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.
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