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.