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.
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