Odds and sods

While reading back over my blogs today to find out what I had not yet shared, I found that there is a lot. Also, I must apologise for typos and poor grammar and edit my work better in future. Then again, I’m on holidays and there are better things to do than spend time in front of a computer. You know what I mean anyway, don’t you?

This week’s blog will be a collection of odds and sods. As there are no appropriate segues (thank you Claus for correcting my spelling from an earlier blog - I knew it looked wrong), I will use sub-headings. I promise it will get more exciting from here.

Sights visited and culinary adventures
Today I visited Ipanema. I didn’t see THE girl (apparently she is still hanging around in a boutique somewhere thereabouts) but there were certainly many tall and tanned and lovely others walking about. I was compelled to sigh - the song is a true story. Every guide book I have read informs me that Cariocas (residents of Rio) are very health and body conscious. Certainly if you walk the length of Copacabana (which I have now also done a couple of times), you see buffed and beauteous specimens of humanity baring almost all and either strutting down the promenade or demonstrating their glories on the many workout stations lining the beach. It’s enough to make one feel positivity flabby and dash to the nearest McDonalds for some comfort food.

Oddly enough, my culinary adventures lead me to suspect that “health” and “body conscious” are falsely used interchangeably. I say that not because I have visited every restaurant and eaten in every home but just from casual observations since my arrival. (As usual, my opinions are based on solid evidence.) What I have observed is a diet that I suspect might send most nutritionists into cardiac arrest. Lots of meat, lots of carbs (rice and black beans, served together, are a staple), lots of cheese, lots of creamy sauces, LOADS of sugar and very few vegetables. And large portions - close to American sized portions. In particular, sugar is everywhere. Not just in the absolutely delicious fruits (of which there is an astounding variety and quality) but in bread, pastries (lots and lots and lots of pastries), cakes, desserts. There are dessert carts almost as commonly spaced as magazine kiosks (more on that later).

And lucky for me that they are so sugar obsessed because I love dessert. Today I ate lunch at Gula Gula in Ipanema, recommended by the ever-chic Wallpaper City Guide and described as ‘low calorie, high nutrition’. I’m not sure how an apricot and brie quiche can be low calorie but I chose to believe them. And because I did, I allowed myself dessert - chocolate gateau. But seriously. This chocolate gateau was not just heavenly - it was crisis inducing. Pack your bags immediately all of you. This cake alone is worth the trip to Rio. I am not exaggerating, regardless of the fact that I normally do. This time, I’m really not.

Bookshops and Magazine Kiosks
Bookshops here are like a box of chocolates - you never know what you’re going to get. More to the point, you have no real idea where to find it (unless of course if you’re buying in Portugese in which case you will have no problems at all and can disregard this part of the blog). Foolishly, I expected bookshops might have a foreign language section where you could helpfully browse the titles that they stock in your language of choice, perhaps helpfully labelled “foreign language section” or the (less helpfully) Portugese equivalent. Clearly that is just my logic.

Fiction books in English are stocked in an area labelled “pocket books”. Babelfish gone wrong? Non-fiction books are stocked in their relevant sections. Except business and religion, which are genres that have no English titles and self-help, which doesn’t exist as a genre at all. Which is a shame because I really like self-help, especially when I am traveling and have plenty of time to brood and navel-gaze. (Admitting I actually like self-help books feels similar to how my friend (who shall remain nameless in case he comes to his senses) must have felt when he publicly admitted he liked Sarah Palin.) So, many an hour can be happily spent in bookshops scouring the shelves for that one English-language history book or cookbook. Ironically, there are always many more English titles to choose from in the travel section.

Speaking of choices, Brazilians must devour magazines by the truckload. There are tens if not hundreds of titles to choose from and there are magazine kiosks selling them (I kid you not) at least every 50 yards. It’s quite astonishing. I’m really not sure what to make of it. Maybe I just won’t puzzle over it anymore.

Buses
Bus stops in Rio are worthy of a mention if for no other reason than you have to be very lucky (or a local) to find one. I recently went to meet a friend in Copacabana and he kindly sent instructions to “catch the 464 bus to Barata Robeiro”. Easy for him to say. I’d happily catch the bus if I could work out where the bus stop is.

Admittedly, in some parts of Rio there are actual bus stops. But these are few and far between. More commonly, there are two other ways of catching a bus:
flag one down where ever you happen to be (this is not always a successful strategy)
look for a loose congregation of people standing on the side of a road not talking to each other - this is likely to be a bus stop.

On the up-side, buses are cheap, frequent and prolific so it is worth mastering the system. Such as it is.

I no speak-a your language
I admit I’m not really trying to learn Portugese. I fear linguistics will interfere with my right-brain dancing experiment so I am resisting organised efforts to learn the language (such as memorising my phrasebook or taking lessons or actually committing to remembering words). Given this, I probably don’t have a right to complain about how hard it is but, don’t worry, that isn’t going to stop me.

Portugese is hard. I speak a couple of languages well and can stutter and butcher my way through a couple more but this one is very tricksy. For a start, it sounds closer to a slavic tongue than Spanish. This should be helpful with my slavic origins but I’m afraid it just short-circuits my brain. When I first arrived in Salvador airport I was bemused at why there were so many Russian tourists in Brazil. Now of course, I can hear the difference but there are still some startling similarities. For example, “proxima” which is used to invite the next person in the queue to come forward, sounds remarkably like a “Russianised” Polish word for “please”. It actually means “next” (or it an mean near - go figure) but I hope you can understand my confusion.

Secondly, pronunciation is quite difficult. For a start, there are various regional accents. OK, there are in English as well but apart from aluminium and aluminum, we largely all pronounce words similarly enough. Here, for example, an “s” may be pronounced as an “s” or as a “sh”. It is unclear which is the proper or correct pronunciation. In typical Brazilian “whatever” style (they don’t stress about much, these people), if you press them, they tell you the correct way is whatever is the opposite of the one they use.

Thirdly, reading. An “r” can be pronounced as a rolling “r” (as in Gloria) or as a “h” (as in Barra) or be silent (as in Largo). A “t” can be a normal “t” or a “chee”. Catete has both - Catechee. Confused? I also.

Still, I must be doing something right. I have mastered “I don’t speak Portugese” so well that several times I have been argued with that surely I do. No, really. I don’t but I continue to try. Yoda would be disappointed and point out there is no try. I bet he never attempted Portugese.

Dangers
One of the biggest dangers in Rio (or at least in Santa Teresa) is electricity wires and it is simply because they hang so low. So low that even I have stopped eye-level with some. I’m surprised that there are not more incidences of garroting or electrocution here. Then again, maybe there are and I just don’t know about them because I can’t read the newspaper.

In regards to hearing “news”, I am in a happier place when I don’t know about it. For example, I recently found out that on the weekend a French tourist fell to his death off the Bondhe (tram) as it went over the Lapa arches and was subsequently robbed at the bottom by the homeless kids that live under the arches.


The street kids are a sad reality here in Rio. Homelessness is sad regardless but when it is children, it is even worse. In the mid 90s, there were so many street kids sleeping on the steps of the Cathedral, that the police came in and shot them en masse. I asked several Cariocas about this incident. Alarmingly, they typically gave a shrug of the shoulders and explained that the kids had been making a nuisance of themselves for years, making life nearly impossible for traders and shop keepers in the area. I find it impossible to comprehend that a mass execution of anyone, let alone children, would be considered a suitable solution under any circumstances. But there you go - it happened here.

Mind you, I do not understand why and how they are homeless in the first place but so they are. And I may be Pollyanna, but I don’t think it’s right. I’d like this to change. Ideally, they would be found a loving home and given a chance at schooling. Realistically, I think they need to be occupied by earning legitimate money instead of relying on theft or begging. I read in that in Curitiba street kids are employed by the city government to tend public parks and gardens. I think that in Rio, they would make excellent cut price “tour guides”.

Tim Ferris (author) claims to have a system of learning language that enables conversational level language to be learned in 4 weeks. Imagine if they could quickly learn, say English, and then be organised through hotels to accompany tourists to wherever they want to go and act as defacto translators. The tourists would get the benefit of affordable assistance (Rio is not an ‘easy-travel’ city for non-Portugese speakers, so there is definitely a need). Meanwhile, the kids could have income, plus they would get exposure to places (and therefore a kind of life) that they wouldn’t normally be able to have. How often would a street kid go into a museum or art gallery? How often would they be able to communicate with people from other places and learn about different ways of life? Along with the inducement to “stay out of trouble” by having regular income, they could have their horizons expanded and therefore a chance to imagine a different life to the one they are now consigned to. Most importantly, they would have a language skill which could then give them entry into other positions - in the hospitality industry, as language teachers, as city ambassadors. Given Brazil has some major events coming up - notably the World Cup and the Olympics - having these children helping rather than hindering would be a win-win for everyone. Anyone have better ideas? Or else anyone know how I can get some traction for this idea?

Soul Sisters and Blues Brothers

Pick up your dictionary and look up happiness. Somewhere in there you’ll find Paraty. It also makes an appearance under quaint, cool and funtastic. And if it’s not, throw away your dictionary because it knows nothing.

I have just returned from a three-day blues, jazz, soul and R&B festival. It promised all that and delivered in spades. The music was sublime. Two stages - one in the historic square and the other by the water’s edge and a full program that ended in the wee hours of the morning. Very wee - I abandoned Friday night’s program at 2 am before the last band started, Saturday’s program ended around 4 am and Sunday’s ended a smidge earlier at 3 am. The best thing (apart from the music, the atmosphere, dancing, festivities etc) was that it was all free. How cool does a town council have to be to invest in such an event?! And one suspects their investment would have paid off because the town was packed to the rafters. I’m sad that next week I will miss the 18th Annual Prawn Festival and the Literary Festival (unrelated) because if the last two festivals I’ve participated in are anything to go by, there will be a whole lot of hootenanny going on. And everyone knows I love a good hootenanny.

I also love the fact that in Brazil, as well as music, love is all around. People are snogging everywhere you go. Not just an arm casually draped over your beloved and a quick peck. Out and out making out. It’s just excellent. All ages. All appearances. With children or sans. Entire families (actually, it seems like villages) turn out for these festivals. From babies to grandparents, everyone comes along and everyone is busy dancing and being festive. And whoever is coupled-up is also loved up. It’s a beautiful thing. There’s a lot of love in this room.

Speaking of love in rooms, if you are looking for a room in Brazil, don’t go to a motel unless you want to rent it by the hour. Hotels, poussadas and hostels are for sleeping in (well, hostels are only good for sleeping if you are very tolerant of noise and discomfort but I digress); motels are for loving in. The rooms usually come complete with toys and other accoutrements. No point saying “I don’t know where that’s been” - am I the only one grossed out by the thought of using someone else’s intimate accessories?

Back to gingerbread Paraty, as well as the festival proper there were street bands, buskers and a selection of high quality artisans of every description. This at least is one thing that is cheap in Brazil - the arts. There is an abundance of talented musicians, artists and performers and the arts are highly accessible and well patronised by the Brazilians. Just another thing that is loveable about this place. For a very small town, there is a remarkably long list. Shopping in Paraty is fabulous - the usual tourist kitsch is available but in between are a dozens of shops showcasing local artistic talents in clothing, jewelry, art and handicrafts. And last but not least, there is the food. As well as local fare, we indulged in credible Thai and I found an Italian restaurant (with chic black and white French decor) that created sheer culinary bliss. The Torta di Frutti was so delicious I had tears in my eyes eating it. I believe I have found heaven - it’s at Pippo in Paraty.

So what does one do after a perfect weekend of music and entertainment? Chillax on a boat cruise of course. Back on the Banzay, we once again sailed the islands and coves. The views are so picturesque my eyes hurt. I can’t do them justice in words or even pictures. You’ll just have to come to Paraty and find out for yourself.

Quirks, perks and other adventures

Stephen Wills of Adelaide fame has visited me in the last couple of days and he and I have been discussing the numerous quirks we have encountered in our travels. One of the great joys of traveling is discovering new perspectives and new ideas. With that, comes the necessary discovery of various local quirks. Often these are trivial matters but as they usually provide a few moments of entertainment, I might as well share them.

For example, toilet paper in this country is not flushed down the toilet. It’s deposited in a bin next to the toilet. Wipe and chuck, not wipe and flush lest you block the drains.

Time is a relative. Stephen and I went to the ballet on Friday at the stunning Belle Epoque Theatro Municipal for an 8pm performance that started at around 8.20-ish. My dance classes yesterday were in theory from 4.30 to 5.30 and then 5.30 to 6.30. The last class actually finished minutes before 7.30. Bed time for children is whenever they feel like it, except on Wednesdays when it is mandatorily later than usual because of the futebol. On Wednesdays no one sleeps. Not just the cariocas for whom futebol is a religious experience but also us indifferent tourists who have learned that trying to sleep in the face of the cheering and fireworks is futile. Lucky for me I have a stunning view of the city and can at least watch the fireworks from my hammock.

The word for ‘hi’ is ‘oi’. It’s also used for getting the attention of waiters and such. When you walk down the street and someone exclaims a spirited “oi” they aren’t being rude or marking a prelude to a stern talking to (as I thought for the first few days). This one is taking some getting used to.

As in many countries where the government does not rule with an iron fist of regulations, driving is more a game of survival of the fittest than just getting from A to B. Speed restrictions, road rules and staying in one lane are optional extras. Indicating with limbs protruding out of vehicles is not unusual. On the upside, less regulations mean that you don’t have to wear a seatbelt in the back (oh, goody, in an accident I get to die and maybe kill the driver in the process) and you can ride a bicycle without a helmet. It seems ironic that the places where you can do things with impunity are exactly the kinds of places you wouldn’t really want to do them precisely because everybody else is also doing everything else with impunity.

While it is nice to be out of a nanny state, I do appreciate some of the benefits of having rules, regulations and taxes. Footpaths are an obvious benefit (even in Adelaide where they are responsible for more early shoe retirements than bad manufacturing and the vagaries of fashion combined). Here, the footpaths are frequently cobbled or so patched they might as well be cobbled, very narrow, interrupted by large-diameter electricity poles and neighboured by streets where bus drivers seem to make it a personal mission to get close enough to trim your nose hairs. Needless to say, high heels are not an option. Havianas are not just worn because Giselle made them cool and they are cheap, they are worn largely for practical purposes. Stilettos are strictly inside shoes.

Which brings me to cheese. Cheese is unusual here. For some reason, there is an illogical obsession with the Dutch and Swiss-style sweeter varieties. Cheddar does not exist here. The common approach to cheese here seems to be to pile it on thick. Maybe they hope that if your mouth is globbed closed by lots of it, you won’t be able to complain about how bad it tastes.

On the upside, the BBQ restaurants where they bring enormous skewers of charred animal to your table to be sliced onto your plate by machete-wielding waiters are excellent. While personally I prefer to be vegetarian, when in Rome I went Roman for a meal to try the local fare. Must be said I wasn’t sorry. It was delicious.

As well as being able to justify bad food choices, there are other perks to being a tourist. Clubs and bars here come with door charges as a means of paying for the very excellent bands that play. I thought it was normal to pay said charge. Unless you’re Stephen Wills. Then you just say no. Rio can’t be as violent as the guide books say if they let him get away with that sort of thing.

Stay tuned for more adventures - next week I return to Paraty for a jazz and blues festival.

All in a week’s work.....

Wow, what a week it has been!

Firstly, let’s discuss the reason why I’m here: dancing. Although zouk is a dance invented here, very few people seem to have heard of it. When I meet people and they ask why I’m here, they clearly are surprised that I have to come somewhere to learn to dance (here, dancing is like breathing - you just do it and don’t labour the point). Then I have to repeat the dance I’m learning several times and try to describe it for many of them as it is not as run of the mill as I would have believed prior to my arrival. Nevertheless, all that melts away when I walk up the steps of the Nucleo de Danca Renata Recanha where all those present not only dance zouk, they feel it. I am so thoroughly chuffed that I decided to come here to dance - zouk in Brazil is a whole other proposition than learning it in Australia. Back home, we learn steps, then we learn moves (or sequences of steps), then we learn technique, then eventually some may pick up a sense of rhythm (or, as often, not). Here, Renata teaches moves but the bulk of the class is spent dancing. Just dancing. It is not about the steps, it is about the dance. And I love it, love it, love it, love it. Just in case I wasn’t thrilled enough, I’ve also been learning (by default) a much more common Brazilian dance - Forro. Much simpler than zouk, it is lovely to dance and everyone seems to do it. From a club in Rio to a festival in Paraty, I have discovered that Forro is omnipresent and a universal method of having a good time. And it once again has been proven that a girl just needs a strong partner and everything works out all right. Hmmmm.....is there a greater life lesson in this statement.....? Let’s think about that.

Speaking of having a good time, this week has provided them in abundance. Dancing aside, I have also been touring and exploring some amazing sights in Rio and beyond. My brave undies are well and truly doing their job and I have stretched well beyond my comfort zone and plans to take up opportunities as they have arisen.

On Wednesday and Thursday, I joined the effervescent Rafa, along with Kiwis Dave, Bella (aptly named) and Sam (his Latin name is Tryus Anythingus Funasaurus). The story of how I met Rafa is short but worthy of telling. As he tells it, I picked him up in the street. While English is not his first language, he is cheeky enough that I do not believe he is oblivious to the double entendre. Nevertheless, he is technically correct. On my first day in Rio, I bravely wandered as far as the local shop as a means of forcing myself to get out of the apartment and face my fears of the city. Rafa was leading a walking tour and when I heard some English being spoken, I decided to throw caution to the wind and approach the strangers to find out how they came across their tour. Being gregarious and full of beans, Rafa was clearly the kind of tour guide I was looking for. So, a few emails later, he kindly invited me along to join Dave and his two kids for a two day tour of Rio and Niteroi. And what a tour it was! As well as seeing the obvious tourism musts (such as Christ the Redeemer and Sugarloaf), we also had the privilege of going to places only locals know about. It was a very full two days and between the excellent guide, great company and amazing sights, I could go on for more than two full days. I may well re-visit the topic later to provide more details but in the meantime, I know a good blog is a short blog. Two points worthy of attention - Christ the Redeemer is very impressive and Rio’s beaches are paradisaic. No argument from anyone else please - I’ve seen loads of beaches in my time and these ones win. Hands down and surf’s up.

Surf being up is a neat segue to my next adventure. Paraty (pronounced Para-chee) is a four and a half hour bus ride away from Rio along the stunning Costa Verde. A small coastal town, it is a very popular getaway for Cariocas and international tourists alike. It is so very charming, it almost seems like it belongs in a story rather than real life. It was a bit like coming across a gingerbread house - delightful in a slightly surreal way. I travelled there to meet up with my new found friends Alex, Jo, Jens and Thomas. As Jens explained the first day we met, when you’re travelling, friendships develop in fast-forward. You know you’re only in a place for a few days so in order to make friends, you just have to get on with it. And thus we did. Fortunately, we were in Paraty for the biggest festival of the year - the Festival of the Divine Holy Spirit. There was a lot of spirit that’s for sure. I’m not convinced any of it was holy and in my opinion, it doesn’t taste anywhere near divine but a good time was had by all nonetheless. Similar to Carnevale, this festival was ostensibly religious but, with no disrespect intended, I think it is just a good excuse for a 10 day party. People danced well into the night, making merry courtesy of their in-built joi de vivre and the many cachaca vendors, chopp stalls and bars. What a hoot!

The next day, Jens and Thomas departed for Sao Paulo while Alex, Jo and I took a boat cruise around the coast and islands. We lay on loungers up on deck, being waited on hand and foot while from below wafted soft sambas and soothing bossa novas from the lovely Brazilian lady singing to entertain us. And the view - wow. I can’t say much more than that. Just wow. Half way through the trip, the weather soured and we were forced below deck by cold wind and driving rain. Nevermind bad weather - where there’s a guitar, there will be singing and dancing. And so it came to be. Both Jo and I danced a few Forros and I also managed to be reminded of some Samba de Gafiera steps courtesy of a Dutchman whose name I didn’t catch. On a boat cruise in less than favourable conditions, a lesser nation may have called it a day and retired to the harbour. Not in Brazil - when the weather gods handed them lemons, they pulled out the tequila and salt and ramped up the party. I love the attitude of these people! And I love that they dance and sing at every opportunity. This my friends, is what life is all about.