to watch a man put his performing chowowowoa, resplendent in a blue sparkling waistcoat, through its routine of balancing and rolling a small drum (I did confirm the breed with those in the know, but not the spelling). To maximise my excitement of the moment, and to stave off hunger, I bought a churros from one of the street vendors. This was a long, thin, ribbed donut rolled in sugar and then filled down the centre with what can best be described as honey flavoured peanut butter. Like the perfoming dog it was sweet and enjoyable for a while, but ultimately left me dying for a drink. With this in mind we headed for the area marked on my map as 'outdoor cafes and political discussion'.
Sure enough, opposite the deep yellow library a man was ranting into a microphone about the exploitation of gifted chowowoas. As a lone saxophonist rose above the general chatter of the square, I ate octopus and cabbage risotto, drank liquidised banana and watched a heavily tanned grey haired man in his late 60's pretending to throw beer at passing pedestrians. Reactions followed a similar pattern of shock, confusion and then pity, before patting him on the shoulder and walking away. Quickly. After a while he saw us looking on and tried to sell us a fake beer glass, at which point we realised we weren't going to be smiling extras on a Brazilian Candid Camera, and left.
Further down Av. Rio Branco, I stopped to buy more film and found a man playing passers-by at draughts to earn money. His current game was looking particularly tense so I didn't stay long. The exploring ended at the north end of Proque do Flemengo. Bordered on one side by the parked planes from the city airport, the tranquil waters featured the white and yellow long reflections of old yaughts and scooners, while further along a dozen local teenagers fished off the jetty - and judging by the smell there were plenty of fish to be had. Back at the bus station with time to kill, we ventured into the neighbouring market where every stall that didn't sell sunglasses or food offered watches at "a special price".
And while we're waiting for a bus, let me take a moment to tell you about them. The guidebook describes them as "clean, frequent, safe and well-used", all of which is true. However, it doesn't mention they have square wheels and are driven by men considered too unstable to be racing car drivers. These men have no concept of gear changing, clutch control or rights of way. And as I'm clearly still managing the finner points of balance I have been sent spinning down the bus on braking, been trapped in the turnstiles on accelerating and been spilled all over a poor innocent lady when rounding a bend. And this is assuming you catch one, as they only stop at a bus stop if you signal (well, if they see your signal which is not always easy when they have their hands over their eyes in heavy traffic), and you can flag them down at unofficial stopping places identified only by collections of random locals stood by the side of the road - which in Rio ain't a great clue. And you're not even safe from street vendors on the bus, as while naive ones will try and sell through open windows while you're stopped at major junctions, the clever ones give a free sample to the driver then hop onboard while the bus is in heavy traffic. And if you are too slow getting to the front of the bus, the driver will get bored and drive off. So considering I had 2 rucsacs, a torn hamstring and hence little balance, my trip to the airport next day was always going to be clean and safe, but far from graceful or painless. But before that, I had to contend with a morning crisis...
None of my new 'chip included' credit cards were being accepted anywhere. Certainly not in the ATM's. Or the phones, so I couldn't ring the bank to move money to my cash card account, nor Dave to get his money transferred, nor Caroline to tell her where we could meet on the train. And they weren't working on my early morning attempts to buy a pair of sandals (I'm getting into the traveler look, but draw the line this side of flip-flops) for £5 rather than £35 once I returned to the US. I had 18 Reals left, which were needed for bag storage and buses, thus leaving me with no money, no food, no sandals and no Copacobana yet!
I was leaving Brazil in a similar flap to the one I arrived in, but with 3 hours before I had to be at the airport, I put off the mounting financial crisis and boarded a bus for Copacabana. The black and white tiled promenade featured joggers, powerwalkers and strollers, though too often they were in barely more than speedos and trainers - there was tragically a bit too much jigging in their jogging. Every 50 yards there were straw huts selling beer and coconuts, and offering chairs and parasols as further restbite from the sun. Down by the water a deeply tanned group played 'keep up', using every conceivable body part to stop the black spotted ball from getting wet. Elsewhere sunbathers sat, lay and stood facing in every direction to ensure that the required piece of flesh received sufficient attention as they chatted. As for me, a barefoot stroll through the sand and surf saw me back on a bus and starting my long journey north.
Or so I thought, because back in Botofogo my temporary financial crisis awaited, and I now needed an alternative to Plan C, as despite the warm "American Express Welcome" sign above reception, mine apparently was not. Plan D was quickly hatched, but having negotiated my way past a lady breast feeding her baby to reach the door of Banco Real, I discovered that like all the others I'd tried, they too wouldn't accept anything other than their own cards. Plans E (point and say "what's that" while running the other way) and F (look smug and say calmly "beam me up Scotty") were quickly discredited before Plan G, to dig out my MasterCard pin no and track down the rumored Citibank, was launched. Success!! Only 20 minutes behind schedule I clutched real (sorry, Real) money, and was able to pay my debts and run. Not that I was in a hurry to leave Rio, but I had a bus, plane, bus, plane, taxi, train and another train to string together in the next 36 hours if I was to reach New Orleans before Christmas. And (obviously) there wasn't a whole lot of breathing space in the schedule...
Planes, trains and automobiles...
While Rio provides the illusion of landing in water, with the runway covering the full extent of the peninsula, Sao Paulo City airport provides an altogether different joyride. As I watched the huge sprawl of towerblocks become ever closer (bigger), I became convinced that the huge population had led to them to build on the runway in the 4 days since I (and more importantly, the pilot) had left.
Surprisingly there was still space to land, though barely space to move as following the 40 minute flight it then took 90 minutes to get across the city to the international airport. But having enjoyed the sun firing the tower blocks orange and then mauve in the evening rushhour, I then faced a nail biting wait while William ("Sir, the flight to Miami has been cancelled") chattered into a walkie-talkie between breaking the bad news to other customers. Apparently this time a bird had flown into one of the engines of our plane, and it had had to land on 3 engines (the plane not the bird). 40 minutes later, when he was getting fed up of tripping over my bottom lip, William got the green light and I was only a now familiar run through the airport, an initial screening, check-in, passport control and further screening at the gate away from the plane. Far from reassuring, all the repeated questions about bags and bombs was making me nervous as I squashed myself into the narrow middle of the plane seat, with the small shared screen just about visible with the unsupplied telescope. With seats quickly reclined, several elbows were thrown over dinner while the bloke on my left kept blessing himself, as a distraction from his own fidgeting. Needless to say it was a long flight - I really must tell United to stop bumping me to American.
Encouragingly the plane touched down on time, and I had no problem getting back into the US (given the teaching kids nature of my visa, I'd expected at least a bit of trouble flying in to Miami from South America in the middle of the night), and was soon in a cab to the Amtrak station. It was already hot and sticky as I debated American immigration policy with the taxi driver. He delivered me on time too, as did the train to Orlando (a first before or since), and I made the connection to New Orleans. I even ran into Caroline on the train!
I'd done it, stringing together a journey that defied my limited planning abilities. To recap, I caught the 438 bus (the one with square wheels) from the Rio hostel to Santos Dumas airport, then with a quick jog the 3.35pm Varig flight to Sao Paulo. The 5pm transfer bus saw me at the international airport by 6.30pm, where I boarded the rearranged 9.25pm AA flight that arrived in Miami at 4.40am. A taxi to the Amtrak station got me there 40 minutes early for the 7am to Orlando, from where I caught the 1.15pm train to New Orleans. That arrived at 10am next morning, but I'm now ahead of myself as that last train was most entertaining
Amtrak FM.
Our train crew were clearly rejects from a local radio station, led by 'Marvelous Marvin' in the lounge snack bar who played cool tunes before each announcement and finished each sentence with "ladies and gentleman". Stephan (pronounced Stef-arn in an odd French accent) in the dining car was more Radio 2 with his mellow announcements while the Chief of Services managed to personally mention everyone who has ever even seen a train when saying how they all thanked us for choosing Amtrak. Feeling hungry Caroline and I pushed the boat out and headed for Stephan's Dining Car, where "dining is in the community style and if you have less than 4 in your party you will be seated with others. This is a good way to meet your fellow travelers". Sure enough we were seated with a retired couple from Arizona, for whom New Orleans was the last stop on a trip that began in New York. Later that evening Marvelous Marvin was on the intercom again to clear up a misunderstanding. "Please note we only have the items you can see. If it's on the menu, but not visible, we don't have it. What you see is what we have, ladies and gentlemen". With all this excitement (oh, and the fact that Caroline had knicked the window seat and then fidgeted more than the baby in front), sleeping proved uncharacteristically tricky. However over breakfast when I announced "I feel like I haven't slept all night" I got the reply "I think the people who heard you snoring may disagree".
Good news, it's still raining...
By lunchtime we had arrived in Noo Orlins and settled in to the hostel, an 'interesting' place with wooden bunks, mattresses still in their plastic covers, colourful cartoons on the walls, dance music and broken sofas in the lounge, and an open air walk to the toilets. Oh, and two pet alligators. I'm told the phrase is 'Bohemian'. Still the roof wasn't leaking, and a cunning mattress switch saw me with a suitable place to lay my head. My impressions of the place weren't helped by meeting Mark from Manchester, who was "travelling until I get bored". He had ditched 3 bags in Jacksonville, bought a bike and started cycling coast-to-coast (2 hours in Jacksonville can do that to you). However by Tallihasse he realised he hadn't done enough training for such an excursion, and boarded a train. His big tip for New Orleans was "don't ride your bike here", and the oil covering his hands and legs supported his claim that he'd already had 2 punctures that day. When I pressed him on where to go in New Orleans he added that he "hadn't really been anywhere yet" in his 2 days there, but just like the littlest hobo it was still time for him to move on.
We also headed out, and following a long walk into town (we didn't try that again), it started lashing down with rain 'forcing' us to seek shelter in a bar. The local Tulane University was playing baseball in the Collegiate World Series, and there was a queue for the phone, so we pulled up a cocktail and joined the locals. Indeed when I later returned from calling home, Caroline had befriended Victor an art dealer who rides "in one of the main crews" at the carnival each year. He sportingly offered to take us around a few watering holes, but with the on-going rain we settled in Pat O'Briens, apparently the most famous bar on the grounds of its flaming fountain (impressive) and its Mint Julep drinks (less so). Pat also offered two middle-aged women playing requests on matching grand pianos. The Beatles, Jimmy Buffett and Gillan were all there providing a sing-a-long finish to the first day.
Next morning I awoke to the musty, woodworm, sweaty, stale smells and humid temperature of the hostel. Most inmates were already up (or not yet back), but my head, jaw, teeth, back and hamstring aches were slowing up me somewhat. Learning from yesterday, we took the bus into town for brunch in Cafe du Monde. While a saxophone player worked to get the atmosphere going, the staff 'worked' to lose it through painfully slow service and a 'clear you own table' policy. Everyone was there for the bienettes, which are donuts with humungous amounts on icing sugar over them. It was everywhere, and very tasty. Determined to continue the cultural tour we walked down to the riverbank, only to get soaked again watching the tankers and hence were driven into the bars on Bourbon Street for 'shelter'. Bourbon Street is Soho, Covent Garden and Rhyl seafront all rolled into one. Even at 3 in the afternoon you can see drunk people dancing, singing, downing shots and sporting blue and white Bourbon Street ponchos. Shots are sold in test tubes, cocktails in handgrenade-shaped bottles and music (though rarely jazz) pumps from every doorway. It also featured several scam artists who proved not everything in my Lonely Planet was out of date by trying the "I know where you got them shoes" line. The idea is you confidently bet they don't know, before they reply "you got them shoes on your feet in Bourbon Street". They apparently have several large 'witnesses' should you dispute the bet.
Our tour that day took us into The Blues Company to benefit from their 3-for-1 deal, and back out again when the boy and girl rapping over the top of CD's quickly wore thin. Fortunately on Bourbon Street you can not only drink on the street, but carry drinks into other bars. We ended up, not for the last time, in The Famous Door watching a band and drinking beer. The All-Stars band, who's "don't try and keep up with the band's drinking" boast was very sensible advice featured Santana and Hewie Lewis (or at least close look-a-likes), sounded like the Bare Naked Ladies and played Prince, Cameo, Run DMC and Stevie Wonder songs all in one set. All without slowing their drinking, and it was only 4.30 in the afternoon. Legends.
Meanwhile it was still raining, so much so that the newspaper headline was "Enough already", before going on to report that the airport had seen 10.5 inches of rain in the last 4 days. The paper also announced "Labor win 2nd term", but after initial gratitude at finally seeing some election coverage (4 days late), I then spent a good hour ranting about how disgusting it was that "the Americans can't even be bothered to spell a name right in case their readers don't understand". Once I'd calmed down, we attempted to see beyond Bourbon Street and took a walk around the French Quarter. Many of the buildings featured wonderful iron balconies, usually with brightly coloured plants trained around them. However straying just beyond the Quarter, the buildings quickly became more shabby, to the point where in the damp it had an 'old local swimming baths' feel.
Back on Bourbon Street we went to see 'Big' Al Carson, "485 pounds of pure rhythum and blues". The biggest star was in the smallest venue, squeezed up on the stage pumping out some great tunes through each of his 5 sets. Up and down the street outside people on balconies were throwing chains of beads down to any woman who would take her top off. The crowds were big, and several video cameras were poised, but business was slow. There again it was rather chilly.
Having concertedly ignored the call of the church bells at 9am, I obeyed the 10.30 calling and crawled out of bed to join the congregation in praying for "no loss of property or life during this hurricane season" - not normally a problem in the Tooting parish. From there we took a stroll around the (wet) Louis Armstrong Park before grabbing a coffee at the "World Famous" Clover Grill, or 'the little gay diner' as it became known on the grounds of its decor and waiters. Here the menu was quick to lay down a few rules such as "We don't eat in your bed, so don't sleep at our table". It ended with the customer appreciation statement "Everyone brings happiness into this business, some when they come in, others when they leave". For my part, having now dried off I ordered a large ice cream and headed out to get wet again.
And so to Caroline's camera drama... Having taken several pictures of her new 'special' friend in Fort Lauderdale, she was keen to finish the film and have it developed. However fate chose that day to jam the camera forcing a hurried trip to AandE at the photo shop. Opening the film door and trying to prize it out with a screw driver proved hopeless (despite all 3 of us having a go), leaving Caroline with one further option - dismantling the camera on the counter. Expensive yes, but apparently worth it. While the assistant was happy to provide tools for me to perform surgery Caroline looked on anxiously as the film eventually came out in pieces (much like the camera). However our plucky heroine still asked "can you develop it anyway"? The results weren't pretty.
That night we had dinner at Pierre Antoine's (fitting I felt in the French Quarter), where we were served by middle-aged men in matching moustache's and shorts. The food was excellent, but the '15% service included' didn't include a smile so we waited until they were clearing up and then ordered another drink. Outside the rain was getting heavier (our taxi driver told us the 10.5 inches at the airport "was nothing"), tourists sported ponchos, locals umbrellas and the fool hardy merely the drowned rat look (myself included). By 1am Bourbon Street was a river, the curbs were flooded and even the ardent puddle jumpers were soaked. So regrettably we did the only sensible thing. We found a bar still open, a band still drinking and playing, and joined them. As gutter holes provided pedestrian power showers and the neon lights glistened in the rising waters, the hotdog sellers huddled under umbrellas by their sausage-shaped stands and we rode out the storm - and our time in New Orleans - in the bar.
