Brazilians don’t appear to be lazy, at least not to my eyes. Unlike at home, there aren’t many people who do absolutely nothing. This might be a product of the welfare system, but even the streetkids juggle to get money. Everyone else is at least trying to sell something, and what they sell varies greatly. I enjoy seeing what people are hawking at the major road junctions. It makes me wonder just how many people set off for work in their cars first thing in the morning and got halfway there before realising ‘Oh no! I’ve forgotten my binoculars! Where the hell can I buy a new pair around here? Aha! What a stroke of luck!’ Or how many of them gnaw their way through the plastic steering wheel covers due to the stress of driving in such a Metropolis. Perhaps the binoculars are to see the front of the traffic jam. One thing I haven’t seen is the (probably male only) drivers portable toilet for use in traffic that I saw in Bangkok. Perhaps I should import some.
It’s not an easy job though, selling glove puppets in the middle of a 10-lane highway, which is probably why the sellers have adapted their tactics. On public transport in Brazil, you will always see at least one seller per journey entering the carriage or the bus, distributing their wares to the passengers, and collecting them up shortly after giving a speech about the benefits of rubber hairbands. I find it hard to understand why people are willing to hold some goabinha for a while without wanting to buy it. Will the smell encourage them to buy it? Personally, I know immediately that I don’t want to buy some chocolate, especially if has been through the hands of 18 different people in the last half an hour in the sweltering heat of the number 856. But at least on the buses it seems possible to travel for free just by pretending to sell some combs. I don’t know if the sellers have licences but they seem to get on at the back without paying. It might take a few trips to complete an already long journey, but at least you can save R2, and maybe even make a bit of money on the side from those combs. Also, you know there is an easy way to get rid of unwanted presents or goods on public transport – a litter of puppies say – if necessary. You can climb on the back, place them on people’s knees, and then make an emotional speech to encourage people to buy something they didn’t realise they wanted.
So don’t be alarmed if, after a power-nap on a Brazilian bus, metro or train, you wake up to find a plastic turtle on wheels on your lap, or a baby crocodile looking up at you with Bambi eyes. It’s all part of a day’s work for the sellers in Brazil.
Friday, 15 December 2006
Tuesday, 5 December 2006
Brazil Places: Ilha de Gigoia
Most visitors to Brazil (and possibly most Brazilians) will never have heard of Ilha de Gigoia, let alone been there. It’s not a very big island – twenty minutes walk will take you right across it. The walk is an easy one as there are only footpaths on the island, no roads or cars. This gives it a tranquil air, one of those places where it’s impossible not to relax with no other noises except birds singing, meat grilling and beer cans being opened around the pool. What may surprise you is that it is possible to get from the island to Leblon or Ipanema in a little over half an hour if the boats are timed right. Because Gigoia is right in the heart of Rio. Or very close to it.
It is one of the largest islands in Lagoa de Tijuca, which lies at the northern end of Barra de Tijuca, around the rocks from Praias Leblon and Pepino, and from the twinkling lights of Rocinha. If you have a car, you leave it at the edge of the laguna. There are boats that transport all the residents from home to work or to the shopping centre and back. This means you get to know the drivers and some of the locals quickly, and feel part of the furniture within a couple of days. It may take a little longer to get where you want to go, but your journey will always start with a smile. You can sit at the Gigoia equivalent of a bus-stop and watch crabs fencing on the roots of the half-submerged trees as you wait. Then you can kick back and watch ducks drift past the boat and clouds drift past the treetops of the Floresta de Tijuca on the hills above you. If you’re staying at a pousada on the island, it’s likely that you’ll be holidaying in the city anyway, so what’s the hurry? Relax, do it Carioca style, arrive when you arrive.
The boats run 24 hours too, so after partying hard for a night, you can sit on the edge of the wooden jetty and dangle your legs over the water while listening for the faint chug that heralds the arrival of the boat from out of the early morning mist, like the ferry for crossing the River Styx. You can also place bets on which driver is taking the graveyard shift this time. All you have to do is to remember the name of the place you’re staying, and you will be deposited right on the private jetty, with only a small risk of falling in amongst the fighting crabs, and tucked up in your bed sucking your thumb in no time. The novelty of arriving at home like this in the middle of one of the world’s great cities won’t wear off if you only stay for a week or less.
It is one of the largest islands in Lagoa de Tijuca, which lies at the northern end of Barra de Tijuca, around the rocks from Praias Leblon and Pepino, and from the twinkling lights of Rocinha. If you have a car, you leave it at the edge of the laguna. There are boats that transport all the residents from home to work or to the shopping centre and back. This means you get to know the drivers and some of the locals quickly, and feel part of the furniture within a couple of days. It may take a little longer to get where you want to go, but your journey will always start with a smile. You can sit at the Gigoia equivalent of a bus-stop and watch crabs fencing on the roots of the half-submerged trees as you wait. Then you can kick back and watch ducks drift past the boat and clouds drift past the treetops of the Floresta de Tijuca on the hills above you. If you’re staying at a pousada on the island, it’s likely that you’ll be holidaying in the city anyway, so what’s the hurry? Relax, do it Carioca style, arrive when you arrive.
The boats run 24 hours too, so after partying hard for a night, you can sit on the edge of the wooden jetty and dangle your legs over the water while listening for the faint chug that heralds the arrival of the boat from out of the early morning mist, like the ferry for crossing the River Styx. You can also place bets on which driver is taking the graveyard shift this time. All you have to do is to remember the name of the place you’re staying, and you will be deposited right on the private jetty, with only a small risk of falling in amongst the fighting crabs, and tucked up in your bed sucking your thumb in no time. The novelty of arriving at home like this in the middle of one of the world’s great cities won’t wear off if you only stay for a week or less.
Wednesday, 29 November 2006
Brazil Journeys: Sao Paulo to Rio de Janeiro
You can do it in an hour, but what a waste. The slower, the better if you take the scenic route along the Costa Verde. Unfortunately for me, I only had two nights to spare. I'd liked to have spent three months going up that coast. We missed out Ilha Bela and hit the Coast at Ubatuba. Even the journey down there from the highway is spectacular, especially if you're fresh of the boat as I was. Trees with beautifully vivid purple and white flowers border the road, in the middle of the Mata Atlantica, with bending roads through the sights and smells of the forest. It's hard to resist stopping every five minutes, but it was Brazil. I needed to feel the sand between my toes and the white water fizzing around my ankles. I needed to be on a beach within 48 hours of quitting work at home. It happened too, and life was Good. Surfing as the sun went down on Praia Grande, eating fresh seafood moqueca later, waking up to my first huge pousada breakfast and trying three or four strange fruits, my first 24 hours in the country was a resounding success.
I drove as well, which wasn't such a shock on the coast road like it would be in the centre of Sampa or Rio. We cruised along, stopping at waterfalls and more pristine beaches, getting advice from the locals and drinking fresh agua de coco.We dragged ourselves onwards to Trinidade, with its Moby Dick rock guarding the beach. More new experiences of Jaca, Açai and Brazilian students on holiday. Like them, we drank beer on the beach, one of life's simplest, simple pleasures. It has to be a good day if you can end it sitting on a beach as the stars come out, and drinking a beer to the sound of waves hitting the shore. What more do you need in life than to be able to do that? If we needed anything else, the trollied locals staggering up and down the beach giggling provided free entertainment.
Time was tight, so we could only afford a quick trip around Paraty next day, but it was enough to appreciate why it always makes it as one of the guidebook photos with its coloured houses on the cobbled streets, and coloured boats in the harbour framed by the dark green hills. Too much great seafood went untasted there. We had to get to Rio before the end of the day. But not without stopping in a tiny bar with a big view. Somewhere at the top of a headland is a sign pointing up a dirt track. Take the dents in the bottom of your car, it's worth it. The bar has shade, cold beer, running water, and a view for miles across the bay and the islands dotting it. Ignore the nuclear power station on the far side, it's enough distance away to not bother you. The owner of the bar may proudly tell you the story of how he built it all from scratch. With his bare hands. All of it.
Big Regret Number 1 of Brazil was not having the time to check out Ilha Grande. Hopefully cars still won't have arrived on the island by the time I eventually get there. It sounds like a good place to get lost for a week or two of nothing. More yellow sand, blue sky, turquoise sea and green trees and too much black tarmac to make it to Rio without eating. We pulled off the highway down into a small town with a beach. It was called The Town That Time Forgot. At one time, it may have been a place to escape from Rio. Now, we had skilfully managed to find the only place along the whole coast that isn't worth stopping in. I've never seen anywhere so out of place among so many other beautiful spots. It looked like an English seaside town in February - empty old fairground rides creaking listlessly in the breeze - but with sun. There were people on the beach sunbathing amongst the litter. We ordered some food from a bar where the people creaked listlessly in the breeze. Some fatty fried meat and very oily chips. At least we had a view of the sea.Not for long. Our view was interrupted by a train. Not just any train, but a rusty goods train heading as reluctantly along the tracks between us and the sea, as the town was heading into the 21st century. It was still passing as we laughed our way out of town, clanking slowly to who knows where. It probably still is.
I drove as well, which wasn't such a shock on the coast road like it would be in the centre of Sampa or Rio. We cruised along, stopping at waterfalls and more pristine beaches, getting advice from the locals and drinking fresh agua de coco.We dragged ourselves onwards to Trinidade, with its Moby Dick rock guarding the beach. More new experiences of Jaca, Açai and Brazilian students on holiday. Like them, we drank beer on the beach, one of life's simplest, simple pleasures. It has to be a good day if you can end it sitting on a beach as the stars come out, and drinking a beer to the sound of waves hitting the shore. What more do you need in life than to be able to do that? If we needed anything else, the trollied locals staggering up and down the beach giggling provided free entertainment.
Time was tight, so we could only afford a quick trip around Paraty next day, but it was enough to appreciate why it always makes it as one of the guidebook photos with its coloured houses on the cobbled streets, and coloured boats in the harbour framed by the dark green hills. Too much great seafood went untasted there. We had to get to Rio before the end of the day. But not without stopping in a tiny bar with a big view. Somewhere at the top of a headland is a sign pointing up a dirt track. Take the dents in the bottom of your car, it's worth it. The bar has shade, cold beer, running water, and a view for miles across the bay and the islands dotting it. Ignore the nuclear power station on the far side, it's enough distance away to not bother you. The owner of the bar may proudly tell you the story of how he built it all from scratch. With his bare hands. All of it.
Big Regret Number 1 of Brazil was not having the time to check out Ilha Grande. Hopefully cars still won't have arrived on the island by the time I eventually get there. It sounds like a good place to get lost for a week or two of nothing. More yellow sand, blue sky, turquoise sea and green trees and too much black tarmac to make it to Rio without eating. We pulled off the highway down into a small town with a beach. It was called The Town That Time Forgot. At one time, it may have been a place to escape from Rio. Now, we had skilfully managed to find the only place along the whole coast that isn't worth stopping in. I've never seen anywhere so out of place among so many other beautiful spots. It looked like an English seaside town in February - empty old fairground rides creaking listlessly in the breeze - but with sun. There were people on the beach sunbathing amongst the litter. We ordered some food from a bar where the people creaked listlessly in the breeze. Some fatty fried meat and very oily chips. At least we had a view of the sea.Not for long. Our view was interrupted by a train. Not just any train, but a rusty goods train heading as reluctantly along the tracks between us and the sea, as the town was heading into the 21st century. It was still passing as we laughed our way out of town, clanking slowly to who knows where. It probably still is.
Understanding Brazil: The Dogs II
Of course, not all dogs in Brazil are pampered city dogs. In Brazil there are plenty of beach dogs too. And who wouldn‘t want to live on a Brazilian beach as a dog? It sounds like the perfect lifestyle to me. As long as you aren‘t too fussy about what you eat, food will turn up eventually. Sometimes magically washing up at your feet. Shade can usually be found as can somebody to walk with down the beach.I have only managed one beach walk in Brazil without being accompanied by a dog. They know what they are doing, and follow you as soon as you set foot on the sand. They will run rings around you, chew sand and coconuts, paddle in the sea, fight with their friends escorting somebody walking the opposite way, and inspect and nibble the remains of fish, sea-birds, or penguins, live crabs, and anything else that looks vaguely interesting. After watching this, you should realise that it is a mistake to stroke them.
Sometimes they even try to catch their own food. I watched three stupid dogs trying to catch a bird flying twenty yards out to sea. They followed it backwards and forwards for as long as I could see without getting close and without giving up. I didn‘t want to see how long they would keep it up because that would have made me as stupid as them. They may still be there.Other dogs have escorted me to pousadas, between bars, or to home, all the time looking like they expect to be taken inside to become that extra family member, which is every dog‘s dream. Most haven‘t perfected the pathetic look aimed at winning your sympathy though.
One dog who had definitely perfected the pathetic look lived on a beach in Arraial d‘Ajuda. We were being escorted down the beach by a dog that looked like a lion without the mane. Sandy coloured and with golden eyes, he was almost the size of a Great Dane but more handsome and athletic. His shoulder blades rippled as he walked with a whole coconut casually resting in his teeth. King of the Beach Beasts without a doubt.We were safe with him, that much was certain. Every single other dog for miles barked, then ran and hid, or fawned at his feet.
Except for one tiny, ugly mongrel thing that was too scared to run. It barked until we were within twenty yards of it and then acted like somebody had popped it with a pin. It shrank to the ground in ever-decreasing circles, its submissive tail tucked so far between its back legs that it was tickling its own chin. That chin jutted out with an underbite in an attempt to do I don‘t know what. Look menacing? Hardly. Inspire sympathy by looking so ugly and weak that it would be left alone? Inspire incredulous laughter in us, more like. It never took its eyes off the big guy, even as it collapsed onto its back on the sand. Its counterpart didn't bark, growl or threaten it at all. I‘ve never seen such a blatant display of fear and cowardice, even in myself, than in the Collapsing Dog. One of the funniest examples of animal behaviour I‘ve ever seen. The lion didn‘t laugh. He walked straight past without taking his eyes off the horizon. Now that`s a dog.
Sometimes they even try to catch their own food. I watched three stupid dogs trying to catch a bird flying twenty yards out to sea. They followed it backwards and forwards for as long as I could see without getting close and without giving up. I didn‘t want to see how long they would keep it up because that would have made me as stupid as them. They may still be there.Other dogs have escorted me to pousadas, between bars, or to home, all the time looking like they expect to be taken inside to become that extra family member, which is every dog‘s dream. Most haven‘t perfected the pathetic look aimed at winning your sympathy though.
One dog who had definitely perfected the pathetic look lived on a beach in Arraial d‘Ajuda. We were being escorted down the beach by a dog that looked like a lion without the mane. Sandy coloured and with golden eyes, he was almost the size of a Great Dane but more handsome and athletic. His shoulder blades rippled as he walked with a whole coconut casually resting in his teeth. King of the Beach Beasts without a doubt.We were safe with him, that much was certain. Every single other dog for miles barked, then ran and hid, or fawned at his feet.
Except for one tiny, ugly mongrel thing that was too scared to run. It barked until we were within twenty yards of it and then acted like somebody had popped it with a pin. It shrank to the ground in ever-decreasing circles, its submissive tail tucked so far between its back legs that it was tickling its own chin. That chin jutted out with an underbite in an attempt to do I don‘t know what. Look menacing? Hardly. Inspire sympathy by looking so ugly and weak that it would be left alone? Inspire incredulous laughter in us, more like. It never took its eyes off the big guy, even as it collapsed onto its back on the sand. Its counterpart didn't bark, growl or threaten it at all. I‘ve never seen such a blatant display of fear and cowardice, even in myself, than in the Collapsing Dog. One of the funniest examples of animal behaviour I‘ve ever seen. The lion didn‘t laugh. He walked straight past without taking his eyes off the horizon. Now that`s a dog.
A Lie-In In Downtown Sao Paulo
The main problem with house-sitting downtown in The House of Horror (and I mean proper downtown) is not the traffic or the violence or the pollution, it's the noise. Every type of noise conspires to keep me from sleep. When you live in an area populated by hookers and homeless people, skatekids and transvestites, and with multilane highways in view, you wouldn't expect it to be quiet.
But none of these things causes me a moment of bother.The biggest cause by far is the school next door. It has a siren so loud that ships at sea wonder where the fog has gone. Pupils living out of town can hear the first siren at 7am if they've overslept. As São Paulo isn't overburdened with schools, or the space for them, our school works in shifts of five hours each for kids of different age groups. The siren sounds every fifty minutes until 11pm. I have no chance of oversleeping. The church clock is regular as clockwork between these times too. It tells me when the kids will be coming out into the schoolyard for their daily screaming competition. Factor in regular helicopters, the police station next door, the election rallies, the background noise of the constant traffic, and you can forget sleep during the day. The homeless people sleep through the lot though, even on concrete. I should ask them what their secret is.
Why do I need to sleep during the day then? At night, the family of pigeons living on top of the leaky roof sound like they require feeding 24 hours a day. You never see a baby pigeon mostly because they're all hiding upstairs at The House of Horror. The waterfall down the inside of the wall was interesting during the rainy days. There are also the lorries that deliver to the supermarket across the road, but only in the madrugada. Plus items being blown onto the roof from way up in the block of flats next door - towels; single socks (it's never a pair that goes missing); torn-up photos of ex-lovers; and a huge bra which nearly knocked me out one day while trying to open the gate. It's now being used as a double hammock in the yard. There is also some noise of unknown source which occurs in random bursts throughout the night. It could be scooters backfiring or bolts slamming.
If these things happen during the week, I can sleep at the weekend, right? Wrong. Saturday - work. Sunday - The fruit and veg market in the street right outside. They start setting up at 4am and shout 'Um Real!' in rhythm with my hangover headache until 3pm. I thought I'd taken all that The House of Horror could throw at me, including when it threw massive cockroaches down from the ceiling onto my bed. I don't want to think about what might have happened if I'd been sleeping face up with my mouth open. They don't particularly scare me, but the ugliness makes me shiver. It's hard to relax when you're waiting for the next one to dive from the beams.
There are other minor irritations, but this morning took the biscuit, the cake, and the milk shake all in one. Just when I was getting used to the situation. My early classes had been cancelled so I was looking forward to sleeping, between sirens, until maybe 10.30am. Somewhere between Air-raids 3 & 4 came the sound of music and screams. Another party in the flats next door? No, it was louder. The crowd noise was big. Some Heavy Metal band was playing a gig. It wasn't even 9.30am. How? I thought all their little fans that made the devil horns with their hands didn't come out during daylight hours. I had a wander outside but couldn't find or hear anything. Muito confusado. Maybe it was just in my head, or The House of Horror was playing tricks on me. Either Way, I'm glad the owners are back soon. I really need a lie-in.
But none of these things causes me a moment of bother.The biggest cause by far is the school next door. It has a siren so loud that ships at sea wonder where the fog has gone. Pupils living out of town can hear the first siren at 7am if they've overslept. As São Paulo isn't overburdened with schools, or the space for them, our school works in shifts of five hours each for kids of different age groups. The siren sounds every fifty minutes until 11pm. I have no chance of oversleeping. The church clock is regular as clockwork between these times too. It tells me when the kids will be coming out into the schoolyard for their daily screaming competition. Factor in regular helicopters, the police station next door, the election rallies, the background noise of the constant traffic, and you can forget sleep during the day. The homeless people sleep through the lot though, even on concrete. I should ask them what their secret is.
Why do I need to sleep during the day then? At night, the family of pigeons living on top of the leaky roof sound like they require feeding 24 hours a day. You never see a baby pigeon mostly because they're all hiding upstairs at The House of Horror. The waterfall down the inside of the wall was interesting during the rainy days. There are also the lorries that deliver to the supermarket across the road, but only in the madrugada. Plus items being blown onto the roof from way up in the block of flats next door - towels; single socks (it's never a pair that goes missing); torn-up photos of ex-lovers; and a huge bra which nearly knocked me out one day while trying to open the gate. It's now being used as a double hammock in the yard. There is also some noise of unknown source which occurs in random bursts throughout the night. It could be scooters backfiring or bolts slamming.
If these things happen during the week, I can sleep at the weekend, right? Wrong. Saturday - work. Sunday - The fruit and veg market in the street right outside. They start setting up at 4am and shout 'Um Real!' in rhythm with my hangover headache until 3pm. I thought I'd taken all that The House of Horror could throw at me, including when it threw massive cockroaches down from the ceiling onto my bed. I don't want to think about what might have happened if I'd been sleeping face up with my mouth open. They don't particularly scare me, but the ugliness makes me shiver. It's hard to relax when you're waiting for the next one to dive from the beams.
There are other minor irritations, but this morning took the biscuit, the cake, and the milk shake all in one. Just when I was getting used to the situation. My early classes had been cancelled so I was looking forward to sleeping, between sirens, until maybe 10.30am. Somewhere between Air-raids 3 & 4 came the sound of music and screams. Another party in the flats next door? No, it was louder. The crowd noise was big. Some Heavy Metal band was playing a gig. It wasn't even 9.30am. How? I thought all their little fans that made the devil horns with their hands didn't come out during daylight hours. I had a wander outside but couldn't find or hear anything. Muito confusado. Maybe it was just in my head, or The House of Horror was playing tricks on me. Either Way, I'm glad the owners are back soon. I really need a lie-in.
The Best Job In Brazil: The Ankle Specialist
Now summer is approaching, I am afraid of losing one of my main sources of amusement while patrolling the streets of Brazilian cities. As well as poodles-in-t-shirts, the other thing guaranteed to tickle me every time is seeing the platform boots that almost every brasileira between 15 & 50 wears. Same style, slightly different colour, same soles. They don‘t seem to realise that platforms were only invented for use by Slade and Elton John on stage in 1975! They‘re not serious! You‘re not supposed to wear them except at fancy dress parties for 70s nights! Platforms are comedy, not fashion, items. Remember what happened to Naomi Campbell.
If you come to Brazil for the first time, you could be forgiven for thinking that the girls here are even taller than the Dutch or Austrians. Look down! The answer is in the six inches of solid rubber or wood at the bottom. It‘s impossible to walk gracefully or to look elegant on those things. I know. I tried it. Purely for the purposes of science, of course. It‘s like walking with a ton of dried mud on your boots. The floor seems miles away. Your head brushes the roof or the doorframe. You never feel in control. The best you can do is to totter about like a stiltwalker waiting for someone to catch you. I would hate to be stuck in the middle of a dance-floor with hundreds of women wearing wooden platforms stumbling around me. Kiss goodbye to your toes. Even a cockroach couldn‘t withstand a stamp or two from those.
For summer, the boots will be replaced by sandals with platforms, which aren‘t quite as funny, but can still provide moments of hilarity. This is when your role as Ankle Specialist really comes into its own. The cocktail of platforms without ankle support, endless hills with uneven steps, streets paved with potholes and grates that rise out of the ground like chimneys, guarantees you work until the next cycle of fashion brings around some nice, sensible librarian shoes.In summer, the fall rate will be even higher. By this, I mean the amount of girls you see tumbling to the floor or turning an ankle every day, on a piece of cracked concrete. They always pick themselves up and look down at the floor in surprise, like when a footballer blames a divot in the pitch. Check out how many girls you see here wearing Havaianas with one ankle bandaged. The platforms have claimed another victim and they‘ve learnt their lesson, perhaps? But you will still notice occasional brasileiras defiantly wearing platforms while limping. They obviously haven‘t made the connection. These girls will be your regular customers. Blame the pavements, blame the prefeitura, blame the concrete company, blame the bus company, blame the heat, blame the rain, just don‘t advise them to change their footwear. It will deprive you of your main source of income, and it will also deprive me of my main source of enjoyment from the streets of São Paulo, schadenfreude being one of my favourite pastimes.
If you come to Brazil for the first time, you could be forgiven for thinking that the girls here are even taller than the Dutch or Austrians. Look down! The answer is in the six inches of solid rubber or wood at the bottom. It‘s impossible to walk gracefully or to look elegant on those things. I know. I tried it. Purely for the purposes of science, of course. It‘s like walking with a ton of dried mud on your boots. The floor seems miles away. Your head brushes the roof or the doorframe. You never feel in control. The best you can do is to totter about like a stiltwalker waiting for someone to catch you. I would hate to be stuck in the middle of a dance-floor with hundreds of women wearing wooden platforms stumbling around me. Kiss goodbye to your toes. Even a cockroach couldn‘t withstand a stamp or two from those.
For summer, the boots will be replaced by sandals with platforms, which aren‘t quite as funny, but can still provide moments of hilarity. This is when your role as Ankle Specialist really comes into its own. The cocktail of platforms without ankle support, endless hills with uneven steps, streets paved with potholes and grates that rise out of the ground like chimneys, guarantees you work until the next cycle of fashion brings around some nice, sensible librarian shoes.In summer, the fall rate will be even higher. By this, I mean the amount of girls you see tumbling to the floor or turning an ankle every day, on a piece of cracked concrete. They always pick themselves up and look down at the floor in surprise, like when a footballer blames a divot in the pitch. Check out how many girls you see here wearing Havaianas with one ankle bandaged. The platforms have claimed another victim and they‘ve learnt their lesson, perhaps? But you will still notice occasional brasileiras defiantly wearing platforms while limping. They obviously haven‘t made the connection. These girls will be your regular customers. Blame the pavements, blame the prefeitura, blame the concrete company, blame the bus company, blame the heat, blame the rain, just don‘t advise them to change their footwear. It will deprive you of your main source of income, and it will also deprive me of my main source of enjoyment from the streets of São Paulo, schadenfreude being one of my favourite pastimes.
Understanding Brazil: The Dogs
Barbara Woodhouse, a famous British dog trainer, once said that there was no such thing as bad dogs, just bad owners. Brazilians seem to love their dogs, much as Gringos do, but I think the relationship is somewhat different. In Britain, a dog is usually treated like an extra, junior, member of the family. In Brazil, there are essentially two types of dogs, having different places within the family. The first, and most obvious, is the pet that is really a guard dog. They come in various sizes of large, from Alsatian to Rotweiler to Great Dane. They live in an outside yard about the size of a tiger's cage and they behave in much the same way as a caged tiger. They can smell you coming for miles and the first bark alerts every neighbouring dog, which join in the chorus for hundreds of yards ahead of you up the road. Something similar happens with the automatic lights in office buildings. (This makes it impossible for the straying Brasileiro to sneak home late at night.) These dogs are not ones to make friends with, even if the owner introduces you. The introduction serves more as a warning to behave yourself. If staying at somebody's house, it is best not to get too drunk and stumble into the dog's area by accident. They've been waiting for that moment for years.
The other type is epitomised by the ubiquitous Poodle: Yap-dogs. In cities with many apartment blocks, dogs aren't required for security, so people can keep the breeds that aren't trained to kill. Their function is somewhere between a stress-ball and an earring, only for higher maintenance. Especially when the dog is taken to one of the many grooming salons for a shampoo and set plus coloured ribbons (green and yellow ribbons were very popular during the World Cup.) It is very thought-provoking seeing somebody carrying an expensively laundered dog from the salon having spent more money on it than most people earn in a week, especially in São Paulo if they have to carry the dog past people with little food and no home or money. I find it quite obscene but it's not my place to point out these things.
What never fails to make me laugh is seeing these over-pampered dogs wearing t-shirts. As if having fur wasn't enough in such a hot climate. The four little booties covering the paws is an occasional treat to see, but even better was the dog I saw walking the streets of Higienopolis wearing a frilly mini-skirt. Seriously. On a larger scale, it would have been the type of Lycra outfit worn by an older woman while doing gentle aerobic classes. I wish I'd had my phone to take a photo for the "Photo of the Week".I have experience of dealing with this type of dog while house-sitting one of those breeds with no nose (very difficult to smack when the dog barks all night...). In a house of lazy students, the dog didn't get out much so I decided to give her some proper exercise. I'd asked the owner if she liked going for walks. 'Sim! Ela adora caminhar!'. Twenty minutes in, the dog collapsed on the path and flatly refused to go any further. I wasn't going to drag it, and no way was I ever going to carry it, so after a few minutes of stand-off, we headed for home. Next day, she came back from the salon (carried, as it was raining) with two little pink bows on her head. That was the end of our walking relationship. Never again.
Somewhere between these two types are the biggest losers of them all. The Huskies. These noble blue-eyed beasts have enough energy (& fur) to pull sleds thousands of miles across arctic tundra through snowdrifts without complaining. Yet here they are cooped up inside small apartments, sometimes also having to suffer the heat and the ignominy of a t-shirt. People sounds surprised when they hear that a Husky left alone in a flat destroyed all the furniture. I might start a Free The Huskies campaign. Feel free to join in. And if you find you've released a killer by mistake, worry not. Just run. The dog will collapse panting long before it gets its claws into you.
The other type is epitomised by the ubiquitous Poodle: Yap-dogs. In cities with many apartment blocks, dogs aren't required for security, so people can keep the breeds that aren't trained to kill. Their function is somewhere between a stress-ball and an earring, only for higher maintenance. Especially when the dog is taken to one of the many grooming salons for a shampoo and set plus coloured ribbons (green and yellow ribbons were very popular during the World Cup.) It is very thought-provoking seeing somebody carrying an expensively laundered dog from the salon having spent more money on it than most people earn in a week, especially in São Paulo if they have to carry the dog past people with little food and no home or money. I find it quite obscene but it's not my place to point out these things.
What never fails to make me laugh is seeing these over-pampered dogs wearing t-shirts. As if having fur wasn't enough in such a hot climate. The four little booties covering the paws is an occasional treat to see, but even better was the dog I saw walking the streets of Higienopolis wearing a frilly mini-skirt. Seriously. On a larger scale, it would have been the type of Lycra outfit worn by an older woman while doing gentle aerobic classes. I wish I'd had my phone to take a photo for the "Photo of the Week".I have experience of dealing with this type of dog while house-sitting one of those breeds with no nose (very difficult to smack when the dog barks all night...). In a house of lazy students, the dog didn't get out much so I decided to give her some proper exercise. I'd asked the owner if she liked going for walks. 'Sim! Ela adora caminhar!'. Twenty minutes in, the dog collapsed on the path and flatly refused to go any further. I wasn't going to drag it, and no way was I ever going to carry it, so after a few minutes of stand-off, we headed for home. Next day, she came back from the salon (carried, as it was raining) with two little pink bows on her head. That was the end of our walking relationship. Never again.
Somewhere between these two types are the biggest losers of them all. The Huskies. These noble blue-eyed beasts have enough energy (& fur) to pull sleds thousands of miles across arctic tundra through snowdrifts without complaining. Yet here they are cooped up inside small apartments, sometimes also having to suffer the heat and the ignominy of a t-shirt. People sounds surprised when they hear that a Husky left alone in a flat destroyed all the furniture. I might start a Free The Huskies campaign. Feel free to join in. And if you find you've released a killer by mistake, worry not. Just run. The dog will collapse panting long before it gets its claws into you.
Brazil Places: Florianopolis
Florianopolis. Forget it. You haven't come to the island to check out the city so don't waste any time. Get yourself to the beaches, quickly. Flops is a great place to have a car, even if you can only afford a day's rent. The west coast is of limited interest and the north, as you may have seen from the plane, is touristy, think almost a Costa Del Sol for Argentineans and Brazilians. Only worth a quick look. In the north-east, Moçambique is the island's biggest beach. Dunes at the back mean there is no development until the last mile. The surf here has the odd tube to play in. I saw real surfers catching them. This is the place to come for a tranquil afternoon in the sun. And hopefully your car will still have all its windows when you return to it.Mole and Galheta are smaller and far busier, but still beautiful and framed by hills. Both are great surf spots with Galheta the best place on the island to learn due to the regular breaks and flattest beach. This means it is also the hardest sand and so is the best one for running along the edge of the sea. Galheta is also the island's nudist beach. Combing the two is not recommended. Also, don't go there in the hope of seeing the next Gisele in the buff. As usual with these places, the only people adhering to the 'rules' are middle-aged men parading up and down alone, regularly adjusting their bits (OK, you try not to look then. It's like a magnet for your eyes, almost impossible, at least for the first few laps.)
This beach is also frequented by the Dons of the local Pink Mafia who are, as mafia dons should be, regularly disappearing - into the dunes. Perhaps it's because of the amount of beer they drink. Whatever, these are great incentives to keep running or paddling back out.If none of that floats your boat, you can parasail onto Mole from the headland; kitesurf on the lagoa; sandboard in the stunning dunes behind Joaquina; or bodysurf in the sea there if you're really louco.
All this pre-supposes that you aren't going to be typical of the type of Brasileiros who have moved to Flops and stayed. They will tell you with a straight face that the island has a special energy, nodding zealously. The amount of new age shops selling semi-precious stones (rocks to you and me) and people selling earrings made of feathers on the streets bear this out. The island may have energy but these people don't for obvious reasons. Perhaps this is why walking isn't the most recommended activity here. The trails can go to some amazing places like the waterfall at Lagoa de Peri in the south, or the secluded beach at Lagoinha do Leste. But then they stop, sometimes in the middle of nowhere. It's like the people set off on a big walk, couldn't be bothered, and turned back for the car and another smoke. There are hundreds of individual trails but they're never co-ordinated, never sign-posted, and you need a local to point them out to you. Even if they do have signs, you may find a fenced condominium with razor-wire protecting it has been built across your path with no detour included. You may have to go all the way back, miles through the dunes in the dark, to find a different path. Yes, it happened.
But even allowing for this, there are still some sights to be seen on the gentler walks. I spent hours watching a baby seal on a deserted beach, from as close as it would allow. Turtles swim in the rivers and breed on the beaches. A penguin spends his winter holidays in the lagoa, fishing and snorkelling at the feet of the humans where the water is only a foot deep. You can also see dolphins and whales from the island sometimes.Floripa isn't the best place to find work, but it's a great place to not work, which is how it should be. Who wants to work 12 hours a day when you can go to the beach instead? If it wasn't lazy and laidback, everybody would move there from Sampa and ruin the beauty of the place. Go there for a holiday but go soon. More gringoes are found there every year. The secret is out.
This beach is also frequented by the Dons of the local Pink Mafia who are, as mafia dons should be, regularly disappearing - into the dunes. Perhaps it's because of the amount of beer they drink. Whatever, these are great incentives to keep running or paddling back out.If none of that floats your boat, you can parasail onto Mole from the headland; kitesurf on the lagoa; sandboard in the stunning dunes behind Joaquina; or bodysurf in the sea there if you're really louco.
All this pre-supposes that you aren't going to be typical of the type of Brasileiros who have moved to Flops and stayed. They will tell you with a straight face that the island has a special energy, nodding zealously. The amount of new age shops selling semi-precious stones (rocks to you and me) and people selling earrings made of feathers on the streets bear this out. The island may have energy but these people don't for obvious reasons. Perhaps this is why walking isn't the most recommended activity here. The trails can go to some amazing places like the waterfall at Lagoa de Peri in the south, or the secluded beach at Lagoinha do Leste. But then they stop, sometimes in the middle of nowhere. It's like the people set off on a big walk, couldn't be bothered, and turned back for the car and another smoke. There are hundreds of individual trails but they're never co-ordinated, never sign-posted, and you need a local to point them out to you. Even if they do have signs, you may find a fenced condominium with razor-wire protecting it has been built across your path with no detour included. You may have to go all the way back, miles through the dunes in the dark, to find a different path. Yes, it happened.
But even allowing for this, there are still some sights to be seen on the gentler walks. I spent hours watching a baby seal on a deserted beach, from as close as it would allow. Turtles swim in the rivers and breed on the beaches. A penguin spends his winter holidays in the lagoa, fishing and snorkelling at the feet of the humans where the water is only a foot deep. You can also see dolphins and whales from the island sometimes.Floripa isn't the best place to find work, but it's a great place to not work, which is how it should be. Who wants to work 12 hours a day when you can go to the beach instead? If it wasn't lazy and laidback, everybody would move there from Sampa and ruin the beauty of the place. Go there for a holiday but go soon. More gringoes are found there every year. The secret is out.
Brazil Journeys: South To Florianopolis
Floripa is one of the places in Brazil where it's best not to arrive at the bus station late at night. But unlike all the other cities, this isn't to avoid dangerous situations. It's because you miss out on one of the best ways to arrive at a city in Brazil or anywhere. Spend the extra money and buy a daytime flight from Rio or Sampa. It will be worth it if you sit on the right and get a clear day - not unusual there.The flight takes you down the coast, just a short distance out to sea. From here you get a view of every beach, every bay, every island, every estuary and every mountain on the way.
As you see the first green hills of the Serra do Mar, it's hard to imagine that they have nearly two million people on top of them. It's true though because somewhere up there in the mist lies Curitiba. Not the most interesting Brazilian city but it does have the train ride down to Paranaguá. You might not be able to see the tracks from above but you'll certainly be able to appreciate why tourists pay R$60 for the ride, dropping down from the high plane down between the jungle-covered peaks to the edge of the bay.Even if you can't see Curitiba, you should be able to see the Baia de Paranaguá and Ilha do Mel. The island is built for partying and surfing but north of it, the Parque Nacional de Superagüi comes highly recommended. Somewhere down below is a jungle somehow so remote that it has more jaguars than people. It may be a mission to get there but not many remote places in Brazil can be so close to a big city.
You pass the mini-Rio of Balneário Camboriú and the headland of Porto Belo, beaches all the way. Soon after you can see the island. You may see the bridges that connect it to the continent and the hills that run down the spine. Then the beaches of the north appear, built up but you could handle it. But the beaches of the east look better and the dunes protecting them mean they are EMPTY! Miles of white waves coming all the way from southern Africa to crash on Moçambique, Galheta and Mole. Behind the dunes is a crisp pine forest which you'll hardly notice as between that and the green mountains is the lagoa. You'll rarely see clearer water, made even more beautiful by the swirls of sand you can see just below the surface, spreading out hundreds of metres in places.At this point you head mystifyingly out to sea only to return over Ilha do Campeche and more dunes and people surfing waves, before passing through a gap in the hills and landing on the west side. By this point you should be so excited about seeing the whole island that they won't be able to open the doors quick enough for you. And if you sat on the right, you won't even have seen the south of the island. It's just as spectacular
As you see the first green hills of the Serra do Mar, it's hard to imagine that they have nearly two million people on top of them. It's true though because somewhere up there in the mist lies Curitiba. Not the most interesting Brazilian city but it does have the train ride down to Paranaguá. You might not be able to see the tracks from above but you'll certainly be able to appreciate why tourists pay R$60 for the ride, dropping down from the high plane down between the jungle-covered peaks to the edge of the bay.Even if you can't see Curitiba, you should be able to see the Baia de Paranaguá and Ilha do Mel. The island is built for partying and surfing but north of it, the Parque Nacional de Superagüi comes highly recommended. Somewhere down below is a jungle somehow so remote that it has more jaguars than people. It may be a mission to get there but not many remote places in Brazil can be so close to a big city.
You pass the mini-Rio of Balneário Camboriú and the headland of Porto Belo, beaches all the way. Soon after you can see the island. You may see the bridges that connect it to the continent and the hills that run down the spine. Then the beaches of the north appear, built up but you could handle it. But the beaches of the east look better and the dunes protecting them mean they are EMPTY! Miles of white waves coming all the way from southern Africa to crash on Moçambique, Galheta and Mole. Behind the dunes is a crisp pine forest which you'll hardly notice as between that and the green mountains is the lagoa. You'll rarely see clearer water, made even more beautiful by the swirls of sand you can see just below the surface, spreading out hundreds of metres in places.At this point you head mystifyingly out to sea only to return over Ilha do Campeche and more dunes and people surfing waves, before passing through a gap in the hills and landing on the west side. By this point you should be so excited about seeing the whole island that they won't be able to open the doors quick enough for you. And if you sat on the right, you won't even have seen the south of the island. It's just as spectacular
Understanding Brazil: The Showers
One particularly noticeable cultural difference between Brazil and Europe is in the bathroom. As you enter the room for the first time in any Brazilian dwelling bigger than a shack, the first things that catch the eye are the naked electrical wires protruding from a big hole in the wall. The first thought is always "Ah, they must be having some work done in the bathroom". You see a jagged hole with some loose plaster around it and one metal pipe coming out to a (usually) white plastic cylinder. There is at least one of the three wires that doesn't seem to be attached to anything, just coolly hanging around, drifting in the breeze, waiting to be soldered onto the cylinder somewhere. There is also another rubber tube extending from the cylinder and varying from 3 inches to 10 feet in length. It has a mini-showerhead at the loose end. It takes a long time and a few visits to different bathrooms to become accustomed to this sight and realise that, no - they aren't waiting for the big plastic box of an electrical shower to be delivered and fitted, this is what showers look like in Brazil.
While not recommended and probably highly illegal to use at home, Brazilians don't bat an eyelid at this situation. The combination of wires and water doesn't seem to bother anybody, so you have to adapt too. If you are staying in a pousada for your first shower, they will proudly boast of the hot water in their establishment. You turn the tap on and nod approvingly at the power of the water, wave your hand under the jet and go to undress, satisfied that the water is getting warmer. As you stand under the jet for the first time, you wonder why it hasn't actually got that much warmer. So you adjust the tap in small doses, sadly to little effect until you turn it so far it reduces the power to a small trickle. That's when you notice the water getting hot. Fantastic.
Except it only gets hot when there is hardly any water coming out. As hot showers are preferable whatever the weather, you choose the trickle.But! Then you look up in exasperation and see the magic switch on the cylinder. Aha! Your limited knowledge of the lingo means you turn it to the 'winter' setting and prepare yourself for a lovely hot shower. The trouble is, in Brazil there isn't too much difference between summer and winter.
At some point, you will wonder what the rubber tube is for and examine it. Is it a shower for dwarves? Dogs? So someone else can have a shower outside the curtain at the same time? This results in the tube coming away from the cylinder and you lose what little power there was. Obviously this is more likely to happen while you have shampoo in your hair. The best thing is to go cold for a few minutes while you sort it all out.
At some point in all this, you will also have received your first electric shock, either from touching the top of the cylinder or even the metal tap. This dents what little confidence you had in The Brazilian Shower and will mean that however long you stay in the country, you will forever treat your shower experience like stroking a dog that once bit you. Don't complain. Nobody will understand. Or care. And certainly don't try to fix the situation yourself. It's dangerous. Leave it to a highly untrained, unqualified, expendable professional.
While not recommended and probably highly illegal to use at home, Brazilians don't bat an eyelid at this situation. The combination of wires and water doesn't seem to bother anybody, so you have to adapt too. If you are staying in a pousada for your first shower, they will proudly boast of the hot water in their establishment. You turn the tap on and nod approvingly at the power of the water, wave your hand under the jet and go to undress, satisfied that the water is getting warmer. As you stand under the jet for the first time, you wonder why it hasn't actually got that much warmer. So you adjust the tap in small doses, sadly to little effect until you turn it so far it reduces the power to a small trickle. That's when you notice the water getting hot. Fantastic.
Except it only gets hot when there is hardly any water coming out. As hot showers are preferable whatever the weather, you choose the trickle.But! Then you look up in exasperation and see the magic switch on the cylinder. Aha! Your limited knowledge of the lingo means you turn it to the 'winter' setting and prepare yourself for a lovely hot shower. The trouble is, in Brazil there isn't too much difference between summer and winter.
At some point, you will wonder what the rubber tube is for and examine it. Is it a shower for dwarves? Dogs? So someone else can have a shower outside the curtain at the same time? This results in the tube coming away from the cylinder and you lose what little power there was. Obviously this is more likely to happen while you have shampoo in your hair. The best thing is to go cold for a few minutes while you sort it all out.
At some point in all this, you will also have received your first electric shock, either from touching the top of the cylinder or even the metal tap. This dents what little confidence you had in The Brazilian Shower and will mean that however long you stay in the country, you will forever treat your shower experience like stroking a dog that once bit you. Don't complain. Nobody will understand. Or care. And certainly don't try to fix the situation yourself. It's dangerous. Leave it to a highly untrained, unqualified, expendable professional.
Brazil Journeys: Up The Amazon
Everything is relative. Nothing is ever a complete truth. People say that when travelling on the passenger boats up "The Big River", the best place to sleep is in the middle of the middle floor if possible. When you arrive on board, the first thing you do is find the best spot for your hammock (assuming you haven‘t bought a cabin. As the cabins are sweaty cupboards with no breeze, this is not as sensible an option as it sounds). The boats are normally triple deckers. The cheapest place is the bottom floor with the engine. It is noisy, dirty, smelly and sometimes full of petrol fumes if the boat has an engine problem. Also on this level is the kitchen. If you have 90 Brazilians travelling up river for 2-7 days, they need a lot of meat. This meat is usually stored next to the engine, hanging from the roof in carcasses. Everything else transported is stored downstairs too. Including livestock such as the goat tethered out front.The third floor (if it exists) is usually the bar/tv area. This means people watch novelas and films, or have some incredibly tasteless music playing, always at the volume that Brazilians like to have while standing around their cars drinking beer at the beach.The middle floor (or the top one of two in our case) is the best place to sleep and worth paying the extra ten reais for a spot there. Usually.
So armed with this local knowledge, the Brazilian couple hung there double hammock across the boat, halfway down alongside the middle pillar. In this way, they only have a neighbour on one side and can store all their gear by the pillar. What they didn‘t reckon on was being surrounded by alcoholic gringos. As the boat repeatedly broke down, the gringos did what gringos do in times of stress. They drank. As the journey from Belem to Santarem turned from 3 days into a week, it turned into a journey of legend. The poor Brazilian couple had to put up with people singing, falling over, breaking the boat, and especially shouting, from dawn to the early hours, every day. Their neighbour (who we shall call ‘Steve‘) woke them up every time he climbed into his hammock above them, then in the morning disturbed their peace by shouting that he wanted his mum or anybody else‘s mum to help his hangover in language they hopefully didn‘t understand. They probably had moments of hating the fool on the journey.
The straw that broke the camel‘s back, the moment that will make them realise that the best place isn‘t necessarily the best place to sleep on a boat happened towards the end of the trip. A very loud, very drunk Australian (who we shall call ‘Dave‘) thought it would be funny to try to shake Steve out of his hammock to make him sick in the dark early hours. He grabbed the end of Steve‘s hammock and bounced it up and down while shouting for Steve to get up. Somebody else shouting Steve‘s name was his neighbour. Understandable as it was her hammock that was being turned upside down. The first person she turned to for help was the one she‘d suffered most from during the journey. Steve got out of his hammock to drag the drunken fool away and had to apologise for him. So Steve had turned from the biggest fool on the boat to a kind of hero. Compared to Dave. Like I said, everything‘s relative.
So armed with this local knowledge, the Brazilian couple hung there double hammock across the boat, halfway down alongside the middle pillar. In this way, they only have a neighbour on one side and can store all their gear by the pillar. What they didn‘t reckon on was being surrounded by alcoholic gringos. As the boat repeatedly broke down, the gringos did what gringos do in times of stress. They drank. As the journey from Belem to Santarem turned from 3 days into a week, it turned into a journey of legend. The poor Brazilian couple had to put up with people singing, falling over, breaking the boat, and especially shouting, from dawn to the early hours, every day. Their neighbour (who we shall call ‘Steve‘) woke them up every time he climbed into his hammock above them, then in the morning disturbed their peace by shouting that he wanted his mum or anybody else‘s mum to help his hangover in language they hopefully didn‘t understand. They probably had moments of hating the fool on the journey.
The straw that broke the camel‘s back, the moment that will make them realise that the best place isn‘t necessarily the best place to sleep on a boat happened towards the end of the trip. A very loud, very drunk Australian (who we shall call ‘Dave‘) thought it would be funny to try to shake Steve out of his hammock to make him sick in the dark early hours. He grabbed the end of Steve‘s hammock and bounced it up and down while shouting for Steve to get up. Somebody else shouting Steve‘s name was his neighbour. Understandable as it was her hammock that was being turned upside down. The first person she turned to for help was the one she‘d suffered most from during the journey. Steve got out of his hammock to drag the drunken fool away and had to apologise for him. So Steve had turned from the biggest fool on the boat to a kind of hero. Compared to Dave. Like I said, everything‘s relative.
Understanding Brazil: The Novelas
One of the first things you learn about Brazil from your Brazilian friends is how much everybody loves their novelas (the soap operas). But they don't really explain to you just what a national obsession they are, or why. In houses, kiosks, bars, hotels, and even on a boat up "The Big River" (where one man was employed to move the satellite dish around for better reception), everybody stops to watch their favourite novela in silence. Never having been one to watch soaps at home, it was very difficult for me to understand the attraction, but I tried.
It might be the glamour of watching handsome people in opulent settings making a mess of their lives, with the bad people usually getting their comeuppance somewhere along the line. Fairly predictable.It might be the quality of the storylines, although even with my limited knowledge of Portuguese, I find this a little unlikely.One of the plot devices utilised to save time and energy writing a proper story is to have one character listening behind a door/window/screen to two others gossiping/scheming/declaring love for each other. These scenes always finish one of two ways - the good character listening to two bad ones is shown in close-up with mouth wide open in wonder and worry; or the dodgy character listening is shown with a knowing half-smile on their face, ready to use the information for nefarious means. Nothing unusual.It might be the quality of the acting, but as the cast of characters are the same in every novella I doubt it. You have: the main character with morals, the rich bad guy and flaky wife plus mistress, the comedy family, the dull pretty couple who never argue with each other, the youngish Rogue with attendant women, youngish nice guy with attendant women (usually shared with rogue), the only slightly rebellious daughter and - best of all - the mad middle-aged woman.The acting varies from the permanently-wide-eyed-with-amazement of the comedy figures to the worryingly convincing mad middle aged women, who are by far the best actors in any novela. This is perhaps because when playing the psychotic part it is open to question just how much acting is involved for a Brasileira. So, probably not that.
One novela had a character travelling to Africa for the UNHCR and sending postcards to his wife about working with HIV victims from Nairobi's shanty town, the size and degradation of which makes the favelas look petite and chic. An idea that needs exporting but probably not one that attracts people to watching in the first place.So what is it? I still have no idea but I watch just in case. I even spend my days hoping that one of them might need somebody to play the part of, say, an English teacher. And I justify watching them by saying it would help my Portuguese, or because some of the actresses make fantastic scenery, but my relationship with novelas is like my relationship with smoking, or at least how it used to be - I had no interest at first, then I started just to pass the time with other people. After that, I convinced myself that I could take it or leave it as I pleased but the taking grew and the leaving stopped. I had to quit before it took control over my life, as I will with the novelas if I'm not careful. But for now Cobras & Lagartos is starting so I'd better finish here.
It might be the glamour of watching handsome people in opulent settings making a mess of their lives, with the bad people usually getting their comeuppance somewhere along the line. Fairly predictable.It might be the quality of the storylines, although even with my limited knowledge of Portuguese, I find this a little unlikely.One of the plot devices utilised to save time and energy writing a proper story is to have one character listening behind a door/window/screen to two others gossiping/scheming/declaring love for each other. These scenes always finish one of two ways - the good character listening to two bad ones is shown in close-up with mouth wide open in wonder and worry; or the dodgy character listening is shown with a knowing half-smile on their face, ready to use the information for nefarious means. Nothing unusual.It might be the quality of the acting, but as the cast of characters are the same in every novella I doubt it. You have: the main character with morals, the rich bad guy and flaky wife plus mistress, the comedy family, the dull pretty couple who never argue with each other, the youngish Rogue with attendant women, youngish nice guy with attendant women (usually shared with rogue), the only slightly rebellious daughter and - best of all - the mad middle-aged woman.The acting varies from the permanently-wide-eyed-with-amazement of the comedy figures to the worryingly convincing mad middle aged women, who are by far the best actors in any novela. This is perhaps because when playing the psychotic part it is open to question just how much acting is involved for a Brasileira. So, probably not that.
One novela had a character travelling to Africa for the UNHCR and sending postcards to his wife about working with HIV victims from Nairobi's shanty town, the size and degradation of which makes the favelas look petite and chic. An idea that needs exporting but probably not one that attracts people to watching in the first place.So what is it? I still have no idea but I watch just in case. I even spend my days hoping that one of them might need somebody to play the part of, say, an English teacher. And I justify watching them by saying it would help my Portuguese, or because some of the actresses make fantastic scenery, but my relationship with novelas is like my relationship with smoking, or at least how it used to be - I had no interest at first, then I started just to pass the time with other people. After that, I convinced myself that I could take it or leave it as I pleased but the taking grew and the leaving stopped. I had to quit before it took control over my life, as I will with the novelas if I'm not careful. But for now Cobras & Lagartos is starting so I'd better finish here.
Bus Fires in Sao Paulo - Always A Bad Thing?
So, we set off on the bus for The Big Smog with all our little bags at our feet and the big bags underneath, and with the words of the Wise Ones bouncing in our heads. "Don't use the buses!" they said, "They set fire to them in Sao Paulo!" Yeah right. As if that was going to affect us in any way. What are the chances? Have you seen the streets there? There are about 2 million buses smoking their way around. A few (ok, quite a lot) of buses burning out in the suburbs and the favelas. So what? I laughed at their stupidity. Besides, I'm British. All my life we've had way bigger things to worry about, and we never let any of them worry us. We had seats quite near the front for once, away from the toilet. Just eight hours. After a few months in South America, you don't even bat an eyelid at that length of journey. Eight hours? Settle down, check out the scenery, read a book, doze off, dribble, wake up, go to the toilet, repeat, and suddenly you're on the outskirts of The Big Smog. Pronto.
So during the second dribble, the bus crawls to the inside lane halfway up a hill. The driver's mate tells us we may have to stop somewhere ahead due to a problem with the bus. We make it to the top of the hill and roll down the other side. The bus is making a death rattle noise but we gamely carry on through the burbs. As we cross the river and turn the corner to drive alongside it, the driver slows as cars beep behind us and we have to stop on two lane highway. That's when the passengers notice the big plume of black smoke that was trailing out behind is now finding its way into our bus. Panic. Shouts of 'Fogo!' from the back. Everybody gets up and runs to the front. Obviously I didn't panic like the locals. I was just collecting my bags and heading for the door because I didn't want them to get burned, ok? One sane voice shouts 'Só fumaça, só fumaça!'. Everybody realises nobody has torched our bus and they all sit down, most people laughing. I pick the old lady up off the floor and apologise for throwing her out of my way. We all get calmly off the bus.
Now what? We're miles from a station, on the side of the river, even the driver doesn't know where. We have too much kit to walk anywhere far. This isn't a good start to our Sampa experience. We walk around a corner. A taxi rank! Plus taxis! We get in one and our driver says it's only ten minutes to our friends' house. Result. We don't have to go up to Tietê and traipse back across the city on the Metro and a city bus. The taxi drops us at the door for not much more money and a lot less hassle than without our bus-fire. We must now be the only people in the outside world who welcome them. Plus - in a city as big as The Big Smog, you have to make a spectacular entrance to be noticed. What better way than to arrive on a bus with flames leaping from the back of it?
So during the second dribble, the bus crawls to the inside lane halfway up a hill. The driver's mate tells us we may have to stop somewhere ahead due to a problem with the bus. We make it to the top of the hill and roll down the other side. The bus is making a death rattle noise but we gamely carry on through the burbs. As we cross the river and turn the corner to drive alongside it, the driver slows as cars beep behind us and we have to stop on two lane highway. That's when the passengers notice the big plume of black smoke that was trailing out behind is now finding its way into our bus. Panic. Shouts of 'Fogo!' from the back. Everybody gets up and runs to the front. Obviously I didn't panic like the locals. I was just collecting my bags and heading for the door because I didn't want them to get burned, ok? One sane voice shouts 'Só fumaça, só fumaça!'. Everybody realises nobody has torched our bus and they all sit down, most people laughing. I pick the old lady up off the floor and apologise for throwing her out of my way. We all get calmly off the bus.
Now what? We're miles from a station, on the side of the river, even the driver doesn't know where. We have too much kit to walk anywhere far. This isn't a good start to our Sampa experience. We walk around a corner. A taxi rank! Plus taxis! We get in one and our driver says it's only ten minutes to our friends' house. Result. We don't have to go up to Tietê and traipse back across the city on the Metro and a city bus. The taxi drops us at the door for not much more money and a lot less hassle than without our bus-fire. We must now be the only people in the outside world who welcome them. Plus - in a city as big as The Big Smog, you have to make a spectacular entrance to be noticed. What better way than to arrive on a bus with flames leaping from the back of it?
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