It's now been 3 weeks since I arrived in Rio, and I'm back where I started in the most friendly, beautiful home away from home I could have asked for - Discovery Hostel. It is an oasis of calm and comfort in the chaos that is Rio de Janeiro. I have lived in a favela, in a cave-like hostel in Copacabana and the hammock strewn paradise of Ilha Grande but I've always found my way back to this glorious hostel in Gloria (an area of Rio).
Venturing out from the hostel into the 'Cidade Maravilhosa' is a whirlwind of traffic jams, frantic construction of new infrastructure ready for the Olympics and protests regarding the upcoming games. The sand castles on the beach emblazoned with 'Welcome to Rio' have been parodied by the protesters with 'Welcome to Hell' and 'Welcome to Chaos' banners as they admonish the onlookers against the corruption of the government, the lack of funding for education, the low police salaries that leave tourists vulnerable to crime that goes unpunished.
Leaving the confines of the city behind the traffic becomes less grid-locked but more 'dodgems' as the undertaking and tailgating increases in speed and frequency. The obsession with tickets, vouchers and wristbands continues as you book boats, buses or metros - buying a ticket from one person to then hand it directly to the person behind them. Nothing compares to the convoluted systems in nightclubs paying for discount vouchers which you hand over to receive a ticket, which is then traded for a wristband. Drinks are ordered from a cashier booth and a voucher is then redeemed at the bar. Cash often proves a problem in other transactions as there seems to be a universal lack of change in Rio. I've often ended up paying by card for a bottle of water costing R$2 as my R$10 note would be looked at with disgust. It is rather ironic considering large purchases such as accommodation, transfers and tours booked through hostels always seem to be cash only - forcing you to withdraw large sums from cash machines, at vast expense due to withdrawal fees not to mention personal risk.
Somehow though, I have got used to these little nuances, navigating the public transport network, haggling at street food stalls and searching for specific items in the market. The currency is starting to become familiar and I am recognising streets (saying this I did get lost in Santa Teresa and kindly escorted half the way to the hostel by a kind local yesterday). After 3 Friday nights out in Lapa, the last one feeling confident enough to find my own way to a club I'd been to before, with 2 teenage friends in tow, I have fully experienced the energy and party vibe people rave about. It is certainly infectious as you watch the professional samba dancers, attempt to join in and get whisked off your feet by local Forro and Salsa dancers until 4 in the morning (Louise Vernall you would be proud of my late nights). Having had more time than I really needed to see the main tourist sights my pace has slowed right down this week and helped me recover from my 'daycare' cold. Thankfully, the extra time has meant the chance to find activities that I might search for in London such as a fab private capoeira lesson and a contemporary dance class at Deborah Colker's studio that just happens to be next door to my hostel - so I haven't become a complete couch potato. Unfortunately the opportunity to become a beach bum has not been apparent thanks to a sudden cold patch of weather - the Cariocas (Rio locals) don't know what's hit them! Not feeling quite like a Carioca myself thanks to my ability to cope with the cold and my appalling attempts at Portuguese, I am beginning to feel like if I stayed here long enough I could become one.
Saturday, 23 July 2016
Sunday, 17 July 2016
The sights and sounds of Rocinha - and other sensory experiences
As I lie in bed the first sound I hear is the low hum of the air conditioning (a luxury I didn't expect to find in a favela but am very grateful for considering the 32degree heat today). Beyond that I hear the incessant dog barks and, tonight, the wails and clapping of the local churchgoers. The intermittent buzz of a phone receiving a message indicates the presence of wifi (another unanticipated luxury) as the sound of a fellow volunteers snores gradually fills the room.
A few hours ago the thumping bass of Brazilian funk music reverberated between the makeshift brick walls of the favela houses as I sunbathed on the roof of our beautiful, sticks-out-like-a-sore thumb house and watched the tiny little kites flutter above me (a now retired signalling system for the drug dealers who run the favela). Last night the sound of gunshots and fireworks, the new and less weather dependent signs that a meeting with the drug lord is taking place or that the police are coming, pierced the air that was otherwise filled with babies cries.. This is a place where man and beast, tourist, drug dealer and child live in a strange harmony. Funnily enough, despite the obvious criminal activity, as a tourist you are far safer here, where you are protected from the dealers guns by their aim to keep a low profile, than in Rio itself where tourists are targets for street muggings. Nevertheless, the contrast between the innocent little girl I was helping down the uneven steps from the playground and the gangster with a machine gun walking, impatiently, behind us was a stark and disconcerting one. The contrasts continue as brightly coloured walls of graffiti (decorated by a British guy and his enterprising art project) of words like 'esperanca' (hope) and 'paz' (peace) and the faces of Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali frustratingly juxtapose with the haphazard alleyway cement floors complete with potholes, dog dirt, a tangle of pipes and wires and the occasional tidal wave of waste water (Dad, your plumbing expertise are what's needed here).
The layout of the 75,000 inhabitant favela on a steep hillside and its aforementioned alleys make for a 'feel the burn' sensation like no other whilst lugging your backpack, supermarket shopping or daycare donations up the good 200 steps. Wafts of raw sewage, rotting garbage, garlic and weed alternate as you descend into the main town centre awash with bakeries, bars, beauty salons and even a gym. The abundance of street food stalls makes for a delicious snack to fuel your inevitable ascent, my favourites being churros (you know the long donuts filled with chocolate) and acai sorvete (a sorbet made from acai berries). The food at the daycare has also been worth the climb with big helpings of meat and veg served up for lunch with the staple rice and black beans. A few more oranges wouldn't have gone a miss considering the projectile snot emmisions from the majority of the daycare's children and the horrid cold that all the volunteers have developed accordingly. Their big brown eyes and cheeky personalities have just about let them off the hook for infecting me though. As much as I enjoy their company and the opportunity to immerse myself in Portuguese (and learn my colours, numbers and various silly songs) the volunteer project itself is annoyingly inefficient and unorganised with little schedule or direction of what we should be doing and no real interest in using the skills we could offer to enhance the childrens' experience. Only by chance did I get to teach an English lesson when the resident English teacher was away. For once I felt useful for my knowledge of teaching and my native language rather than for my ability to put on shoes, clean teeth and wipe bottoms.
In between daycare hours there has been plenty of siesta time to enjoy other things the favela had to offer; the breathtaking hike up Dois Irmaos (a double peaked mountain above with a stunning view of Rio) and the must-do Rio activity of hang gliding. Ofcourse I felt the need to run off a mountain and get a birds eye view of the favela I've called home for the last 2 weeks and get as close as I could to flying like a bird, coming in to land on the local football pitch otherwise known as the beach. Besides drugs the favelas of Brazil's biggest export is professional football players, with a rumoured 900 players a year emerging from favelas - a figure I can believe judging by the lively football pitches of Rocinha, day or night.
One final sound of the favela to mention is the imaginary 'Big Brother' Geordie voice over in my head as I compare sharing a 4 bed dorm with 6 girls - 2 of whom did not get along - with the reality TV show. . 'Day 4 in the Big Favela house - some of the girls are in the cramped bedroom struggling to find their clothes, the others are on the roof terrace having a heated debate about drugs.'
Despite the difficult living conditions and frustrations with my role at the daycare I have thoroughly enjoyed my time in the favela, being part of a poor, corrupt but on the whole happy community and meeting some inspirational locals and foreigners alike, working to improve the favela in whatever way they can.
A few hours ago the thumping bass of Brazilian funk music reverberated between the makeshift brick walls of the favela houses as I sunbathed on the roof of our beautiful, sticks-out-like-a-sore thumb house and watched the tiny little kites flutter above me (a now retired signalling system for the drug dealers who run the favela). Last night the sound of gunshots and fireworks, the new and less weather dependent signs that a meeting with the drug lord is taking place or that the police are coming, pierced the air that was otherwise filled with babies cries.. This is a place where man and beast, tourist, drug dealer and child live in a strange harmony. Funnily enough, despite the obvious criminal activity, as a tourist you are far safer here, where you are protected from the dealers guns by their aim to keep a low profile, than in Rio itself where tourists are targets for street muggings. Nevertheless, the contrast between the innocent little girl I was helping down the uneven steps from the playground and the gangster with a machine gun walking, impatiently, behind us was a stark and disconcerting one. The contrasts continue as brightly coloured walls of graffiti (decorated by a British guy and his enterprising art project) of words like 'esperanca' (hope) and 'paz' (peace) and the faces of Nelson Mandela and Muhammad Ali frustratingly juxtapose with the haphazard alleyway cement floors complete with potholes, dog dirt, a tangle of pipes and wires and the occasional tidal wave of waste water (Dad, your plumbing expertise are what's needed here).
The layout of the 75,000 inhabitant favela on a steep hillside and its aforementioned alleys make for a 'feel the burn' sensation like no other whilst lugging your backpack, supermarket shopping or daycare donations up the good 200 steps. Wafts of raw sewage, rotting garbage, garlic and weed alternate as you descend into the main town centre awash with bakeries, bars, beauty salons and even a gym. The abundance of street food stalls makes for a delicious snack to fuel your inevitable ascent, my favourites being churros (you know the long donuts filled with chocolate) and acai sorvete (a sorbet made from acai berries). The food at the daycare has also been worth the climb with big helpings of meat and veg served up for lunch with the staple rice and black beans. A few more oranges wouldn't have gone a miss considering the projectile snot emmisions from the majority of the daycare's children and the horrid cold that all the volunteers have developed accordingly. Their big brown eyes and cheeky personalities have just about let them off the hook for infecting me though. As much as I enjoy their company and the opportunity to immerse myself in Portuguese (and learn my colours, numbers and various silly songs) the volunteer project itself is annoyingly inefficient and unorganised with little schedule or direction of what we should be doing and no real interest in using the skills we could offer to enhance the childrens' experience. Only by chance did I get to teach an English lesson when the resident English teacher was away. For once I felt useful for my knowledge of teaching and my native language rather than for my ability to put on shoes, clean teeth and wipe bottoms.
In between daycare hours there has been plenty of siesta time to enjoy other things the favela had to offer; the breathtaking hike up Dois Irmaos (a double peaked mountain above with a stunning view of Rio) and the must-do Rio activity of hang gliding. Ofcourse I felt the need to run off a mountain and get a birds eye view of the favela I've called home for the last 2 weeks and get as close as I could to flying like a bird, coming in to land on the local football pitch otherwise known as the beach. Besides drugs the favelas of Brazil's biggest export is professional football players, with a rumoured 900 players a year emerging from favelas - a figure I can believe judging by the lively football pitches of Rocinha, day or night.
One final sound of the favela to mention is the imaginary 'Big Brother' Geordie voice over in my head as I compare sharing a 4 bed dorm with 6 girls - 2 of whom did not get along - with the reality TV show. . 'Day 4 in the Big Favela house - some of the girls are in the cramped bedroom struggling to find their clothes, the others are on the roof terrace having a heated debate about drugs.'
Despite the difficult living conditions and frustrations with my role at the daycare I have thoroughly enjoyed my time in the favela, being part of a poor, corrupt but on the whole happy community and meeting some inspirational locals and foreigners alike, working to improve the favela in whatever way they can.
Friday, 8 July 2016
Going with the flow in Rio!
After a fairly bumpy taxi ride with my new mate Connor (we got asked to get out of the taxi at a petrol station after he'd told me of his friend who was held at gunpoint by a taxi driver) the check in at the hostel was very smooth. My plan to nap when I arrived went straight out the window as there was free breakfast (including incredible banana cake and eggy bread) in half an hour and fellow travelers,arriving that morning, to get to know.
An instant group of solo travelers formed, all looking for someone to explore the city with and, it seemed, we were all either very easy going or interested in similar things and so my suggestion of doing a walking tour of the old city was quickly taken up and an impromptu stroll to the nearest beach (Flamengo) was proposed to fill the time before it started. I felt quite proud of myself for being so spontaneous within the first few hours of my trip.
The first day continued to whizz by (considering I still hadn't slept since leaving home) as our guide, David, from the hostel showed us around Lapa and the historical centre as history - including a large amount of European facts we probably should have known - flowed from his mouth. The Escadaria Selaron (the iconic tiled staircase in Lapa), the Novo Catedral (like a 60s tower block crossed with a Mayan temple) and the Palacio Tiradentes (the old Houses of Parliament) were particular highlights as we ran after David and lost a few dawdlers on the way. The tour ended with a ride on the 5-day-old tram built for the Olympics and a meaty feast of Churassco (grilled meats with rice, chips and a sprinkle of salad - a cursory nod to healthy eating). I was rather pleased with Rio so far!
Disappointments soon followed in the form of a cloudy, dull copacabana beach and a walk along it that ended abruptly when one of my companions had to fight off a guy attempting to rob her necklace. At this point going with the flow felt like more of a necessity, as I went along with a walk down a stormy looking beach for fear of going it alone back to the hostel. The inevitable flocking together of solo travelers can also prove inefficient, I've already found, when waiting for everyone to
be ready to leave or getting everyone through a ticket barrier.
But it does make for a fun night out, as I discovered on my first night. The free-poured hostel caipirinhas were followed by an escorted walk to a club in Lapa with David, where more caipirinhas helped us find our flow on the dance floor. We were a great dance troupe - each of us with an individual style and when the samba dancers arrived both the girls and guys couldn't wait to shake their thing with the exotic half naked vision of a woman! Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of the night to illustrate how beautiful she was or how fast her footwork was as, as a precaution, we were told not to take our cameras or phones. (Great advice considering the one guy who ignored the advice got mugged by a transvestite).
The night out was anything but a let down and the main tourist attractions I accomplished in the next few days followed suit. The view from Christ the redeemer was worth the crowds we fought through/stepped over for our selfie-taking exploits and my meander around Santa Teresa with Martina from Slovenia was charming, in part, due to our lack of a good map forcing us to amble through the quiet streets and stumble across the faded mansions we'd read about. A spontaneous trip up Pao de Acucar (sugar loaf) was squeezed in when Martina realised her flight left Rio in 3hrs as we walked past the bus stop that lead to the cable car up there. Despite the hazy view of the city it was a fun ride above the rock climbers and beaches below.
After all this hopping on and off buses and metros and a great introduction to collective solo travel I felt ready to venture out alone for the first time. Just me and my backpack made it to my next hostel in Copacabana, via the metro and a confusing convo with a local whom I gathered was offering to help me find a room. I checked in, found a supermarket and wandered onto the beach only to bump into the other girls, i'd briefly been introduced to the day before, on the sand. My solo travel plans were out the window and impromptu friend-making began once more.
N.b see my 'Discovering Rio' album on Facebook for accompanying pictures, trying to add photos to the blog has taken atleast an hour and still not working!
An instant group of solo travelers formed, all looking for someone to explore the city with and, it seemed, we were all either very easy going or interested in similar things and so my suggestion of doing a walking tour of the old city was quickly taken up and an impromptu stroll to the nearest beach (Flamengo) was proposed to fill the time before it started. I felt quite proud of myself for being so spontaneous within the first few hours of my trip.
The first day continued to whizz by (considering I still hadn't slept since leaving home) as our guide, David, from the hostel showed us around Lapa and the historical centre as history - including a large amount of European facts we probably should have known - flowed from his mouth. The Escadaria Selaron (the iconic tiled staircase in Lapa), the Novo Catedral (like a 60s tower block crossed with a Mayan temple) and the Palacio Tiradentes (the old Houses of Parliament) were particular highlights as we ran after David and lost a few dawdlers on the way. The tour ended with a ride on the 5-day-old tram built for the Olympics and a meaty feast of Churassco (grilled meats with rice, chips and a sprinkle of salad - a cursory nod to healthy eating). I was rather pleased with Rio so far!
Disappointments soon followed in the form of a cloudy, dull copacabana beach and a walk along it that ended abruptly when one of my companions had to fight off a guy attempting to rob her necklace. At this point going with the flow felt like more of a necessity, as I went along with a walk down a stormy looking beach for fear of going it alone back to the hostel. The inevitable flocking together of solo travelers can also prove inefficient, I've already found, when waiting for everyone to
be ready to leave or getting everyone through a ticket barrier.
But it does make for a fun night out, as I discovered on my first night. The free-poured hostel caipirinhas were followed by an escorted walk to a club in Lapa with David, where more caipirinhas helped us find our flow on the dance floor. We were a great dance troupe - each of us with an individual style and when the samba dancers arrived both the girls and guys couldn't wait to shake their thing with the exotic half naked vision of a woman! Unfortunately I don't have any pictures of the night to illustrate how beautiful she was or how fast her footwork was as, as a precaution, we were told not to take our cameras or phones. (Great advice considering the one guy who ignored the advice got mugged by a transvestite).
The night out was anything but a let down and the main tourist attractions I accomplished in the next few days followed suit. The view from Christ the redeemer was worth the crowds we fought through/stepped over for our selfie-taking exploits and my meander around Santa Teresa with Martina from Slovenia was charming, in part, due to our lack of a good map forcing us to amble through the quiet streets and stumble across the faded mansions we'd read about. A spontaneous trip up Pao de Acucar (sugar loaf) was squeezed in when Martina realised her flight left Rio in 3hrs as we walked past the bus stop that lead to the cable car up there. Despite the hazy view of the city it was a fun ride above the rock climbers and beaches below.
After all this hopping on and off buses and metros and a great introduction to collective solo travel I felt ready to venture out alone for the first time. Just me and my backpack made it to my next hostel in Copacabana, via the metro and a confusing convo with a local whom I gathered was offering to help me find a room. I checked in, found a supermarket and wandered onto the beach only to bump into the other girls, i'd briefly been introduced to the day before, on the sand. My solo travel plans were out the window and impromptu friend-making began once more.
N.b see my 'Discovering Rio' album on Facebook for accompanying pictures, trying to add photos to the blog has taken atleast an hour and still not working!
Saturday, 2 July 2016
Flying solo
As Louise put in her farewell Facebook post that made me cry at the airport, I am indeed 'Flying Solo'. I had been trying to distract myself from the idea of leaving my friends and family for the next 3 months whilst I sat in my packed up room Thursday morning as my sub-renter unpacked into it. It was only I got to the airport that it hit me and I hesitated for a few minutes before checking in my beloved backpack. The fear factor had definitely kicked in, replacing any excitement or feigned indifference from earlier in the day. I couldn't even bring myself to take a so-long selfie, for fear of looking ridiculous! I called home (as is my wont when feeling nervous/angry/upset) and realised it won't be that easy to find reassurance when I'm much further from home.
My mild fear of flying added to the plethora of emotions as I boarded the first plane and Adele's 'Hometown Glory' shuffled onto my iPod as I took a long last look at Heathrow (and the ensuing traffic jam of BA planes. Heathrow isn't exactly my hometown, but it represented London - the place I've called home for the last four years, and will likely miss, despite its flaws - 'memories are fresh, oh the people I've met'.
Next through my headphones played the classic David Gray lyrics 'Sail away with me, what will be will be' as the plane took off and I longed for Louise, my long-time travel companion to appear in the vacant seat beside me. I had a little tear before trying to distract myself with writing this blog - not a great distraction admittedly. A better distraction from my feelings was the Lufthansa factor - leather seats, leg room and ofcourse the free snacks - a welcome change from my recent flights with Ryan air and Easyjet.
Then my iPod died - so no more song lyrics for now! But I found a friend at Frankfurt airport who happened to be staying at the same hostel as me in Rio - what are the chances?
No longer flying alone, and with the knowledge that I had someone to get to the hostel with, the second flight was much less nerve wracking, despite it taking me thousands of miles from home. But really the hard part starts when you land, all you have to do to fly across the world is decide to get on the plane.
My mild fear of flying added to the plethora of emotions as I boarded the first plane and Adele's 'Hometown Glory' shuffled onto my iPod as I took a long last look at Heathrow (and the ensuing traffic jam of BA planes. Heathrow isn't exactly my hometown, but it represented London - the place I've called home for the last four years, and will likely miss, despite its flaws - 'memories are fresh, oh the people I've met'.
Next through my headphones played the classic David Gray lyrics 'Sail away with me, what will be will be' as the plane took off and I longed for Louise, my long-time travel companion to appear in the vacant seat beside me. I had a little tear before trying to distract myself with writing this blog - not a great distraction admittedly. A better distraction from my feelings was the Lufthansa factor - leather seats, leg room and ofcourse the free snacks - a welcome change from my recent flights with Ryan air and Easyjet.
Then my iPod died - so no more song lyrics for now! But I found a friend at Frankfurt airport who happened to be staying at the same hostel as me in Rio - what are the chances?
No longer flying alone, and with the knowledge that I had someone to get to the hostel with, the second flight was much less nerve wracking, despite it taking me thousands of miles from home. But really the hard part starts when you land, all you have to do to fly across the world is decide to get on the plane.
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