Thursday, September 2, Rio de Janeiro
At first everything was going great: my flight to Rio had been on time; I had gotten the green light and just walked through customs; and I quickly found the right bus to Copacabana beach. As we neared the beach, I started thinking about where I wanted to stay. It would be fun to have a really nice room for the first few days, I decided. It was when I started thinking about how much I was willing to pay, that I started thinking about how I would pay - with my credit card, of course. Yes, my credit card. Let's see, where had I put it? Was it with my passport? No. With my travelers checks, then? No. Did I have it at all? Oh god, no! I had some cash with me, of course, but probably not enough. As we rode along I did a little mental math to see how long my limited funds might last. I realized I would definitely need my credit card.
About this time the bus stopped: Copacabana beach. Well, I still needed a hotel but I guess it would be stupid to spend all my cash on some fancy hotel now. Oh I had my heart set on a beachfront room. What a shame it would be to come so far and have to stay in some back alley place. So I walked past the fancy hotels and down to the far end of the beach. There I took a room in the DeBret hotel, a place that I knew was both on the beach and relative inexpensive.
After I checked in ("You don't have a credit card?" the desk clerk asked.) and got to my room (yes, with an ocean view!) I called back to my office in Michigan and asked a friend to go to my house, get my card and FedEx it to me. This took two phone calls to accomplish, but I was assured it would be at the hotel by Monday - as long as it didn't get held up in customs. (Oh, if it had only been that simple - getting that damn card became an obsession.) That accomplished I tried to put the whole matter out of mind and headed out to explore Rio.
I had deliberately come to Rio without a concrete plan. I was sick of preplanned trip. My last three trips, for various reasons, had all been prebooked and I wanted to just take things day by day. There is a tremendous feeling of freedom in doing that - it's one of the reasons I love to travel. All the rest of my life sometimes feels "prebooked" and I love nothing better than just to wander with the hope that I'll find something wonderful around the next corner. Anyway, I had done some research and had a general idea where I could go in Brazil and what would be interesting to see.
I was famished and needed to get something toeat, so my first stop was a restaurant. I found a little open front café a block back from the beach and ordered fried-eggs and beer, the only two items I recognized on the menu. I knew only a few words of Portuguese and nothing at all about Brazilian food. Here was a place where my lack of planning didn't work too well.
Anyway, when my food needs were satisfied, I walked around investigating the area near my hotel: there were bars, restaurants, supermarkets, and shops of all kinds. The people spanned the whole spectrum from rich old ladies walking their lap dogs to homeless sitting in doorways; from middle class-sorts with briefcases to tourist in bathing suits. I knew immediately I was going to like Copacabana - it was rich with things to see. Like all densely populated areas much of the life took place in the streets.
Next I decided to do a little sight seeing. There is a huge rock formation in Rio, near downtown at the waters edge, knows as Sugar Loaf. If you are a James Bond fan you saw him battle "Jaws" on the cable car that ascends to the top. That's where I decided to head - but how would I get there?
Rio has a really bad reputation and I had been told repeatedly to avoid the local buses. Walking around I felt safe and I just couldn't see how the buses could be that bad, so I decided to give them a try. I had left all my valuables in the safe in my room, so what did I have to lose? One street back from the beach is the main route for buses heading back toward downtown Rio. I walked around a little until I found the stop for bus #511, the one heading to Sugar Loaf.
I'll admit I was a little nervous after all the warnings, so I stood for awhile to see how things worked. I saw that passengers entered the bus by the rear door and paid the conductor who was setting there. I couldn't see how much they were paying. The whole thing looked safe and, this being midday, the buses weren't full. What the heck: I stuck a couple of single Rial notes in my shirt pocket to cover the fare and hopped on the next bus.
I took a seat where I could keep an eye on both the people sitting near me and the street ahead. As we rode along I followed our progress on my map so I knew where we were. The streets we passed through were full of shoppers and I always find it pleasant to sit and watch the activity in the street from a moving bus.
As we neared the spot where I figured I should get off, a man sitting directly behind me said something. I knew he was there because when he sat down I looked around to see what he looked like - you see, I was being very cautious. Anyway, he leaned over and said in perfect English, "You get off at the next exit for Sugar Loaf." And I thought I was being sly and that no one would notice me.
He got off with me and pointed to the cable car entrance before heading off in the opposite direction. That pretty much summarizes my experience in Brazil: I was always being cautious and the Brazilians were always being helpful.
I bought a ticket and rode to the top with a load of tourists. The view was somewhat diminished by the mist in the air but still worth the trip. It's from this vantage point that you can see how remarkably beautiful Rio really is. There is the ocean on one side and the mountains on the other with the city spread out in between. I found Rio lovely from just about every angle.
At the top I talked to a few folks - a guy from Canada and another from California - and then made the decent. Getting back to Copacabana was slightly more complicated as the bus I had taken here runs a long circular route before returning. I decided to walk up to the first major intersection and take a bus back from there. That worked great.
The rest of the day I occupied myself by walking the streets of Copacabana, taking pictures and drinking beer (chopp) at the little stands that line the beach promenade. They are open day and night and are a very pleasant place to sit and watch the constant foot traffic by the beach. You can hear the ocean and watch the beach soccer and volleyball too - never a dull moment in Rio.
In late afternoon I took a nap - it had been a long, trying day. When I woke, I could see there was a little craft market being set up in the median of Alantica Avenue, the main street along the beach. It turned out to be there every evening. You can buy fake Brazilian license plates, bikinis, woodcarvings, and tee shirts that proclaim that you have been to Rio.
On my way down to the lobby, the elevator stopped and three women got in. I took them to be a mother, daughter and grandmother. The youngest was in a red dress and was extraordinarily good-looking. The mother, just past her prime, was in a black dress, as was the roundly-built grandmother. They stepped in and immediately turned to the mirrored walls. The youngest checked her bright-red lipstick, while her mother checked her slightly bulging waist and frowned. And grandmother? She patted down her raven-black hair - a pretty good head for someone her age. I watched from the corner of my eye feeling somehow privileged to view such an intimate event. Clearly they were on their way out. Immediately I wished I could go with them. Instead I walked over to one of the beach stands and got another ice-cold chopp.
Very, very early the next morning I was awakened by some sounds on the street. I got up and groggily looked out the window. It must have been 3 or 4 in the morning. Much to my surprise the craft market, the beach stands and the restaurants were still swarming with people. "Don't they ever sleep?" I thought as I lay back down. The answer was no. Anytime I looked out at Rio there was activity. And noise: Copacabana was the noisiest place I have ever been. There was always the sound of the surf, the traffic, loud voices, drums playing and sirens wailing. Not much of a place if you want to sleep.
Friday, September 3, Rio de Janeiro
I had a great buffet breakfast. The dining room is on the 11th floor and I could see up and down Copacabana beach. It was quite a pleasant place to sit and work on my journal. I then went looking for a currency exchange shop I had passed yesterday. I finally located it and changed some of my limited dollars for Rials. By the way, the exchange rate is significantly better for cash (R$1.92 = US$1) than for traveler checks (R$1.75 = US$1.)
Next, I took a city bus to the main bus station. I wanted to get a ticket to Parati, a small town about four hours down the coast. I figured that my credit card wouldn't be here before Monday, so why wait around? I could swing back through Rio on my way to my next destination and pick it up then. The real problem was that if it didn't come Monday, I wouldn't be able to get it before Wednesday because Tuesday was a holiday.
The bus ride was long and hot - the streets were thick with traffic. On the way we passed through the downtown part of Rio. It looked interesting and I decided I would stop there on the way back.
I was a little confused about where the bus station was. When we stopped at something that looked like it might be the station, I asked the guy next to me, "Estatcao rodoviaria?" - "Bus Station?" Of course, he didn't understand me. A few other passengers tried to help and finally a young lady who spoke excellent English stepped in. She, it turned out, was going to the bus station and offered to tell me when we were there.
When we got off she offered to help me find the correct office to buy my ticket - good thing, as there are over 80 different windows spread over two floors. The bus station is a huge place. She also helped me buy a ticket. We spent a little time talking - she worked in the newspaper industry also - and then she had to go, but not before putting me on the bus back to downtown Rio.
The downtown area was much like any big city: men in suits with cell phones, thick slow traffic and tall glass-covered buildings. I wandered around for a while and then decide to get something to eat. That meant I had to confront my lack of knowledge about Brazilian food again. As I was walking around I saw an Italian restaurant that was a sign on the front and I could make out the word spaghetti written there. "Hey," I thought, "that should make it easy."
I went in but immediately there was confusion. There was a woman at the door and I thought she wanted to take my order. I said, "Spaghetti," but that didn't seem to satisfy her and soon the owner was called over. He couldn't speak any English either, but at least he ushered me to a table. As I sat down the guy at the next table tried to help, but his English was limited.
Finally after repeatedly saying, "Spaghetti, chopp," someone finally came over with a pan of spaghetti and served me. I thought this odd, bringing the serving pan to the table, but was happy simply to have something to eat. But that wasn't the end. Soon another guy came by and offered me some ravioli. "How nice of them to bring the dish to me so I can see them," I naively thought. And then another guy came by with lasagna and another with something else. Slowly I realized what was going on: this was one of those "all you can eat" restaurants and these were the offerings. They were carrying the pans around to all the diners. That was what everyone was trying to tell me in the first place. Anyway, no harm done and I got lots to eat.
When I got ready to leave I was again the center of attention. The owner came over to say goodbye. I had the guy next to me translate my thanks to the owner. He smiled, shook my hand, patted me lightly on the shoulder and finally walked me to the door. My, these Brazilians certainly were friendly.
From there I walked over to where a ferry left for Niteroi, a small city, a 10-minute ride across the bay from Rio. I wasn't really interested in visiting Niteroi as much as I was in taking a ride. As my guidebook says, "it's the poor man's bay cruise." The ride cost me R$0.90 (US$0.47). Out on the bay the air was cool and I could enjoy the skyline. On the other side I saw a huge dock area where boats were being repaired. I turned right around and took the same boat back.
After walking around some more, I took the subway back to Copacabana. This left me at the opposite end from my hotel and it was a long, but interesting, walk back though the commercial district. It was on this walk that I realized that Copacabana really isn't oriented toward tourist. There are very few shops that carry goods that cater exclusively to tourists. I liked that.
When I got back to the hotel I decided to take advantage of the hot day and go for a swim. I put my trunks on, walked over to the beach and jumped in. Burr, it was cold - but refreshing. Now I can say I have swam in the southern Atlantic.
You might notice how little sightseeing I was doing. That was the plan: to simply satisfy my desire to wander this trip. Forget the museum and churches, I wanted to see how Brazilians lived. Anyway, the rest of the afternoon and evening I spent walking and looking or sitting and watching. Like I have said, Copacabana was a lively and interesting place to visit. I then turned in early as I planned to get an early start the next day.
Saturday, September 4, Parati
The bus to Parati was packed: I guess everyone was trying to get out of Rio for the weekend. After we passed through the usual ugly, industrial suburbs we rode along some spectacular coast. There were little villages with boats pulled up on the beaches. And everything was covered in rich, green vegetation: the hills on one side and the coastal islands on the other. As we neared Parati, we started letting off passengers. By the time we reached the bus station there were very few of us left.
We arrived at about 2:00. I walked into the center of town and stopped at the tourist office. That's where I got the bad news: all the hotels were full. Parati, it seemed, was having a festival.
I figured that all the rooms couldn't have been taken, so I went looking. First, I just walked around aimlessly admiring Parati's cobblestone streets and pastel buildings. It really was quite lovely. Soon I realized I was going to have to get serious if I wanted to find a room. I got out my travel guide and started hitting the hotels they recommend.
I quickly found that the tourist office had been right. Everywhere I heard the same story: full up, no rooms, sorry. After walking around for awhile I started to worry I really might not be able to find a place. I started planning my retreat and wondering when the last bus to Rio would be. God, what shame that would be, to have to go back so soon.
I headed back toward the center of town. Along the way I continued to ask everyone I saw if they had a room. One man, sitting in front of his house, held up four fingers and said, "Quatro," telling me he had a room for four. I held up one finger and said, "Um," in reply. He shook his head slowly, sadly and then pointed next door.
In the next doorway sat a young man wearing just a bathing suit - he was drinking a can of Antarctica beer. I walked over and asked him if he had a room. He smiled at me and held up a finger, like I should wait. When he returned he still had his beer in one hand but now had a key in the other. We stepped into the hallway behind him. He stopped at the first door and opened it. Inside was a large room, empty except for a bed frame sitting in the middle - nothing else.
He waved me in and I took a walk around the room. Off one side there was a bathroom with a shower - but no closet, no coat hangers and certainly no TV. It was Spartan, to be sure, but it was still better than a park bench or a late night ride back to Rio. He pantomimed that he would get me a mattress for the bed. I asked, "How much." He said something I didn't understand so I had him write it down: R$25 (US$13). "I'll take it." He smiled, I smiled.
He then sat his beer down and darted off. A few minutes later he was back with a mattress that he flopped on the bed. Later, I would discover just how hard that darn thing was but right now I was delighted to see my room coming together. More trips netted me bedding (we made the bed together, laughing), a roll of toilet paper, a bar of soap and a towel. Finally he swept the floor as a lovely young woman I took to be his wife stood in the door drinking the beer he had sat down: she was laughing too. I was beginning to love these happy, friendly Brazilians.
Finally he finished and, with a huge smile, handed me the key. Well, now I had a place to sleep! The next thing was to do something about my stomach - it had been growling for the last hour or so. I washed my hands with my new bar of soap and headed out to look for food.
One cobblestone lane over I found another Italian restaurant and ordered spaghetti (again) and chopp. When it came I was amazed how big a plate of food I got. Brazilian dishes always seemed to be big enough for two or three people. Anyway, it was delicious. I then sat finishing my beer and working on my journal. At one point I looked up and standing in the door were a couple that had sat behind me on the bus down from Rio. I invited them to join me and they ordered a beer. They were from England: Roger and Sally. They were probably in their late 40s.
We sat for a while drinking beer, getting to know each other and sharing our impressions of Brazil. Rodger, some kind of academic, was full of himself and I could hardly get a word in edgewise. Sally seemed to enjoy quibbling and took exception to whatever was said. I also realized that they were both drunk. We had one of those meaningless conversations in which the goal is simply to be witty. That aside, they were lively company and it's always nice to have someone to talk to. We then decided to have a look around Parati together.
It was clear a big night was being planned. There were two bandstands being set up at opposite ends of town. Near one was an area with food and beer tents. The local church was covered with a banner and people were milling around everywhere. What good luck I had had: I arrived during this festival and managed to find a place to stay too.
After walking for a while, Roger and Sally invited me back to their room for gin and tonic. This struck me as odd: you can get ice-cold beer just anywhere in Brazil. You can set in pleasant little open-front bars and watch the locals stroll by. Why would you want to drink gin in your room? I could only assume that they needed something stronger to "refuel" on. Oh, maybe I'm just being unkind. Anyway, I had nothing else to do, so off we went.
At their room I discovered they had two bottles of gin - I put them down right then as serious drinkers. After two drinks (I was nearing my limit and knew it) we headed back into town. They were going to look for some place to eat and I planned to walk all this alcohol off - otherwise it was going to be a very short night.
Outside it was getting dark. As we walked along we heard some drumming - loud, insistent drumming. We walked down the street the sound was coming from and found a group of maybe 15-20 young men outfitted with 5 or 6 different kinds of drums. Besides the obvious bass and snare drums there were a couple of middle size and also one that looked like a small tambourine that was played with a single drum stick.
And man did they play. Loud and fast: the kind of drumming that you feel in your belly. They would start a rhythm and then quickly and abruptly add changes to it without breaking the basic pattern. There was one guy in the middle who was directing. He would whistle and then count down to the change on his fingers that he held in the air. It was like nothing I have ever seen. We have drum bands here in the States, but nothing with this kind of precision, nothing with this kind of drive. It was fascinating.
Finally we tore ourselves away and walked back to town. At the town square we parted vowing to meet later. It was now fully dark and a band was playing at one of the bandstands. I stood listening for awhile until the desire to walk overtook me. At the other end of town I watched a ceremony that was going on in the main church. After it was over and people poured out, the band at that end started playing.
After wandering and listening (and sobering up some) I went looking for Roger and Sally. I found them sitting in a restaurant just finishing their dinner. They were also extremely drunk. When I called to them from the door, Sally looked around and waved. She then called Roger's attention my way, but he was too far-gone to focus on me. I waved and left. I wasn't interested in witnessing their further decline.
Soon after that I decided to turn in. My room was about halfway between the two bandstands and as I lay on my unbelievable hard bed I could hear both of them playing late into the night. I guess when Brazilians get going they keep going.
Sunday, September 5, Parati
I slept late and woke refreshed. After I showered I went looking for breakfast - it certainly wasn't going to be included with this room. I found a little bakery and bought some yogurt and pastries. I then retired to the main plaza where I watched the comings and goings as I ate.
When I was done I headed over to the harbor. There is a long pier there and small boats are available for day trips to the surrounding islands. I got there just as the boats were preparing to leave. The passengers looked remarkably like refuges crowded on the deck of the small boats with all their possessions. I'm sure a boat ride would be quite pleasant, but not on one of those packed boats - at least not for me.
I spent the rest of the day exploring Parati with it's hard-to-walk cobble stone streets. The advantage of these streets is that vehicular traffic had to go slow, but it was a miracle that I didn't twist my ankle. I found many lovely flower-lined streets and tourist shops to explore: it was an enjoyable morning.
After lunch - I forget what I had, so it can't have been too exciting - I went back to my room to rest. I was lying on my stone-hard bed when there was a loud knocking at the door. When I opened it I found my ever-smiling landlord, still in that same bathing suit - he must save a fortune on clothes. Anyway, he did a little pantomime, asking if I had eaten. I had but saw a handout coming and so said I hadn't. He ran off and then reappeared with a plate of mussels filled with rice and vegetables. With his huge smile he handed them to me and made a sucking sound as he pointed to the mussel. I guess he was telling me how to eat them.
Well, this isn't the kind of service you get in a regular hotel, is it? Recently I have been staying in big hotels and had forgotten the hospitality and friendship that the more humble accommodations often offer. Anyway, my second lunch was as delicious as it was unexpected.
Just before dark I went out walking. I again heard some drumming and went to investigate. I found a band of maybe 6 or 8 guys playing at a little open-front bar. There were a couple of banjo-like instruments, a guitar and a variety of percussion instruments - and, of course, everybody was singing.
At first I stood a short distance away just listening. Then when they saw me watching, they insisted I come over and join them. I was given a glass of beer and they quickly started another tune. Each time there was a break in the music my glass was refilled. Although no one spoke English, we really didn't have any problem communicating. They made it crystal clear how they felt: they toasted me, shook my hand and gave me the ubiquitous Brazilian thumbs-up. I saw that all-purpose sign used everywhere in Brazil to say, "everything is all right."
The bar was really just a stall where everyone stood around a wooden counter. If I remember right, there was only one chair. There was also a limited selection of beverages. I only saw large bottles of ice-cold Antarctica beer and glasses of some kind of clear, strong liquor. One of the players was particularly fond of that liquor and insisted on sharing his glass with me. They all got a good laugh from the grimace on my face the first time I took a sip. After a few more, it went down easier.
The playing was quite informal with instruments being swapped and members coming and going - even the bartender played sometimes. Several times I was offered a percussion instrument but spared them my terrible sense of rhythm. I was better off just listening.
I don't know much about Brazilian music, but it seemed they were playing some kind of carnival dance tunes. They had a strong, driving rhythm that made my feet want to move and a lively, sweet melody. These guys seemed to have quite a repertory too, as song followed song.
To my surprise, one of the guys - the same one who had originally beckoned me over - directed the rest of the players to stand in a semi-circle around me. They then sang a song to me. That was quite moving: actually it was the high point of my trip. Whenever I think of Brazil now I always think of standing at that little bar having those guys shower me with welcome, beer and music. Ah, Brazil!
Finally it was time to move on. I was pondering whether to buying them all a beer or not, but finally decide against it. Whenever I give someone something I like it best if they just take the gift without feeling they need to reciprocate. I hope they felt the same. So when one of the songs ended I started shaking everyone's hand and telling them how much I had enjoyed their music and hospitality. They smiled at me, gave me the thumbs-up and waved goodbye as I walked off. I didn't get very far before I heard them start up another song.
Back at my room, I went looking for my landlord. I was planning to leave early for Rio - and I hoped, a reunion with my credit card - and I wanted to settle my bill. As best I could I told him I was leaving in the morning, "Manha onibus Rio," (morning bus Rio) and handed him R$50 (US$26). He gave my one of his big smiles, the thumbs-up and shook my hand. It then occurred to me that I should take his picture, so I asked him to step to the entrance of the building. After I took his picture he gave me hug and light kiss on the cheek - hey, this guy gets my vote for Landlord of the Year. I only wish I could send you to stay with him too, but it wasn't really a hotel. It was the room at the entrance to "Pousada da Matriz." Anyway, look for a smiling guy in a bathing suit.
The festival in Parati continued that evening, so I spent my time pretty much as I had the previous evening: listening to music, drinking beer and talking to other visitors. I never did run into Roger and Sally again: I wonder if they left?
Ann Arbor, Michigan
October 1999
Part Two: Sao Joao del Rei & Buzios
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