A friend told me at the start of this trip that beans in Brazil are the business. They are, but buses in Brazil are the business. Six hours from São Paulo to Rio felt like a quick jaunt, with food, TV, and seats that recline almost vertically. I unwittingly stumbled on one of Brazils scores of holiday weekends, ( I think theres a day in July they actually work), and got stung for a colonial style hotel for my first night, with a modern-day price tag. Even worse, I got stuck with 3 Oxford twats, on a break from working in the city, but unfortunately hadn't left there laddish ways behind them. I finally lost them in the hustle and bustle of Lapa nightlife, but after every non-Carioca I had met, warned me against Rio, I was too worried to enjoy the night on my own.
I needn't have been. Rio has cleaned up its act completely, and in the tourist areas there are police on every corner. I moved to a hostel in Copacabana, and heard some bad mugging stories, but in general a bit of self-awareness is all thats needed here. The hostel was great, and I finally had a taste of the real mochileiro experience, which involves all going to the same places, and staying in the same hostels, because the Lonely Planet guide told them to. Don't get me wrong, this type of travel is brilliant, especially if you don't have the native language, and the travelling stories you hear in the hostels are mad:
'Yeah, I quit my job in finance on Monday, broke up with my boyfriend of 4 years on Wednesday, and bought a round-the-world ticket on Friday", was one typical example.
One of the 'native' experiences the hostel arranged was a night out at a favela funk party. We were shuttled there and back, and had a VIP area where European girls wouldn't have their hair pulled by the over-eager lads, but down on the dancefloor it was every man for himself, just like the nearby City of God, (the film of which was partly filmed in this very club). The music was terrible, and really just an excuse for the Brazilians to bump and grind all over each other, but it was a good laugh, and gave a nice end to a rainy day in Rio.
Unfortunately, the clouds didn't clear for my trip up Cristo Redentor, and to be honest the staute in Cochabamba in Bolivia was probably nicer. At least it didn't have a hundred idiots around its base, arms outstretched, waiting for a picture from their obese other half. They looked like a squadron of spitfires. (A picture of me at the base, arms outstretched, will be uploaded soon). We each paid 43 reals to get up there too. Mugs get mugged, shocker. The transport in general around Rio is great though. The Metro is clean, air-conditioned and roomy, and the buses are cheap, safe and plentiful. The city is expensive, but so it should be when it's this beautiful. A case in point was Copacabana beach, which I hit with gusto when the weather cleared. Beautiful clean crashing water, with white soft sand, and all the cheap sunglasses and tat you could want from vendors. Whoever claimed I was an Ipanema man had his head up his ass.
But even the non-beachy areas are lovely. The centre is like any city-centre business district, and Lapa and Santa Teresa have their charms too. The Lapa steps were started in 1990 by a Chilean guy who just started tiling and mosaicing a back alley stairs. No-one said anything, and he's still there, tiling away and selling terrible drawings to tourists. He asked where I'm from and when I said Ireland, he replied: 'I met Bono a few years ago, I didn't like him', and went back to drawing a cat or a tree or a postbox or something. We also got a trip out of the hostel to the Carioca semi-final between Vasco and Flamengo. Ronaldinho was in flying-form, as was Wagner Love, but Vasco edged a 3-2 thriller. Unfortunately the Maracana is getting a facelift, but the smaller Engenhão stadium gave for a great atmosphere.
An overbooked hostel, and my brother's recommendation made me leave Rio for Ilha Grande, but it was with a heavy heart. On my last day I finally did the sugarloaf, and what a sight I got. Just as both the sun and my sundowner were disappearing, and I was thinking this could be one of the most perfect moments of my life, I heard the posh English accents behind me. The Oxford twats. Not to worry, perfection doesn't exist anyway, but that was pretty close.
So Guillermo, the Argentinian hippies and I arrived in Ilha grande for the international Zouk dancing conference...wait, thats the start of another story.
Cheerio.
Alex
I needn't have been. Rio has cleaned up its act completely, and in the tourist areas there are police on every corner. I moved to a hostel in Copacabana, and heard some bad mugging stories, but in general a bit of self-awareness is all thats needed here. The hostel was great, and I finally had a taste of the real mochileiro experience, which involves all going to the same places, and staying in the same hostels, because the Lonely Planet guide told them to. Don't get me wrong, this type of travel is brilliant, especially if you don't have the native language, and the travelling stories you hear in the hostels are mad:
'Yeah, I quit my job in finance on Monday, broke up with my boyfriend of 4 years on Wednesday, and bought a round-the-world ticket on Friday", was one typical example.
One of the 'native' experiences the hostel arranged was a night out at a favela funk party. We were shuttled there and back, and had a VIP area where European girls wouldn't have their hair pulled by the over-eager lads, but down on the dancefloor it was every man for himself, just like the nearby City of God, (the film of which was partly filmed in this very club). The music was terrible, and really just an excuse for the Brazilians to bump and grind all over each other, but it was a good laugh, and gave a nice end to a rainy day in Rio.
Unfortunately, the clouds didn't clear for my trip up Cristo Redentor, and to be honest the staute in Cochabamba in Bolivia was probably nicer. At least it didn't have a hundred idiots around its base, arms outstretched, waiting for a picture from their obese other half. They looked like a squadron of spitfires. (A picture of me at the base, arms outstretched, will be uploaded soon). We each paid 43 reals to get up there too. Mugs get mugged, shocker. The transport in general around Rio is great though. The Metro is clean, air-conditioned and roomy, and the buses are cheap, safe and plentiful. The city is expensive, but so it should be when it's this beautiful. A case in point was Copacabana beach, which I hit with gusto when the weather cleared. Beautiful clean crashing water, with white soft sand, and all the cheap sunglasses and tat you could want from vendors. Whoever claimed I was an Ipanema man had his head up his ass.
But even the non-beachy areas are lovely. The centre is like any city-centre business district, and Lapa and Santa Teresa have their charms too. The Lapa steps were started in 1990 by a Chilean guy who just started tiling and mosaicing a back alley stairs. No-one said anything, and he's still there, tiling away and selling terrible drawings to tourists. He asked where I'm from and when I said Ireland, he replied: 'I met Bono a few years ago, I didn't like him', and went back to drawing a cat or a tree or a postbox or something. We also got a trip out of the hostel to the Carioca semi-final between Vasco and Flamengo. Ronaldinho was in flying-form, as was Wagner Love, but Vasco edged a 3-2 thriller. Unfortunately the Maracana is getting a facelift, but the smaller Engenhão stadium gave for a great atmosphere.
An overbooked hostel, and my brother's recommendation made me leave Rio for Ilha Grande, but it was with a heavy heart. On my last day I finally did the sugarloaf, and what a sight I got. Just as both the sun and my sundowner were disappearing, and I was thinking this could be one of the most perfect moments of my life, I heard the posh English accents behind me. The Oxford twats. Not to worry, perfection doesn't exist anyway, but that was pretty close.
So Guillermo, the Argentinian hippies and I arrived in Ilha grande for the international Zouk dancing conference...wait, thats the start of another story.
Cheerio.
Alex
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