The Museums - Take Two

The next day arrives and again I devote my morning to the Art Museum. This time though, it is my Lonely Planet guide that stumps me, telling me that it is open earlier than it actually is. Having only a few hours to spare before a tour of the favelas (slums), I end up tossing the gallery in for a look at the Historical Museum uptown. And what a strange collection it is.

In the first room, I wander through the indigenous story of Brazil, awed at the beautiful headdresses and jewellery on display. Then it is through what I could only assume was the tale of city progress, (each room has a mix of translations, ranging from extremely eloquent, to barely legible, to totally non-existent) seen through the technological changes in transport – namely the horse-drawn carriages that graced the streets in the mid-1800s.

The next room holds a pretty decent display of the weapons of war that have shaped Brazil’s history, with everything from guns to uniforms, and swords to coins. History painters fill up the spaces with portraits of the various leaders, while concerto music is played in the background. A little incongruous, or perhaps an attempt to dissuade would-be thiefs from stealing the bounty and taking them to the streets?

The final two exhibitions are temporary ones: the first, a strange tribute to Oriental art and culture, featuring ornate carved furniture, jewellery, delicate fans and the painful shoes of some (hopefully) small children. The next is an interesting walk through the “Casas de Brasilero” (Houses of Brazil) seen through Julio de Mato’s black and white tinted lens. Each canvas print is a little eerie and makes each of the residences look even more like the skeletons of the past than they already are. I don’t really know what to make of it all – culturally – but am left hardly any time to contemplate this, before I have to be back at the hostel.

The Museums - Take One

Realising that the beach would still be packed today, I decided to do a museum/gallery tour around the city to kill some time. Not wanting to brave the bus again, I take the underground train into Cinelandia and walk across to the Contemporary Art Museum. As with most of Rio that was not built in the earlier years of Spanish rule, it is housed in a rough concrete shell, surrounded by the Parco do Flamengo, and overlooking the murky water.

Aiming for the entrance, I spy a lovely pair of dirty underpants on the floor, probably one that has flown away from the homeless people in the park, who are busy washing their clothes in the pond outside. Their appearance seem to sum up my experience, when I quickly realise that my day’s plan have been blown away by the Carnaval party-bus. Apparently Cariocas need an extra half-day to get them over the last four they have had off, and none of my planned stops will be open.

So instead, I walk up the main drag, along Rua Rio Branco, and stumble across an exhibition at the Municipal Chambers. Inside is an awesome street poster-art display that has taken over two rooms, sticking its bright colours and crude pastings to every wall. Trying to make the most of another fruitless situation, I also remember a café my local friend said I should visit, so make my way past the numerous buildings under repair. I assume that most of this is taking place in preparation for Rio’s upcoming Olympic bid, a crazy idea I think, for a place where lawlessness is very much the vogue, and where I am starting to think that the word “standards” has no translation.

Thankfully Confeiteria Colombo is open, so I struggle past the many Brazilian and international tourists to look at the goods on offer. Somewhat of an institution in Rio, it is a quirky Art Noveau-style café that has been running since 1894. A wide selection of sweet and savoury treats are displayed downstairs behind two glass serveries, with a more formal restaurant hovering above. And although not one to eat much cake and the like, I decide that I really can’t go past the Viradinho de Amerixa. A crude cross between a cannoli and croissant, it arrives with a dainty set of cutlery that does not go unused. I eagerly slice through its cream and jam, watching as waiters in checked black and white hover over the circular marble-topped tables, quick to clear and keep the constant flow in motion. It is a welcomed relief to just sit for a while and watch the crowd surrounding me pick up speed, while my body slows down to digest the cream.

Carnaval Has Been...and Nearly Gone

(Hence why I have not posted for a few days)

But finally on the fourth day of public holidays, and what I thought was the last of Carnaval, I decided that it might be best to avoid the 250,000-person-plus crush of the beaches and head to cleaner pastures.

Dragging along my newfound friend from Sydney – yes, you have to travel halfway across the world to meet your neighbours – I set off to find Niteroi’s famed Museum of Contemporary Art. Trying to avoid the deep end, I had already contrived a bus and ferry route to follow that would land us there in enough time to have lunch and move further north to the more localised, less crowded, beaches.

However it soon became clear that finding the actual stop for said bus was going to the first of our many challenges. I quickly remembered something I had read about the kindness of Brazilians in always providing answers or directions for tourists. The only problem was that this information rarely correlated to reality, despite all their good intentions. Three ‘advices’ later, and a trip around the block back past the hostel confirmed that it was on the next street. Easy. Well, until you have to make the bus stop. Hurtling along Rua Barata Ribeiro at about 100km/hr, the 415 to Placa XV was certainly not accepting passengers who didn’t put up a good fight. So putting myself clearly in its path, and halfway across the main road, I took it on, and thankfully won.

Finally inside and we were instantly ushered through a turnstyle (don’t ask me how they got that inside the bus) and thrown into our seats as we climbed once again to a bullet-like pace. It was like a scene from the movie “Speed” as we were slammed forward into unrelenting bars, slid into each others hips, and jolted suddenly back up again. God only knows how we managed to meet the ferry in one piece, but we did, and had the calmest cruise across the harbour to Niteroi. We sat peacefully snapping away at the impressive 15.5km bridge and arrived only minutes later to face another bus to the museum.

Unfortunately though, it seems Rio is perennially geared to force you to go to the beach, and being a public holiday, Oscar Niemeyer’s ‘spaceship’ was closed. We were still lucky enough to gaze at its strange exterior (and I can quote Lonely Planet and say that the exhibitions “aren’t always notable”) and sneak a look downstairs at the rather pricey restaurant, making good use of their toilets, and their unique dental floss and mouthwash service.

Finally it was off to the beach at Itaipu where we finally got to snack on some fried bacalao (salted cod) and chips and watch the locals watch us. Yes, about an hour away from Copacabana, we were definitely off the tourist trail.

Um Dia in Rio

With Carnavale now officially started, I decided it was probably a good idea to squeeze in the obligatory day tour, and knock off the city’s main sites before even greater festivities began. Jumping on a bus whose tagline is “Don’t be a Gringo! Be a Local” I was faced with a guide that did her best to translate the heritage of her hometown into English, but ended up only confusing most of us with her interesting pronunciations. Only catching every second or third word, I managed to decipher that we were passing through former rich suburb Botafago, on our way to Christ the Redeemer.

Positioned high above the rest of Rio – 700 or so metres if you’re counting – the 50m statue was started in 1922 and is the largest art deco sculpture in the world. You may remember it from the opening scenes of Baz Luhrmann’s Romeo and Juliet or recognise its famed outstretched arms, open to the city of Rio. It is a pretty hairy trip up the mount in the bus, and an even sweatier climb once you get out, but he is not called the Redeemer for nothing, and a beautiful breeze awaited us at the top. Packed with people all jostling against you with elbows and arms to get a better photo, the preferred shot at midday was unfortunately an up-the-nose angle, so no, you won’t be seeing my picture there.

From here we moved onto the stadium, which is hardly worth a mention because all that met us here were a couple of street sellers trying to flog Flamengo jerseys and beer – of course. Likewise the Sambadrome was off limits to us and we were only able to drive by and witness a flash of colour and activity as the children’s Carnaval was getting underway.

Falling asleep at this stage, I hoped that the incessant babble from our host might pause for a moment, and let me take back some of last night, but no such luck. However, soon after she announced our arrival at Rio’s Cathedral, and it was me who went quiet. Housed in a very unattractive ‘modern’ cement shell (literally, it is shaped like a cone) are four spectacular ‘rays’ of leadlight windows stretching themselves almost entirely up the 75m structure. Cursing myself for not having a tripod – churches are the worst nightmare for photographers – I found myself craning into positions that would make a contortionist proud, just to capture their colours. I have read that it can hold up tot 20,000 people on any given Sunday, and I can definitely understand why so many would want to turn up.

Finally our trip ended with the double cable-car ride up Sugar Loaf Mount – so named because its shape was said to remind settlers of their prized export – and a sunset-tinted view of the entire city. Pretty clichéd, but when in Rio…

Blood Roses

Having been kicked out of the hostel for the day, to give the fumigators time to get rid of some nasties, I decided to put my still-pink bod on the bike from hell again and do some more exploring. First stop was the weekly farmer’s market, held at the end of our street, where young boys vied for my attention with their loud “pssssht” catcalls, and encouraged me to part with my scrunched up currency.

Each offering me small tokens of sweetness – berries, melon and some tropical stone-fruit I don’t know the name of – it was almost impossible to push through the swarm of Cariocas (citizens of Rio) with their wheeled trolleys and full arms. Wandering around the small park, I spied a flashy singlet hanging beneath one of the striped tarpaulins and questioned its price. The rather surly-looking proprietor looked me up and down before pulling out three fingers and shoving them towards me. Excitedly I returned to the hostel for the 3 Real to purchase it, knowing that it would save me another day from washing my clothes. (With each complete cycle costing about AUD$15, it is often joked that it is cheaper to buy new in Rio, rather than clean the old).

Unfortunately as I handed over my money, I realised from his mocking laugh that it was actually 30 Real, and that my Portuguese was really no better for the week I have almost spent here. A little defeated by the mistake, I ambled along daring to take photographs of chicken hearts wrapped around their sombre owners, of dripping fish left out in partial sun. A little disgusted with the lack of attention to health and safety, I set off on my wobbly wheels again, to ride over to the Lagoa des Freitas and onto the Botanical Garden.

Moving at a very stop-start pace, given the number of unmountable kerbs, and the lack of room for bikes on the road, I cycled the 7km past the Prefeitura (Council) workers in their orange prison-like jumpsuits, past well-off women and their ‘negra’ nannies, past crazy people of all ages out exercising in the heat of the day, and onto the graffiti covered walls that mark the boundary of the local racecourse.

But it was not long before my ability to slow down on the dodgy brakes was exposed, and I slammed myself into the crossbar, taking the top of my toe off in the process. Aware of the dirt that started to cake itself into my wound, I hobbled into the nearest pharmacy to fix it up.

I finally arrived at the Jardim Botanico (Botanical Garden), and all its two hundred-year old glory, and took my toe and I through an amazing cacti collection that had an impressive array of shapes, colours and sizes. Rather absurdly, many of these were housed in hothouses – like they really needed it. The small lake beside it was equally beautiful with its Amazonian lilypads – which reportedly grow up to a few metres in size, and can hold the weight of a small baby – and still, reflective surfaces. Saddened by the closure of the orchid display, I meandered aimlessly throughout the grounds, back down the central palm tree-lined walkway, in search of the rose garden. But unfortunately it seemed that like the birds in the zoo, these poor plants didn’t fair so well in Rio, and only a shabby collection of anorexic bulbs were to be found.

Not wanting to leave on a downer, I finished off my tour off in the Japanese garden, letting its zen design prepare me for the uphill ride home, and the free caipirinhas that awaited me at the hostel.

Leblon-ing Along

I woke up surprisingly early this morning, and decided it was time to trade in my saggy Australian bikini for something more fitting with the Rio scene. Having made friends with a local, after getting lost on my second day, I was advised that there were a few reasonable priced shops in a shopping centre nearby. So I made my way down Rua Santa Clara (I am showing off now with the name-dropping!) to number 75 and was faced with 13 floors of choice.

I took my way up to the top, as the hostel receptionist suggested, and got out to see the curious layout. Taking up half a building, there were about 5 or 6 boutiques on each level, with the stairs being the definite winner over a decrepit lift. Most of them were empty, unleased, and the others were filled with a strange collection of hideously bright and tight jersey material - thankfully its even tighter cousin spandex only appears in the sports stores – Carnival costumes and wholesale denim purveyors.

After some seriously scandalous trying on, I finally settle on a ‘tame’ leopard print piece that covers most of my bunta (arse). Tight enough to stop my breakfast from digesting, I make my way down to the beach and bravely apply the half sun cream, half oil mix I picked up yesterday. After about 4 hours though, it seems I have had enough, with my skin starting to resemble sashimi, not a deep honey glaze.

I decide to make a pit-stop for a shower and grab a bike from the hostel to make the 5km down to Leblon. Positioned just past Ipanema Beach, Leblon is the well-to-do end of town, and there are much more of the emaciated women I am used to on the beaches in Perth. I cycle on what I can only describe as a limping bike – a front wheel so wobbly that every second or third turn sends it crashing into the brake, and thus stunts my pace.

Consulting my Wallpaper guide, I trundle up and down a few blocks until I find one of Rio’s only microbreweries, Devassa, run by the local don of festivities, Marcelo do Rio. I order a pricey pale ale – ruiva – and am a little annoyed that my glass appears with a third of head. I politely ask if this is normal, and the waiter smiles and says “yes”. A little confused, I take my first sip and am blown away. I inhale the rest of the silky cream, and take with it the rest of the crisp brew. I am definitely in love with Rio.

The Crowd at Copacabana

I walk down Rua Santa Clara, impressed with myself that I remember its name, and make my way down to Copacabana Beach. Still groggy despite my sleep-in, my ears continue to replay the sounds of the club we were taken to last night, and remind me why it is we have noise restrictions in Australia. Tall apartments blocks and hotels line the main drag, their masses of windows mostly open to the hot display below, as native yellow hibiscus flowers float themselves down onto the patterned sidewalks.

It is a temperate 30 degrees today, and the sun doesn’t hit me with nearly as much force as it does in Australia. I save a thought for my friends in Melbourne as I make my way onto the sand, and navigate through a rainbow of umbrellas that litter the beach. I am quick to assess the capacity for danger, my valuables have all been left at home, but I still decide it best to camp next to some Americans – easily identified by their amplified twangs.

I set up my sarong and watch as polystyrene eskies float past on the shoulders of young and old. Vendors trail the beaches selling everything from prawns, haloumi cheese, and beer (of course), to jewellery, sarongs, hammocks and dresses. They bellow their lists of offerings, in a well-practiced sing-song motion, that ensures any nap is only ever short-lived. One seller, with his book of temporary tattoos, carries a bag from “The American College Rheumatology”, and I can’t help but smile until I remember that it was probably stolen.

A red sign in front of me warns of the strong currents ahead, as men in James Bond shorts strut past women in skimpy costumes. Despite its reputation, there’s really no need to be thin here. I am by far the whitest one here though, much less experienced in the art of exhibitionism, and acutely aware of my British heritage. A gabble of Portuguese rests on my ears as a child terrorises scavenging pigeons.

This is about the only place so far that I haven’t been able to see JC (Christ the Redeemer) atop his mountain – but JJ’s here instead, camped under a white tarpaulin with his lukewarm cerveja. The guy behind me serenades his disinterested girlfriend with a slightly off-tune ballad that is more full of sugar than a litre of caipirinha, and the negro girl beside me alternates lunges with applications of sun cream with a spatula. Coming from a city with less than one degree of separation, I suddenly realise where the other five comes from.

Beers & Bears

So the drizzle has eased a little and I have finally seen blue sky. I am slowly getting used to feeling slightly wet all day, sticky with my own sweat. Perhaps that’s why beer is available on every corner, for no more than a can of coke, and can be drunk anywhere – including the zoo. Surely a world-only.

We made our way along Rio’s infamous dodgy roads and back through the tunnel to ‘RioZoo’ to find the best collection of animals I have ever seen. Well, at least the most unusual. Sat behind some pretty Neanderthal-looking cages were giant ant-eaters, howler monkeys, iguanas, and turtles posing as iguanas, cougars, scarlet ibises, a Bengal tiger, a spectacled bear (please explain?) and even a few emus. All this, and it only cost us about $4. Add in a beer or two, and some bacon-flavoured popcorn, and you still go home with change for a ten.

(Reader’s note: if you don’t want to understand how they afford to keep the zoo running on this measly amount, avoid the aviary of scrawny birds and empty cages)

I definitely don't heart Aerolineas Argentinas

Let’s just say the menu isn’t quite the Neil Perry concoctions I am used to on Qantas, and the flogged Aero Mexico blankets hardly made up for the lack of English-friendly entertainment. Sure, it is perhaps the only airline in the world that sells one-way flights at exactly half the cost, but that’s probably a masked warning that one should not plan more than a single trip with them, ever. Throw in an unlisted stop in Auckland, a shaking overhead baggage hold and I am thinking that a name change might be order. Maybe Aerolineas Argen-stingy-arse or even Aero-bin-eas Argentinas might be more appropriate?

Having woken early with a slight wine head you could say that I was not perhaps in the ideal state for travelling (for what I thought would be) a non-stop 17 hour flight. With a sore head, and grumbling tummy I was somewhat prematurely overjoyed when a snack came trundling my way. Unfortunately the cheese and onion scroll that arrived decided to do its best impersonation of a pogo stick inside me, moving up and down from my stomach to my throat, with the occasional wave making it into my mouth. Its dance partner, a stodgy square of sticky Sara Lee-like cake, attempted to sway a little gentler than the cheese, but still rocked in crashing blows against my stomach walls. The fraying electric blue upholstered seats in front of me did little to settle me. I stared impatiently at the broken plastic underneath my tray table latch, and attempted to adjust my geriatric seat. This was going to be a long flight.

Fortunately, courtesy of an unknown break in New Zealand, I got the chance to guzzle a coke and strip away my inner pain. But returning once again to the scrunchie-wearing hostesses, the reprieve is only short-lived. Having waited well over half an hour for the green toilet light to go on, which I assumed, given the state of the rest of the plane, was due to poor engine efficiency and a consequent slow crawl to an appropriate altitude, I decided to take things into my own hands. Storming up to the first class, I caught the attendants ploughing through their meal, and appeared with such abruptness that their embarrassment granted me a privileged toilet pass. Which is when I realised that someone here definitely has a sense of humour.

Reaching for the comfort of a toilet seat cover, I laid its scratchy tissue-paper down to find the central ‘pissing’ hole cut out with a love heart. In a plane where only one of the three televisions are working, and it takes more than an hour for our dinner trays to be cleared, I had to smile. What the hell have I gotten myself into?