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.

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.