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.