A Word of Warning About Fake Notes

So my second night in Buenos Aires didn’t go much better than the first, despite a great take-away dinner from a local café. Returning home pretty famished from all the walking, I found the cutest restaurant around the corner, serving up to 20 guests at a time from an upstairs kitchen, with a pulley-system delivering the tasty fare below.

I looked past the massive hunks of beef, and settled on a leaner ¼ chicken and salad, and waited with the locals for it to arrive (although I could have just asked them to send it home for no extra cost). Having eaten up heartily, I soon headed out for a drink and another mini-bite with a Serbian guy Milan, and Christian, and we wind up at a cool place that has a plethora of promo girls stopping by to hand out free Jagermeister and cigarettes. Not bad.

Feeling like it was going to be a good night, we grab a taxi to Crowbar and get a much better club which is unfortunately playing some pretty shoddy music that quickly wears thin. Still wanting to have a proper dance, we decided to push on to another club Bahrain but it is here that the night really gets unstuck.

Handing over a 100 peso note for entry, a swift response comes back with one word “Falso!”. Looking quite astounded, Christian says that it is impossible, that the money came from a bank’s ATM, but she is adamant, and quickly marks it with a big fat “F”. Not having encountered this before, I reach into my wallet to compare it with my own, and recover even more problems.

Lurking beneath a couple of 20s is a mini collection of forged currency – another 100 and a 50 peso note. In short, the rest of my weekend is looking back at me through deep-purple eyes that are five minutes away from being torn up.

Roaming in Recoleta

I attempt to sleep off the late night, but with six other girls getting ready for the day, I decide that I am probably better walking it off in the city of the dead – Recoleta Cemetary. It is here that Evita and her husband, and former Argentinian president, Juan Domingo Perón have been laid to rest amongst the city’s most affluent families, lawyers, architects, doctors, engineers and military men – right beside a Village Cinema complex and McDonald’s.

Making my way there, I pass by a few men on the way who look like they should be on the other side of the 10m-high red-brick wall, not sleeping on the French-inspired boulevards that are full of pure-breds and their faeces. Statues nosily poke out over the top of the imposing barrier, as if they are still trying to keep an eye on the city they have left, as I trudge around to the entrance.

Once through the imposing Greek gates, I wander through the many blocks of mausoleums and am surrounded by tombs in various aging states, in a range of sizes, colours, and decorations. Jazz music blares through from the nearby markets and a rotten foosty smell follows me down almost every path. And for once Lonely Planet is right when they say to just follow the crowds to Evita – number 57 on the map. The Peron wrought iron tomb door is stuffed with fake flowers and a vintage image of Eva, and surrounded by a line a people wanting their photo with her already decayed remains. A little strange, I think, wanting to be so close to someone so dead.

Outside again, I stroll through the market stalls, passing tarot card readers, statue-performers and lots of photographs of tango poses. Cheese and meats are also on display, as are jewellery and brightly decorated leather satchels. On my way down to the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, I stumble across the Cultural Centre, but the only interest inside seems to be the Ticketek office – selling tickets to a dragon show for kids.

I finally decide it is time to eat something, and grab a “pane relleno” from the nearest Mum-and-daughter-manned picnic basket. I really have no idea what it is, with a teatowel concealing its appearance, but reading the list of ingredients, I decided it should be safe. Surprisingly still hot, it is a bit like a pizza pocket - a dome-like mound of bread, filled with bocconcini, tomato and ham. Yum!

Feeling revitalised, I walk down the Paseo de los Artisanias, past a band set up in the park, pounding out their Spanish rock tunes, and over the pedestrian bridge to what I thought was the museum (a large imposing building is usually the key). But I soon realise that this impressive building is actually the Law School of the University of Buenos Aires, and the museum is actually the red building in front.

Not quite the building I expected, with its plain salmon façade, it doesn’t even have a foyer. And as I work through the various rooms, it continues to prove itself an interesting design, with lots of little rooms and small hallway galleries full of an interesting collection of local and international art.

By far the stand-out is the black and white photographic exhibition by Albelardo Morell. His cleverly focussed double exposures pit the contemporary against the historical as we wanders through the collection of the Museo Gardner. His money series also highlights his ability to play with subjects, changing perspectives to make them transcend time and space. Pure genius.

Buenos, Buenos Aires

After a shower and some email catch-up I head to the bank, to hopefully score more than the 300 pesos (AUD$ 125) allowance I have been already set by their fine institutions. But two ATMs and a phone call to Westpac in Australia confirm that there are no ways around this. To make matters worse, I am already in debt to a friend whose account has no fees at all, facing a AUD$ 20 international online transfer charge.

I trudge home, raising my spirits a little with a fresh ham, cheese and tomato pastry from a bakery across the road from my hostel, and consider that perhaps Western Union or Paypal will work with me. But I have no luck there either, and will have to just bite the bullet and take the horrendous charges with each transaction – which will have to occur every two days if I am going to eat at all.

In true “stuff it all” Australian fashion, I end up going out for an expensive meal (ie. more than AUD $20) that night with some new friends, before heading to a kinky bordello bar Mundo Bizarro that shows vintage Betty Page bondage tapes. Afterwards, we head to a club Roxy that, despite the high cover charge, is filled with way too many just-over-18s. Needless to say, this doesn’t really amuse me, and after losing the rest of the group, I head back in a taxi with Norwegian Christian.

However, arriving back at the hostel, we run into some of the others, and decided that another drink, with some better company, is much needed before retiring. We stumble across a local bar, the only whiteys there, and are instantly entertained by the many guitars at each table that are playing tango tunes. Impromptu couples get up to dance, and, with all age groups being accounted for, this is definitely the Argentina I came here for.

Not So Happy Jam, er, Jan

Setting off for Buenos Aires, I decided to treat myself to the most expensive overnight bus ticket – complete with all meals, wine and champagne – but unfortunately my cosy voyage south in the “Cama Executivo” got off to a rather bumpy start. Having arrived half an hour before the bus was due to leave, I was told twice by the ticket guy to wait for the next one, and that I was too early. In the meantime, my actual bus had been and gone, and I had to spend the next half an hour fighting to get onto another one without paying again. Grrr.

Once on, we travelled along quickly, only being stopped by the Gendarmerie (police) who check all our passports and sniff around in some of our bags. Luckily the bus was almost empty, with only six passengers, so the process is relatively painless – a little exchange of names, and a quick twist and turn to make sure our documents aren‘t forged, and back on our way. But it’s a jumpy ride, despite our fully reclined bed-seats, and the alcohol service isn’t too forthcoming. Apparently I have drunk the full stock of two white wines, and with no water either, I am left getting thirstier by the minute with Sprite.

Having expected more of an airline experience, I started getting hungry pretty soon too, and prayed that dinner wouldn’t be at the usual time of 9 or 10pm. It does arrive at a semi-reasonable time – fresh from a truck-stop on the way – in the form of some roast beef, salad and rice. No surprises there Argentina.

The next day, I wake up early, with the light streaming hotly through the mustard concertina blinds and I am greeted by a view that looks a lot like home: almost complete flatness, covered in wheat crops and cows. Of course there is a lot more green here, and more intermittent trees, so I think it is probably safer to say half-Australian, half-South African.

Breakfast soon arrives, with the most anorexic-looking croissants I have ever seen. Having already read the tales about Argentina priding themselves on their European mix, I had to wonder if someone was having a joke. The jam container was almost the same size, and I was completely perplexed by the appearance of a knife. I am sure the French, with their obsessive protectionism over their food, would have a fit if they ever saw them.

Brazilian Bits & Pieces

So I thought it might be fitting here, to include some of the random things I experienced in Brazil, that didn’t make it into any of my posts there.

1. In Rio, banks don’t allow you to draw out more than R100 (~AUD$65??) after 10pm. Finally some protection for over-drinking? No, this rule has come about after the many ATM attacks that are carried out, Not such a great thing when, like almost all the backpackers I met, you arrive at night with no local currency and are desperate for a beer or a bite.
2. There are no laws in Brazil, well none at least that people respect, against selling whatever you want on the streets. So be prepared to carry lots of small cash to purchase anything from phone batteries, to boiled corn, to, you guessed it, beer.
3. In one of Rio’s most infamous nightspots – Lapa - police cars sit with their flashing lights on, in between caipirinha stalls and drummers, with ladies-of-the-night on their bonnets. Needless to say, I do have my own portrait taken on the front, but you will have to wait until I find a country with the same phone technology as Australia, to upload it.
4. The constant shicka/shacka of ice being mixed with sugar for capirinhas is pretty unique to Brazil, and I dare say, will probably stay with me for life.
5. Unfortunately the corn sold on the streets comes out exactly the same way it goes in. I am still not sure if that is a good or a bad thing.
6. Coming from a dry climate like Australia, your skin will become soft from all the humidity, but in its place, from the rest of the tropical lifestyle, heartburn will appear.
7. Brazilians don’t seem to get the concept of speakers on mobile phones - they hold the mouthpiece up to their mouths when they are talking, then quickly putting it back to their ear to listen. One-way conversation anyone?
8. It seems even the birds in Brazil like to just relax and take it easy – you will most often see them just “hanging out” high in the sky.
9. Again, coming from Australia, you will be amazed at all the lush greenery that follows you everywhere in Brazil, but probably equally disgusted when that same wetness that plumps the leaves and your skin, also plunges you deep into fetid dungeons at alarming frequency.
10. Don’t follow the Lonely Planet when they tell you the location of Petropolis and Teresopolis – they are NOT in the south-east, as their own map clearly shows you.
11. Probably the most quoted saying in while in Brail was the phrase stamped on the Brazilian flag - “Progress and Order”. It is patriotically and proudly displayed on all sorts of paraphernalia at almost every corner, but when every other encounter in the city clearly tells a different story – it’s ambitious, if not an outright lie.
12. You are not allowed to put toilet paper down the toilet, as the many signs will tell you. (Repeat point 9) This is because their sewerage system isn’t the best, which can cause some really expensive problems if you encounter point 5 or a bout of gastro. If said situation does occur and you do try to cover it with the prohibited paper, get ready for an embarrassing admission when it overflows, and a fine to get it fixed.
13. Electricity, despite their Mother-of-all hydro-electric dam, only runs at 110volts. Which means that most male and female electric hair-removal devices won’t work. Be prepared.
14. The quirkiest thing about Brazilian supermarkets, if you can get over their lack of anything-other-than-rotting-vegetables selection is the rice and beans aisle. One guess what they eat most here?

Argentina All the Way!

(Ok, I lied, and split it in two…)

The next day we set off over the border again, this time legally and very glad to finally wave Brazil and its hefty transportation costs goodbye. And I have to admit, that as soon as I stepped out the door, I could feel a difference. It is perhaps a little hard to explain, but I certainly wasn’t the only one experiencing it, with Martin echoing my thoughts almost immediately. Perhaps it just seems a little more like home, a little more well-set up, a little less hazy, or should that be lazy?

Again we take the bus straight out to the Falls, after dropping our bags in at the hostel, and spying the pool out the back. Unlike the Brazilian side, included in our Argentinian pass is a train to the main walking point, another around to the “Devil’s Throat”, and a ferry across to the island in the middle. Not bad, I think.

We get off at the Lower Trail and are greeted by some of the most beautiful butterflies I have ever seen, and a group of native rodents (the name of which I am still searching for, but consider then something between a possum and a quokka) that try to steal whatever edible things they can from us. We push past and move up and down over the steep maze of paths to several different vantage points. Unlike the Brazilian trail, an almost straight journey to the end, Argentina has been blessed with various hidden vantage points from which to experience the Falls (on this side, and in this language, called the Iguazu Falls). It is so much better than Brazil!

Of course I take way too many pictures, suddenly captivated by the idea of landscape painting, and how it must have been many years ago when terrain such as this was not uncommon. It makes me feel a little sad too, when I realise that this is such a privileged experience, to be so close to an original environment, one which we have all lost in our daily lives, as ‘progress’ and technology has claimed so much.

Only constricted by time, and the fact that the last train is leaving for the “Devil’s Throat”, we climb aboard the train and walk our way over to the waterfall’s edge. And climbing out onto the “Devil’s Throat”, having traversed the relatively peaceful river, we are showered by the spray of the waterfall edge, our voices lost over the crashing water below. Now, I am not one to typically be awe-struck by nature, but the impact of it all was, in a word, magnificent.

Wonderful, Water-full, Waterfalls...

(I think this deserves a two-photo comparison)

I decide it best to leave Curitiba on the overnight bus, and so spent some of the following day at the Rodoferroviária across the road – which houses both a big shopping centre, and a unique train museum – and the rest trying not to annoy the hostel receptionist who repeatedly frowned on my semi-reclined position on the only couch available.

In keeping with the previous trend of taxi drivers, I of course get another dodgy one to the bus port, and as I sit in my seat, he instantly enquires if I am married, like he has even half a chance. To this I of course answer “yes”, to which he further questions why my husband has left me to travel alone. And it’s times like this that being a writer comes in handy, and you can just smile and say that you are away for work.

The bus ride is ok, although I am a little miffed about not getting a snack-pack this time, and also by the rocks that smash a window at around 3am. Apparently they are just bored kids, in the middle of nowhere, but I am not completely convinced that it is as insignificant as our driver makes out, when the guy sitting next to me reappears from a toilet break with a bullet-proof vest on, and a visible revolver.

Thankfully I arrive in one piece early the next day at my new home and decide to spend it beside the pool, catching up on some more reading and writing. It is a welcomed break, after many days of continual movement, and I figure the beauty of the Falls can wait 24 more hours. The next day I awake to find the familiar face of a friend from Ilha Grande arriving. Swedish Martin has spent the last day and a half en route from Florianpolis, and is quickly swept along with my plans.

We set off after a piece of cake (yes, it is served everywhere here for breakfast) and a strong coffee to conquer the Brazilian side of the Iguaçu Falls. Famed for its amazing number (275) of waterfalls that make their way 80m down to the Rio Iguaçu, they are nestled between Brazil and Argentina, and have been filmed on many well-known movies, including the latest Indiana Jones adventure. Unfortunately though, our quick passage is foiled at the bus stop when we make an error in trusting an American, and end up at the border of Argentina.

Without our passports in hand, we turn back and make it to the Brazilian side of the Falls just before lunch. It is busy with tourists of all ages, but foreigners are definitely outnumbered by Latin Americans. A double-decker bus shuttles us along to the main part of the action, where we take in the spray and the view. I can’t help but be jealous though, when I see a collection of historical photos at the end, and see how visitors were able to climb out onto precarious edges, and swim in the water, before large-scale tourism took over, and introduced safe paths, bridges and even an elevator.

Heading back into town, and stopping for my hundredth chicken burger, we take another bus out to the biggest dam (well, that’s what they told us, and Wikipedia is still not sure if it is this one, or the Three Gorges in China) producing hydro-electric power in the world – Itaipu. Named after the “Singing Rock” that sat in the river between Brazil and Uruguay, which was sadly one of the first things to disappear in the excavation process, the dam was begun in 1971, but only became fully-operational in 2007. It now produces about 20% of the power needs of Brazil, the only limit being the plant’s inability to store excess energy it produces.

Putting on our bright orange hard-hats, and our nasty black school shoes (flip-flops just won’t do), we get onto the bus, and are taken across the 196m height of the dam, and into the control centre below. It is here that we can firmly place one foot in each country – my third country for the day – and watch as a completely 50/50 team from each side keeps the operation on track. It is a bit of a Simpsons’ moment: think Homer at his desk in the power plant – but just replace the coffee doughnuts with some alfajores (sweet Argentinian biscuits) and mate (herb tea).

Oscar, Oscar, Oscar!!

Seeing how small the town was in my taxi ride last night, I decided to do the walking thing in the morning, and headed to my first landmark – 24 Hour Street. Now I am not sure if it’s name was supposed to be true to life, but when I got there, it seemed that no hours were active anymore. The arcade was completely empty, bar a few dusty cardboard boxes.

Deciding then that Curitiba is perhaps not the best place to place a bet, I made my way along Rua Luis Xavier and onto the “Flower Street”, to find the Praça Tiradentes and its guided tourist bus. Fortunately there were actually flowers there, and the first-ever pedestrian mall in the world was busy with artists, street performers and sellers making the most of the cornflower blue sky and Saturday morning trade.

Finally I was starting to see why Curitiba, with all its flowering colour and greeney, is said to have the most greenspace per head of capita, thus following the standard of living. I quickly located the green (very funny) double-decker, open-top bus and promptly burnt my legs on the shining black vinyl. It was a pretty very civilised affair with Mozart playing to me and the other holidaying couples, posing for photos in between kisses.

The bus did of course retrace my previous steps, but with four allowed stops, and a large route set out, I decided to study the map instead, and plan my journey well. The music turned to a cruising beat, stopping intermittently to give an information recording given in Portuguese, Spanish then English. My first exit was at the Botanical Gardens, created in 1991 in a mock-French style aka Versailles.

Accordingly, it was all dark green hedges and brightly arranged daises and annuals. Pom-pom flowers lined the central walkway up to the hothouse of Brazilian plants, with butterflies and bees competing for air space and sweet food. The metal structure ahead looked impressive enough, but once inside is was a pretty thin collection of plants, the only one to catch my interest was the “palmito” that I have been eating with cheese in empadas.

Behind the back of this, and not mentioned in the guide, was the Coleçao Frans Krajcberg Cultural Centre that wraps around the frame in an insulated half-tube. Unfortunately it was closed for renovation, although I could clearly still half-see an interesting collection inside, I quickly get back on the bus. But this time it is a much older model than the last, with no open top, no second level in fact, no music and a very quiet soundtrack that is easily drowned out by the Brazilian tourists who have already started drinking beer at 11am.

From here I head to Oscar Niemeyer’s art museum (it actually has his name this time), affectionately known as “the eye”, after the shape of its design, and I am again blown away at the simple, yet intricate way he creates and uses space. Inside the main building (ie. the ‘sensible’ pavilion at the rear of the entry eye), are three exhibitions spread across the main floor, with a fantastic dedication to the museum’s namesake on the underground level.

It is here that I learn much about Oscar’s motivation and life, and I gain an even deeper respect for the ease at which he seems to consider the world, and the buildings he creates within it. I am sure he would be proud of the congregation of young students having a picnic-pit-stop outside the exit and perhaps be even tempted to join them as they skate all over his masterpiece.

Come Back Mr Cometa and Save Me From Curitiba

After the hectic few days and many hours of pounding Sao Paulo’s streets, I was pretty glad to be back on the bus to Curitiba. And this one definitely took the cake for its soft blanket, pillow, snack pack of four types of sweet and savoury biscuits and catchy tagline (rough translation: “Cometa – conquering the stars”). But I guess for the R75,00 I paid, I should expect a little something, seeing as it has blown my eating budget for the day.

It is slow-going, getting out of Sao Paulo, where cars are restricted from being driven one day a week according to their license plate number, which gives me time to catch up on some of this writing. Still not sure of how long the journey will take, anywhere between four and eight hours depending on who you believe, I settle in for as long of a movie as my battery on my laptop will allow. It ends up being closer to the latter, and I decide it best to taxi it through the night to the hostel, despite being only a few blocks away.

Wrong move it appears though, as I get in tiredly and forget to ask how far and how much the journey will be. And it seems a blonde female tourist is just too much temptation for my greedy driver who proceeds to show me the sights twice over in a magical mystery tour of the town. I am clearly not impressed and keep asking how much further, until his bland excuses about the traffic get on my nerves. (Dude, I have just been in Sao Paulo, don’t talk to me about traffic). At this point, on the completely wrong street, I demand he stop and get out to ask someone where the hell I am. He is equally unimpressed that his little plan has been foiled and says he will cut the fare in half (already four times what I should have paid) and take me to the right street. I politely decline, snatch back my map and grab my bags from the boot. He of course follows me as I am driven by my sympathetic saviours, but we manage to lose him in the end, and I sulk through the door tired and hungry.

Needless to say, there is no photo today. I was in no mood to capture my charming introduction to Brazil’s reputed most liveable city.

360 Degrees Almost Conquered

After a furious pace that has left my Spanish friend Camila calling me the expert of Sao Paulo, I decide the last day of sight-seeing must include some more big-ticket items, and a little less obscurity. So first on my list is the Praça de Sé and the city’s domed Cathedral. The clouds are still lingering in the sky, but I have to keep reminding myself that at about 800m above sea level, on a table-top plateau, Sao Paulo isn’t the hottest place to be – atmospherically speaking.

I am instantly entertained by the guy with one shoe on who is doing his best Michael Jackson moves on the steps up to the cathedral, vying for attention with the many homeless people who are flogging rosary beads and prayer cards too.
The main bells chime for midday as I walk in, and I realise that the service has just started. Not to let God get in the way of good tourism, people continue to wander in and out of the wings, taking photos of the early 20th century church and its smooth curved red-brick ceiling, that makes a beautiful contrast to the stone pillars. I must also mention that it is also the first church I have ever been in that has a toilet inside. Pretty revolutionary for Catholics.

I exit mass, like a true ‘Christmas and Easter-goer’, half-way through and make my way past shoe shiners and repairman who have set up their cash-only business along the edges of the busy square. Having parted with almost all my money without even a sniff of a receipt, I shudder at the thought of having to run a country with such a fluid economy. It’s no wonder that most of their prized historical relics are rotting away in mould.

The pedestrian mall starts at the other end with lots of bag shops and sucos (juice) bars. An intriguing assortment of spruikers covered in plastic advertising bibs or just big stickers on their fronts yell all sorts of deals to passers-by, but it is pretty clear from the empty shops, they it’s not really working. Street performers also fight to gain the attention of the lunchtime crowd, and I hurry to get to the city’s highest tower to see the view, before meeting my friend at another gallery.

Positioned in the highest building, but not the tallest one (that one was sadly built in the valley, so rarely gets the attention it deserves), the journey up to the look-out point is somewhat of a protracted experience, including the handing over of ID, the taking of another mugshot, the waiting in line for the last group to descend, the following of the guide up two different lifts, and the final march up the tower’s stairs. Compared to the allowed viewing time of about six minutes, I am glad to say that the view was worth it. Damn this city is big.

Realising that I am indeed late for Camila, I wolf down a kebab and suco, and take the metro to the MASP – Sao Paulo’s Art Museum (not to be confused with MAC or MAM as seen in previous encounters). Fortunately she is being chatted up by a hippy jewellery salesman, and I finally have a good excuse to write-off a pair of new earrings. Once inside, we make our way through Brazil’s supposed best showcase of European art, which I give a polite nod too, but which seems pretty out of place in this city of graffiti. Moving downstairs though, and we come across an amazing photographic exhibition, which has been growing for the last 17 years, and a world film festival showcasing 1000 minutes, in one minute tracks, of 80 different countries. It is a marathon mission to even get through one side of the square space, or about 2 or so hours of viewing, and I dare say a complete tour would unfortunately take days. I think we are both relieved to make it out of there in one piece, and start the journey to our final destination – the MIS (Sound and Image Museum).

Fortunately here, sensible design has only left room for one exhibiting space, which is taken up by a film installation “Repeat All”. Only one mention here, the awesome idea to do a real life clock – set up as a construction site - with workers assembling and disassembling the time as it passed while we watched. I can already see it in doctor’s waiting rooms everywhere.

Sacred Hearts

Day Two on my museum/gallery tour and I ventured out to the Sacred Arts Museum, a delight for the religious, but I must admit that for this Catholic, it was a bit full-on with the sombre black-clad workers. There were so many there in fact, that me and the only other visitor were completely outnumbered in each corridor we walked in. Although I can’t say that I felt alone with the largest collection I have ever seen of 17th and 18th century statues, altar pieces and paintings, gathered from schools, churches and convents all over Brazil, leftovers from the Portuguese crusade to covert its colonised.

In the adjoining building was also the quirkiest exhibition I have seen on my travels yet – an international show of nativity scenes, with one that took up a whole room and had the entire town of Bethlehem included. Also worth a mention, was the chandelier display, which is said to be second only to HQ: Rome.

Next on my list was the Pinoteca down the road, which also emerged as a dark horse, despite having no mention of it in Lonely Planet (yes, I have a long list of faults ready to send through to them). Housed in a beautifully restored red brick building, it is based around two central atriums connected through a iron walkway in the middle, and its inspiring collection did much to take away the thought of the drizzle falling outside.

An interesting exhibition “Paisagem e Panoramas” contained views of Rio, Recife and other early established coastal cities, minus the Christ of course. Upstairs was devoted to early Brazilian artists, and I had to show heaps of respect to the gallery for not bowing down to the European ‘masters’ and for paying attention to how their own country had progressed.

Again there were lots of bored employees sitting in corners and leaning against walls, watching my every move, but I started to get used to the prying eyes, taking it like the paintings would. Sadly there were no translations anywhere, and although my reading is getting better, I was glad to find a huge collection of portraiture just to look at. The main room was quirkily set up with the men on one wall, staring across at the women on the wall directly opposite them. In true Brazilian fashion, they weren’t in date order, but I was entertained for a while trying to guess what came first and when.

I obviously made good timing too, as the loud Paulistano ladies of leisure arrived just as I was leaving to take some lunch in the café next door. It was still spitting rain, but an “artist” in the park kept me entertained by well-intentioned scribblings that weren’t having much luck with the tourists. Perhaps someone should have shown him the difference between reality and abstraction.

Back to the Big City

Despite other travellers’ warnings, I was quite excited to arrive in Sao Paulo, knowing much about its arts and culture scene and large industrial metropolis. It is here that Sao Paulo’s signature graffiti pixação has painted its imaginary calligraphic writing all over the tops of buildings, drawing much attention from the international stage.

It only seems fitting then, that my next few days were planned to be a feast of art and design, starting with the Cultural Centre in town, and the 9th Biennale of Graphic Design. Housed in an open-plan modern facility, with a central staircase swinging from side to side, this amazing display of advertising, packaging and printed media sat alongside a photographic exhibition of vintage Sao Paulo, that instantly spoke of the changes and progress the city had experienced.

Beside this, but contained in another part of the complex, was an underground performance space, with circular seating that overlooked the stage below, and a class of free-form expressionists writhing on the floor. Quite a sight to see a bunch of fully grown adults rubbing up against each other, all in the name of art, to the changing tempo of a three-piece music combination. If only I could have understood the instructions of their teacher and what it was all meant to mean. Instead, I was entertained by the obvious significance multicoloured jersey material and fisherman’s pants had on one’s artistic identity.

Back out onto the six-lane highway, and I walked the few kilometres towards the Remembrance obelisk, and into the Ibirapuera Park. With its cultural buildings all designed by Oscar Niemeyer, and the park grounds added by landscape architect Roberto Burle Marx, it is definitely something not to be missed. Located in the first building – Orca – was an amazing film exhibition on different climates around the world. Its design, not unlike the cultural centre, is dominated by a winding stairwell that could easily fit a car or two, and stretched itself across the four or five levels. My favourite piece, made in Slovenia, showcased the onslaught of lava onto land and sea – an oozing mass of bright orange blood that met the water in a hissing end, elevated by the blaring acoustics of the space.

Behind this was the home of Sao Paulo’s MAM (Museum of Modern Art) and the best all-you-can-eat buffet I have seen yet. Unfortunately it was a little out of my price range, at R35,00, but I was equally impressed by the café beside it, complete with Illy coffee and Australian wine. Inside were two collections of art, the first, a showing of Jorge Guinle’s short abstract career, the other, a quick guide through the inception and growth of modern art in Brazil.

Keeping a steady pace, I then made my way across to the MAC – the Museum of Contemporary Art – but was disappointed when my uphill three level trek only amounted to some strange disjointed installations and a documentary I could not follow. Allowing for the sort hiatus in high standards, I finished my walk at the Museu Afro-Brasil located at the southern end of the park. Inside, such as my luck, was only a half-accessible collection, with Brazilian photographer Walter Kirmo taking up the majority of space with his exhibition “Em Preto e Branco” (In Black and White). Filled with famous singers, composers, and even a football-playing Bob Marley, it was an interesting look at the culture of Brazil, through the portraits of its famed people.

Not wanting to derail the cultural onslaught, I did of course end the night with the rising of the next day, and several bottles of the national drink – cachaça. Apparently it goes well with increasingly rowdier games of Shithead.

Pains in Paraty

Leaving the stormy shores of Ilha Grande (yes, there is a day missing here, one which I would rather not remember after a nasty collision with a speedboat and my kayak), I join up with some English friends to take the 2 hour bus from the ferry to Paraty. Known by locals as a pleasant town of quaint multi-coloured doorways, it is really only just an easy way to cut up the journey further south. Located also on the beach, it is well known for its historical township, fuelled by gold discoveries many moons ago, and is visited mostly by Brazilian tourists on the weekends who indulge in expensive Italian-esque bars and restaurants.

Still affected by the drugs I was given to ease my back pain, it is now that I come face to face with the nasty buses I have heard about. With no allocated seats and no air conditioning, we are left to clamour into the already full city bus, with barely enough room to fit our feet, let alone our mountainous load of bags. Sadly too, we are faced with the same speedy experience as downtown Rio, made worse by an impending bout of gastro in at least half our group. At least it only costs about AUD$6.

We arrive late in the afternoon and, after settling in, my first night is spent doing a quick stroll around the old end of town, with its dangerously-paved streets that are surprisingly therapeutic on your feet, albeit not on your knees. Unfortunately the next day I awake severely dehydrated after alternating bouts of fevered sweats and trips to the toilet bowl, and decide it is probably best to stay indoors and catch up on some tv and dodgy films.

Reinvigorated from the pause, and from a hearty feast the night before of penne bolognese, I head out the next day for a quick visit around the town before we leave again at lunchtime. Aware of the many old churches that live amongst the newer restaurants, I stumble across the Ingreja de Santa Rita which is in pieces following various sacrilegious incarnations – including a restaurant from 1967 to 1976 – despite its amazing heritage. In its place, a curious collection of objects in various states of disrepair awaits.

Included in this is the most brutal full-scale model of Jesus crucifixion, from the 18th century, with its twisted, bloodied body that has surely seen better days. Crudely placed rusted nails hold together Jesus’ shoulders and hips, and his head looks like it has been sawed open at some stage.

Next to this is a guarded room of silver vessels, sealed off by a heavy chain, but not protected from Mother Nature herself, who has spread mould along each of the adjoining walls. The token humidifier in the corner is almost as funny as the chicken wheel that has somehow found itself in the courtyard outside, beside the original pulpit. My museum curator mother would certainly have a fit.

Moving back onto the street and I stumble across another horse and cart, and I start to understand the basic historical equation here in Brazil: history = lots of horseshit. Also standing in the square by the bay is a ‘black slave’ giving his own historical account for those who speak Portuguese, and photos for those who want to waste R2,00. From what I can discern, his gestures are not pointing at the many shops of brightly coloured hammocks, art, design, jewellery, and souvenirs, but to some greater truth hidden in the 3 X 6 block of streets. Once again, I wish there was some sort of translation available, or at least a government that recognised tourism should mean a little more than whitewashed buildings with pretty doorframes, and Visa access.

The Big Island

Having done my two weeks in Rio, I arose early to start my journey south and east, over to Ilha Grande. But another case of mis-information saw me wake up at 4am, only to miss what had universally been called the first bus to make the connection between Mangartiba and Ilha Grande, the 530am service. (It is, in fact, at 5am).

Not wanting to spend five hours waiting for the next one, I made a compromise and headed for the second terminal, Angra dos Reis, which although a further hour away, had a bus leaving almost immediately. I arrived there just on 8am, and it is a similar story with the ferry. I had just missed the morning service, but with the heat making a towel of my tshirt, I decided it would be worth the extra cash to take a private ride and get to a beach.

Along the way, I befriended an English-accented French guy Louis who has made a similar choice/mistake and we walked to the pier together. Suddenly the weight of my bag seemed a little absurd – how did 16kgs get so heavy? – and I started dreaming of things I could discard. Fortunately we found a boat that was due to leave in an hour or so, and so we jumped aboard and got acquainted. But as the hours start to pass, and my quick photography lesson turned into a comprehensive guide, I realised that the hour in Brazilian time is about as reliable as the timetable for the bus.

Somewhere just after lunch, we arrived on the other side, and I felt truly blessed when a baggage cartereiro awaited me. “Phillippe” was only too happy to lug my overstuffed luggage across the sand to my hostel, and eagerly made another appointment to take them back again in a few days. Booked through same chain that I stayed in at Copacabana, I am again blessed with a great location. The ground floor terraced bar opens onto the water and reminded me instantly why I was here. Sadly, what I had forfeited in its place was air conditioning, an internet connection (hence why this has been done in bulk) sheets without holes in them, and enough space to pull out my things from the locker beneath my bed once they are in. Luckily though, I was not part of the large bunch of backpackers who were clearly not impressed that almost every booking made here was either lost or wrong or non-existent.

Louis and I took advantage of the last part of the afternoon, ignoring the questioning glances of the hostel staff who considered it a little absurd, and headed for an hour trek (there and back) to Palmas Beach. It was uphill almost all the way, and I was grateful to have left my tshirt behind when soon every inch of my body was wet and my lungs were heaving. I started to think that perhaps the staff were right as we passed by a Shrek-green tree snake, various spiders, and a squirrel who was not afraid to come closer to check us out.

But finally we made it down to the secluded beach and welcomed its chilled atmosphere. A couple milled about, tending to their camping site, guests, bar and small jewellery hut, almost completely unaware of us. Aware of the fading sun, we decided it best to head back quickly, and it was not long before the sun disappeared and the howling monkeys were out. I blindly stubbed my toe again, just when I thought it had healed, and thanked God that it was only another 45 minutes downhill.

The night ended with us sitting out on the terrace exchanging stories, with a group of mostly English, and eating fresh baked fish, salad and potato. Not so bad to be stuck on a big island.

Miss B and the Creperie

Following some last minute advice from a group of fellow travellers, I decide to squeeze in an overnight stop in Brazil’s famed hotspot, Buzios. But I must admit there was not much to look at on the way in, and as I stumbled off the bus and checked where I was going, I started to think that maybe I had made a mistake.

The big map I am shown by a guy at the bus stop looks impressive enough, but as I looked up and down the street ahead, I couldn’t really see how it related to the surrounding environment. Fortunately I am further guided by some friendly internet café workers who point out that my hostel is just around the corner. And suddenly a whole new world opens up to me…

The main drag is complete contrast to its dusty road in, and is shaded by a leafy overhang that keeps the restaurant alfresco areas and boutique windows very cool. I find my hostel conveniently located in the middle, perched overlooking the front of the bay. Sand and water are only an eight-step staircase away. Suddenly I know why Brigitte Bardot named it the St Tropez of South America.

Beach buggies are the mainstay of transport, used to cruise along the cobbled streets or down to awaiting fishing boats to spend the day offshore. The more elite tourists of the country and region come here to eat, drink, dance, shop and swim – roughly in that order.

Not one to go against good trends, I make quick friends with a Canadian girl Elena, and down some chicken curry crepes, before drinking a bottle of local wine and dancing it up at Pacha. Like most other clubs in Brazil, it is a pretty sleazy experience, unless you have a few male friends around you. Unfortunately it seems that the lighter your skin is, the easier they think you are, so often just the exchange of names is considered enough to make physical contact. Hmmm.

With only a few hours spent on our pillows, we get up just before lunch to head to the beach. But it seems everyone here is slow to wake up, and things are only just starting to move on the streets after midday. We decide to hop on a collectivo – roughly translated to shared transport aka a mini-bus jammed full of locals – and head to Geriba to sample more of the local scene.

Despite the impossibly hot sand, Geriba is well set up with all of its rainbow of umbrellas and tables neatly pre-arranged. It is definitely not the grab-what-you-can affair of Copacabana that I am used to, and even the wandering vendors seem to outnumber reclining patrons. They seem to have more of a business sense than those I pitied before in Rio, and we keenly sample oysters, haloumi and the flaming meat-on-a-stick. Of course the water beckons us too, but its icy greeting quickly encourages us to move to warmer Brava.

More discrete, and with fewer people, we jump in for a quick dip before I have to leave to meet my afternoon bus. Sitting back in my recliner chair, sand in between my toes, I am glad to have made my little detour, and know that I will definitely be back here again.

Royal Tour

(Note to self, must buy a pocket-sized notebook and stop writing incoherent notes on unused napkins)

Knowing that I will soon be leaving Rio, I decide to take a day trip to Petropolis, to see the former summer home of the last Emperor of Brazil. Awaking later than I had planned, after a night of no air-con and a profoundly loud snorer (even his friends got up several times to punch him), I head to the bus station in town to journey for an hour or so north.

Being the only connection to the outside-Rio world for most – South America is yet to embrace the speed of the train, and planes are very expensive – Rodoviaria Novo Rio busport is understandably a maze of ticket offices going everywhere in Brazil and beyond.

A little apprehensive at the impending state of the buses, I buy my ticket and head to buy some snacks to keep my stomach at bay. Always a confusing enterprise, Brazil seems to enjoy having multiple people do what one person could easily manage, so a simple transaction is usually turned into a protracted experience. This time though, it was the tourist tax that delayed my purchase, as the boss was quick to correct his unknowing employee who had mistakenly tried to charge me the right price. Unfortunate for him, I know how to spell Ruffles in every language, and when I had deliberately opted for the cheaper local version, I knew I was being stitched.

Heading to the bus and I am surprised to be greeted by a luxury coach that allows me to recline my seat and stretch my legs into comfy velour. I really don’t know why travellers complain about long trips here, because for me, it has always been a luxury to have someone else drive me anywhere, and the Brazilians do seem very proud claiming “executivo” travelling status.

We soon travel across the bridge to Niteroi and head north into the mountains. Beside us, rubbish-laden fetid waters lap back and forward as ibises try their best to stay as much out of the water as possible, looking particularly lithe in their brown surrounds. We zoom through the industrial area and start climbing up winding roads that make me feel a little uneasy to be passing by in such a blur. Masses of greenery soon surround us, and, as we near our destination, random German chalets peer out of their prim brown and white facades.

As we enter the town, I am blown away by the speed humps – this is definitely not Rio! - but the tourist office is closed, so I am forced to amble down to the obvious landmark in front of me, the town’s Cathedral. Inside though, it appears that I have arrived at the best time to catch changing rays of colourful light spread themselves across the empty congregation.

Reading the tourist signs ahead, I make my way up to the monument to Fatima, silly to pass on the taxi, as the paved hill seems never to end. Eventually it becomes a little therapeutic to my weary feet, massaging them with every step, until I reach my destination. Much like Christ the Redeemer, it seems Mary too is watching over Petropolis with outstretched arms. In the round chapel below, I struggle to connect the significance of the monument to its location, but am intrigued by the various posters and clippings of the children at Fatima, and the
patriotic green, yellow and blue lights that decorate the edges of the ceiling.

I make my way down the hill past Brazilian aeronautical great Santos Dumas’ quaint abode that reminds me of my sister’s doll one, and makes me wonder how locals can allow such historically significant artefacts to gradually disintegrate in the heat and humidity.

Finally it seems the tourist office is open and I pick up a map just in time to get the last hour of visiting at the Imperial (Summer) residence. The crowd there is made up of mostly local tourists, who slide alongside me on the glossy floorboards in our mandatory slippers. Almost completely maintained true to life, the house is a remarkable collection of furniture, clothing, jewellery and even the crown of Dom Pedro II – complete with 639 diamonds, 77 pearls and the balance of its 4.3lbs in solid gold – from the royal family.

A final quick stroll along the canal to the Crystal Palace, which now houses weekly music recitals, and I finally loop back past horse-drawn carts, that look as tired and out of place as I do, and head home.

War and Relative Peace

Later the same day, I find myself squeezed into an overbooked mini-bus on my way to Rio’s biggest favela – Rocinha. Home to more than 200,000 people – although from one look at it, and my growing knowledge of Rio inefficiency, I don’t suppose a census has ever been done, and the number is probably much higher – Rocinha runs down the hill from the Tijuca National Park to just behind Copacabana and Ipanema beaches.

Arriving at the bottom of the heaped-up houses, we are quickly thrown onto waiting motorcycles, which are the easiest and only way to manoeuvre yourself through the winding stretch up to the top. Burning my leg on the exhaust as I jump on, I soon find out that my driver spares no regard for my helmet-less head, and is more intent on pushing past every moving object to make it up there first. Given that the ‘road’ (if a bumpy, hole-laden piece of dirt can be called that) is little more than one car wide, it is somewhat of an experience.

Finally all at its peak, my tour group starts our walk down through a narrow alley – simply called “the 1st” – past descending levels of poverty. Our first stop is at a local artist studio where two graff guys are selling their canvassed paint and spray images of Rocinha. We all squish into the 3m x 3m box, gazing at their colourful work, and colourful working environment. In a small corner, I notice a Portuguese bible, open to Amos Chapters 5 and 6.

(When I get home, I look these up, and find this, the first and second verses of chapter 5:
1 Hear ye this word which I take up for a lamentation over you, O house of Israel:
2 The virgin of Israel is fallen, she shall no more rise; she is cast down upon her land, there is none to raise her up.
I think back to the many people living in the favela, with nowhere else to go, and I thank God, yet again, I live in Australia)

As we continue our way down, it seems like the treacherous stories we have heard about here are all just urban myth, and certainly the only apparent threat to us is the animal detritus that has been left underfoot, and the stench from rotting rubbish. But our guide counters our observations with the details of a recent gang war that terrorized residents day and night for almost a week. Sadly, it ended with the deaths of about 35 Rocinhas, not killed by themselves, but killed by the ‘black’ police. Mostly a reference to their dark uniform – the rest of Rio’s police-force wears khaki brown – this ‘special’ task force technically does not have the ability to shoot at will, but in practice…

Next we pass through a small enclave of children who have orchestrated a drumming performance for us with their empty bottles and cans, hoping to trade them for some full ones. They grasp at our half-finished drinks in hope. All this, sitting just under a thin veil of more than USD $3million in drug money that passes through the favela. Brought in from Bolivia, Paraguay and Uruguay, the proceeds never see the ones in need.

Fortuntely there is a better story of hope at the school we visit – set up a few years ago by a kind donor, and run with donations that our tour company helps to support through our visits here. Run free for those who make it through the long waiting list, it aims to educate and entertain the children, giving their parents an opportunity to work and earn a decent wage. But with the growth of each family being in multiples of ten or so a generation, I can’t help but feel they are fighting a losing battle.