"Tourists and Hookers "
I got a lot of advice before leaving for Brazil. “Bring lots of condoms” was, in fact, the most frequent recommendation. It seemed everyone had confidence, perhaps misplaced considering some of my more recent rants, in my still untested ability to close the dirty deal in Brazil. One friend actually went so far as to suggest that if I couldn’t hook up in Brazil, I’m probably gay.
My boss told me that I had to be careful in Brazil. He’s spent a fair amount of time in South America, and was apprehensive about my taking this trip. He warned me damn near daily for a week. He made it appear as if Brazil was populated solely by Marxist guerrilla bandits, Mafia drug lords, shifty pickpockets, unclean hookers, and well-armed kidnappers. He recommended an armed guard at least, a contingent of Marines at best. “Remember, John (a customer of mine) got rolled on the beach in Ipanema.” Of course, John, a multimillionaire entrepreneur, was wearing a twelve pound Rolex and probably was using a gangsta-size roll of Franklins to rent beach chairs.
“Don’t bring your camera.” “Don’t bring your laptop.” Of course, these grave suggestions were almost always followed by an enthusiastic “take lots of pictures” and an anxious “I can’t wait for you to email your travel story”. Less adventuresome souls nearly always feel compelled to live vicariously, even to the extent that they contradict themselves.
Carnival. I was told I was headed into a government sponsored party zone, population, twelve million. Bring your feather boa and a bathing suit. Leave your morality at home. You’ve been invited to a citywide glitter ball hosted by Hugh Hefner and complete with thousands of tan and thonged rear ends wiggling to my delight from dusk till dawn.
So flying to Rio, I had it in my head that Brazil was a country of exotic and voluptuous women who spend all day lounging on the beach in wearing nothing more substantial than dental floss - mint flavor for the fashionable elite. I expected that Rio would be a city utterly teeming with nubile and erotic women, straight out of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue, who all spoke adorably accented English and craved young American man-flesh. I expected 24 hours of tropical sunshine followed by 24 hours of costumed, glittering, gyrating chaos, erupting into a sweaty, samba-fueled orgy in the streets. I also expected a seedy and dangerous city in which an unwary traveler could be marked, conned, rolled, beaten, stabbed, kidnapped, and/or fed to hungry, rabid piranha with a taste for imported organic white meat.
Believe it or not, I was wrong on most counts.
On Feb 6th Todd and I flew to Dallas. The following morning, we flew from Dallas to Miami. We had a four hour layover in Miami before boarding another plane to Sao Paulo, followed by yet another to Rio. Considering we faced another day of airlines and airports, customs and canned air, after landing in Miami, with the temperature a comfortable 82, we looked at one another and said nearly in unison, “South Beach.” A fifteen-minute cab ride later, we were in an Ocean Street bar, drinks in hand, sun on face, shirts off back. As layovers go (and considering my recent travel history including Africa and post 9-11 New York, I have some experience here), this one was about as good as they come. The weekend’s onslaught of bikini clad eastern girls was starting, and for three hours, we sat and watched Miami’s famous flesh parade in the comfort of an Atlantic breeze.
A little less than one day later, simultaneously anxious and weary, we landed in Rio.
A warm, but dreary and overcast Rio. Our first three days in Rio were beset by cloudy skies and rain. The tropical sunshine so famous for tanning the bottoms of Brazilian women was only a sporadic visitor upon our arrival. We worried that we would return to the states sporting the very same shade of pasty computer geek that we arrived with. Thankfully, the cloud cover was short lived, and eventually, we were able to soak up some UV and hasten our seemingly inevitable demise from skin cancer. As you probably guessed, we spent a lot of time on Rio’s beaches.
We had an beach front apartment in Copacabana. My friend Rose took care of these accommodations and our itinerary. In 1998, I took a vacation to South America to hike the Inca Trail and visit the ruins of Machu Picchu. On that trip, I met a young lawyer from Porto Alegre, Brazil who was also keen on seeing the heart of the Inca Empire. During the steepest part of the hike, as I labored in the sun with a big 40 pound pack and a blinding case of altitude sickness, Rose came bouncing past me with a smile. But what caught my attention was the coca leaf she had licked and stuck to the center of her forehead for motivation on the trudge up those 300 sickeningly steep vertical meters of Peruvian trail. Rose and I have been friends ever since. But I wrote about this before. She is a woman of intense enthusiasm, with a healthy dose of goofy and perhaps a dash of trouble thrown in too.
We were also met by Rose’s friend Erika, another lawyer who works in Sao Paulo. Erika is a young and attractive woman who possessed the seemingly boundless energy of a four year old. A veritable Energizer Bunny with a JD. God knows where she keeps the batteries.
These two lovely tour guides, cheerleaders, samba instructors and tireless travel companions had insatiable appetites for the beach, were fully canonized high priestesses in the temple of sun worship, and could dance circles around the two skinny American boys who shared this vacation. Evenings with them started at midnight and ended near and occasionally past dawn.
When we arrived in Rio, we were met at the airport by a tan, round and friendly man wearing shorts and flop flops. He was contracted by the owner of our accommodations to drive us from the airport to the digs in Copa.
Like most of the Carioca’s we met (a Carioca is a resident of Rio), he spoke nearly no English. This did not stop him from jabbering away at us during our ride to Copacabana pointing out anything and everything of interest. Luckily between our trusty Lonely Planet Guide and our meager proficiency at Spanish, we could usually get the point. But not always.
This was not uncommon in Rio. Communication in Rio was an interesting adventure and not at all what we expected. Most Cariocas, although thankfully capable of speaking Spanish, cannot speak a lick of English. This is of considerable contrast to the rest of the world, in which spoiled and culturally inept Americans encounter precious few people who cannot speak their language. France is not included here, as the French of course can speak flawless English, they merely choose not to.
For those who think Portuguese is just a lilted version of Spanish, think again. Although the spelling is often quite similar, the pronunciation renders it damn near indecipherable to American ears. Think Spanish spoken by a drunk Italian with no teeth. That’s what you hear. Well, that’s you hear if you are an uncultured, uncouth, internationally challenged American who can barely manage English let alone Portuguese.
Rose and Erika spent hours trying to get us to pronounce things correctly. I figure next time I’ll just try speaking Spanish with a couple mashmallows in my cheeks. I might have a better shot of getting it right.
Our feeble and comically inept attempts at communication were met with an even greater degree of befuddlement from the Cariocas who had to suffer though our obviously butchered version of Portuguese. After six days in Brazil, my ability to communicate remained limited to saying hello (ola) and thank you (obrigado), and, depending on how many I had already tossed back, if lucky, I could order a drink or two (mais duas caipirinas por favor).
Case in point – ordering a drink. A can of Quat Guarana Cola – a very popular and very tasty soft drink sold in Brazil.
“Guarana por favor.”
Look of puzzlement.
“Guar-a-na”
Shakes his head.
“Quat Guaran-a”
He looks at me like with the same wide-eyed head tilt as a confused puppy.
Finally, with disgust, “Coca-Cola”. This of course regarded with a big smile and total comprehension. Goddam McWorld. The worst of American culture is nearly impossible to escape.
Ordering drinks – at least for the first few days – was primarily an exercise of drunken charades. Pointing at bottles against the wall of a noisy nightclub until our bartender picked the right drink. Menus and tourist shops were navigated with the same aplomb. And asking for the check was accomplished either by brandishing money or a random assortment of English and Spanish words for pen, check, card, bill, money until comprehension was finally achieved.
Speaking of caipirinas, this is the drink of choice for the Carioca. Caipirinas are a truly evil and oh so tasty concoction of crushed lime, cachaca, a locally produced alcohol made from sugar cane, and sugar, all poured over ice. One caipirina, properly made, is capable of instantly launching your BAC into the ozone layer. And Todd and I spent a good portion of the trip exploring the culinary complexities of this local alcoholic delicacy.
Unfortunately, we found this to be the best part of Rio’s dining. I expected exotic foods and potent sensual spices. We found flavorless fried foods, dishes completely absent of pepper, and even the best restaurants lacking even mild spice. The food, in sharp contrast to the spice of the city was, sadly, relatively flavorless. The locally produced wine – even worse. Think Dimetap with a cork.
Of course, we made up for it with the frequent ingestion of cachaca.
The Mighty Jimbo did some drinking on this trip. I was enjoying a caipirina at least once a day, and on our last night in Rio, at least once an hour, from midnight till – well, I don’t know when. I just know the sun was up, and we were sitting on the beach, dripping wet, after running into the surf at dawn. With our clothes on. I think that decision came about when one of wondered how cold the water was. At the time it seemed the best way to find out.
Of course this was my only pair of pants, and even after a not so thorough rinsing in the shower, I still had to endure an overnight flight in them with sand abrading me in areas where you’d really prefer to leave your skin intact.
I think that’s why sex on the beach sounds good conceptually, but in practice is just a little too gritty for me. But perhaps I’m sharing too much. Regardless, if you wanted to have sex on the beach, Rio is about as good a town as you will find anywhere.
Rio de Janeiro is a spectacular and modern city blessed with perhaps the best and most exotic location on Earth. Imagine taking the dozens of rolling and dramatic granite domes of Tuolumne Meadows, and transplanting them to Waikiki Beach. Put that image in your head, and you have a good idea as what to expect in Brazil. It’s a city of dramatic contrast and color.
If you like the outdoors, you are going to love Rio. Sadly Todd and I only had a week or so to spend in Rio and couldn’t partake in a fraction of what Rio had to offer. Take a hundred granite domes, throw in a tropical climate complete with lush forests and warm Atlantic water, and you’ve got a near perfect local for climbing, biking, diving, gliding, boating, surfing, sailing, and sweaty, near naked samba dancing in streets. That’s Rio.
Of course once I saw all those towering gray domes I was wishing I had brought my rack to go climbing. It’s good indication of just how twisted my head when I’m surrounded by sparking beaches allegedly teeming with girls in thongs, and I’m thinking about what time the rock is in the shade, hoping to cling precariously to a blistering hot slab of granite. I did not bring a rack, and at least this time, we didn’t go to Rio to climb. This was to be a decidedly urban vacation.
Be that as it may, we clearly didn’t go to Rio to be inspired by the architecture. Although Rio is a tall and modern city, the newer buildings are sadly all built with the same drab, dirty, and utterly uninspired, unfinished concrete block that constructs most of Latin America. Is there a paint shortage in South America? I always want to know.
However, despite it’s underwhelming gray boxes that pass for modern architecture, the buildings of Rio are all set amongst pristine white sand beaches, calm blue bays, thickly forested hills, and stunning gray cliffs. I suppose you don’t need to manufacture beauty when you are nestled comfortably in nature’s bosom.
Rio is a wealthy and cosmopolitan city. Mansions dot the hills, and huge glass apartments stretch along every beach. The roads are busy with new cars, and the night clubs are packed with the well dressed and clearly well to do. But in contrast to the fabulous tree lined neighborhoods and busy beaches are the massive shantytowns that grow in a strange organic beauty over the once empty hillsides of Rio. These shantytowns are known as “favelas”. Think South Central, built with stucco, corrugated tin, and blue tarps. I’m told the favelas are about as safe as South Central for the wandering, camera toting tourist in cargo pants. Todd and I steered well clear of the favelas on this trip; however, there are companies that run tours through them. As interested as I was in taking this tour, it feels both bougois and dirty. Like a poverty safari. Let’s get a bunch of rich white folks and drive them through the urban jungle.
“Ooo look Margie, poor people.”
Sadly, one fifth of Rio’s population lives in this challenging environment. The line between the haves and have-nots is quite clear in Rio. Tin and stucco, windowless structures and dirt roads juxtaposed against million dollar mansions and beaches lined with high-rise hotels and apartment buildings. But surprisingly enough, the favelas add remarkable color and spice to the urban landscape, and Rio just wouldn’t look the same without them.
Still, I’m glad our apartment was well removed. We had an apartment on the third floor of one of those fairly ubiquitous high-rise Copacabana buildings. The room was procured for us by Rose. Rose coordinated all little details on our little South American sojourn, from lodging to our costumes. The room was small and Spartan. We had a decent sized bedroom with a full bed, a small community area with a typically uncomfortable fold out futon and an archaic television complete with broken rabbit ears, and a tiny but functional kitchenette.
Our room also had a shower with a gas-powered heater that wasn’t working when we arrived. The pilot light wasn’t lit, and every time we turned on the hot water, the bathroom would fill with natural gas. Auto-off valves apparently aren’t required for furnaces in Rio. Maybe they figure with the shower on, who needs to worry about fire. Either way, every shower for the first day left you clean and nauseated from the fumes. It’s a good thing you can’t smoke in the shower or someone would have burned the place down long ago.
Actually, if this kind of water heater is common in Rio, perhaps someone did try to smoke in the shower. On our way to Lapa to find dinner and a party we passed one of Rio’s high rises with the fifth floor entirely engulfed in flames. I tried to take a picture of the scene from the window of our speeding cab, but no one was slowing down to catch a better view. The photo as you probably guessed the image exposed as nothing more than a bright orange blur. Oddly enough, this towering inferno didn’t stop traffic. Didn’t even slow it down. In LA, a guy changing a tire will usually stop traffic for a five mile radius. In Rio, a burning building apparently isn’t of enough significance to slow the cabs.
A party, however, is. During Carnival buses filled with amplifiers and a roof full of revelers drive through the crowded streets, samba music blasting from the dozens of speakers, while throngs of sweaty tourists parade behind them.
Now I never did figure out if these busses were on some kind of schedule, who sponsored them, or what they were there for, but every so often, the frenetic sounds of samba would reverberate from an alley, and a bus would appear. This has the effect on traffic as you expect, but Carioca cabbies all seem to know how to escape the congestion that should ensnarl the one-way streets of Copa.
These bus parties were actually really timid by Mardi Gras standards. Although the samba Carnival and parade was everything you would expect from Carnival, the raucous street parties, the sweaty drunken masses wiggling in unison through the streets – all imaginary as far as I can tell.
The best party we found was actually in the streets of Lapa where the local Cariocas all went to play. In Lapa we found good food, cheap cachaca, street music and thousands of local kids moving from block to block, following the sounds of the samba bands, and dancing whenever the mood struck them. It was a great street scene, but nothing like the costumed chaos that one envisions when they think of Carnival.
I was told afterward the real parties, the pagan, carnal binges of lust and vice that exemplify Rio’s Carnival are found in nightclubs at Carnival Balls. Erika and Rose wanted nothing to do with Carnival Balls. Too expensive. Too crazy. Nothing but tourists and hookers they said. We however, were undeterred.
Come to think of it, we were now pretty motivated. Tourists and Hookers! Woo Hoo!
This idea of this party is much more appealing than the reality. Todd and I went to a ball at Help, a large and noisy club in Copa. The place was packed with more sweaty flesh than Rosanne’s corset. It was chaotic to say the least. Dangerous to say the most. Walking in I felt I was at the scene of one of those clubs that inevitably will make the evening news when 2000 people become trapped in a structure fire and die in a crushing stampede for the doors. The loud samba beat kept the sea of flesh on the dance floor gyrating. Most of this flesh belonged to overwhelmingly intoxicated male tourists and the g-stringed and generally unattractive prostitutes that picked their pockets.
Basically, Help was hot, crowded, smelly, unattractive, uncomfortable, and we were totally underwhelmed. After ten minutes in there, the only help I wanted was in finding the door. It was the last night out we would spend in Copa.
Copacabana is a long stretch of sand lined with high rises. It’s a beautiful beach with an amazing view of the famous Sugar Loaf Mountain. But if I were to head back to Rio again, I would have to stay in Ipanema. Ipanema also has a long and popular beach, but Ipanema is also filled with attractive tree-lined neighborhoods, shops and restaurants.
Copa just didn’t have the same style as Ipanema or Lagoa. It was drenched in tourists. The shops and streets were uninspiring, and the nights were just teeming with prostitutes. And like most of the prostitutes I have encountered in the world (encountered – not employed), not very attractive.
Sadly, this can also be said for many of the people at the beach. Let me clear up this misconception of Rio. Americans think Rio’s beaches are populated only by thousands of beautiful girls in teeny, tiny bathing suits and with no discernible tan lines. This is for the most part correct. Except those bathing suits are not worn solely by the beautiful people. Everybody is wearing them – regardless of shape, condition, age, weight, or personal grooming habits. For every statuesque Carioca in a dental floss bikini (and admittedly there are many of them), there are ten of her great aunts wearing the very same suit.
Tiny bathing suits are not limited to the female gender either. Plum smuggling is rampant in Rio, as any trip to the beach will affirm.
Apart from this perfectly legal form of expression, we found Rio wasn’t nearly as criminal an environment as anticipated. Before I left, I was worried about my money, worried about my digital camera, and I left the laptop at home. I left my Canon SLR at home. Talking to some of my friends, they felt I should leave my kidneys at home for fear of becoming a walking urban legend.
I’m not sure where this crime is found. I admit I wasn’t cruising for chicks in the favelas, but we didn’t suffer any problems while in Rio. Of course, we did spend most of our time in popular and upscale neighborhoods, in a group of four, flanked by two local ladies, and never wearing anything more flashy than cargo pants and a T-shirt. On top of that, both Todd and I have spent more than our fair share of time overseas in both major urban centers and filthy third world dives and know quite well how to keep safe regardless of environment. There are certainly easier marks.
Of course, our razor sharp street smarts didn’t work too well when a fifty dollar bottle of champagne disappeared from the sand about three inches from Todd’s head while he and Erika were “resting” (a likely story kids) on the beach in the wee hours of the night. We had bought the champagne as a gift for Rose who had organized the whole trip. It’s a shame we lost the champagne. Despite all the misconceptions, Rio is an amazing place to visit. The people are friendly and affectionate, and I can’t think of a better time to go than during Carnival. I drank and danced and caroused in one of the most spectacular cities in the world. None of it would have been possible without Rose. I wish she had the chance to enjoy her gift. I suppose if we hadn’t been unavoidably, uh, detained, and had we met up with Erika and Todd earlier, we might have saved the champagne. But not every assumption about Brazil was wrong (wink). Regardless, if a stolen bottle of champagne is the only trouble found on a trip to Rio, than my own crime was leaving after only a week.
