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Recap: After receiving my camera battery after 2 weeks of waiting, we decide to go straight to Ushuaia being that the frost of winter is setting in, and I have but the barest of winter clothes.
So after our 20 hour journey from Bolson to Ushuia, or as close as we could possibly get, we ended up weary in Rio Gallegos with no prospect of another bus until the morning. Now after seeing this bleak oil refining and sheep breeding village we decided to high tale it out of there, and after pan handling for the last few necessary pesos in order to afford the bus fifteen minutes hence, we were on our way to Calafate to get a glimpse of these glaciers we had kept hearing about.
Calafate, as beautiful Bolson, though not especially packed with things to do, was nice for a couple of days. After checking out the bird sanctuary, on a properly freezing day where the birds would not even show their beaks, we decided to head off to the glacier Perito Moreno in Parque Nacional del los Glaciares. Our late night dancing afforded us only the afternoon bus and by the time that we had arrived the last ferry had already gone, so we were left with a purely terrestrial view. But no matter, we could still see the frontal side of the ice blue glacier as we hurried along a long wooden boardwalk in order to get as close as possible to see it moan and crack and fall into the ocean.
After the glacier we were left with a day and a half to kill (the buses are sporadic at best) and not willing to pay for another night at our hostel (because we were leaving at four and of course, are broke) we schlepped around a bit, went to eat, and then entering a food coma, decided to look for a suitable place to nap. Walking across the street we found a park with trees that were fun to climb, though not so good to perch and sleep... and eventually decided to rest on the soft umber needles aside the shelter of a large row of pine trees. With the most pastoral of images and the aroma of pine I fell asleep only to be awoke but the not so gentle kick of a passing policeman. Apparently people had mentioned that there was just some drunk in the park passed out for they could not properly see me, or so I would like to think. By this time I was awake and after he helped me brush off the copious amount of needles that clung to jacket and adorned my hair, I was left to wander the streets in search of something to occupy my time until our bus arrived. Neda, not being able to stomach the frostbitten wind, was sleeping in a chair in the hall of hostel Celeste when I arrived and we bided our time for a couple more hours, sneaking naps atop the covered bunks, which Celeste chided us for later. Finally at 12 we headed to the bus station, Neda sleeping on a bench (perhaps the policeman knew us better than we thought) and me, on the cold floor until we caught our bus.
Being sleep deprived, we were pretty stoked about a long bus journey, where there really isn't much to do but sleep, and less enthused when we realized that we not only had to cross into Chile and out again but, that the entrance for Chile and exit for Argentina were half an hour apart, by bus. And so we began the seemingly unending embarcar, disembarcar, embarcar. (embark, disembark) of our journey, having five stops in total. Our final stop was crossing the Beagle Channel and although the ferry ride was beautiful, I have a problem with loosing things, as I stepped on board, camera in hand, my lens cap slipped from my fingers into (I swear) the only hole on deck. The sun atop the bright blue ocean was an amazing sight, but I pocketed my camera for fear of my own butter fingers embarcar-ed the bus the final time.
The following days we met up with some travel friends making a rainy night into a coco, crochet and movie blast and camping aside a frosty apple green bay in Tierra del Fuego. Despite camping off-site we were not detected until the last day by the park ranger, and spent a couple of days at tip of the earth by the fireside crocheting, eating surprisingly delicious dehydrated food and harvesting muscles from the low tide. The following day was my birthday so we decided to splurge and do an ice cave trekking tour.
It was one of the most intense (in a I-could-slip-off-this-mountain-to-my-dea
We trekked through a forest, past a mucky beaver dam, where the ground, formerly a river, was soaked but the dam so amazing even a Canadian can admit the unrealized expertise of waterproofing a million sticks. Out of the forest with no shelter from the trees, the wind picked up chilly against our unprotected noses and the terrain became jagged rock and barren. We climbed up and down a couple of relatively high mountains, lining the balcony of condors and taking lunch sheltered in the nook of a large boulder, sipping caliente chocolate (hot chocolate) and noshing on a home made sandwich lunch. After climbing up rusted red rock hills we came upon a snow covered glacier and, putting on shoes that resembled some archaic torture device, climbed up (90 degrees) to the top, down along a glacial cliff's edge, and finally reached the melting lip of the ice caves.
In order to avoid a possible avalanche we kept quiet, and so in icy silence we climbed over glowing cerulean chunks of glacier, fallen and backlit, and aside frosted bubbled ice, we winded around until we passed the of thick darkness of the tunnel, and out the sunlit top. Atop the glacier (again!) but with no grap-ons we had a somewhat scary sliding adventure getting down, and after taking the 12 to 15 km hike back and had properly muddied the bums of our pants, because it had apparently rained in our absence, we reached the cabaña (I love how the ¨Ñ¨ is so accessible). The fire glowed hot as we changed into dry clothes, were treated to fluffy animal slippers, wine and watched hawks stalk the dusk balcony. Because we had taken a little longer then normal, mainly attributed to my lagging behind in order to take copious amounts of pictures, the rico asado (which means really tasty BBQ) was ready and after that trek, we pretty much inhaled the chorizo, steak and salad. After drinking the bottle of wine and discussing types of pudding with the English family that had just gone on a night beaver tour, they cracked a bottle of nice champagne and I had my first toast and Happy Birthday (in Spanish).
Somehow in the midst of the wine and champagne we convinced our guide, Ricardo, to come out and celebrate with us (and buy me a cake...which swear was his idea entirely) so when we got back into town he introduced us to the Eureka the bakery, because it was like Eureka!!! with cakes, cookies and postres galore, and bought me a chocolate mousse cake, super rico! After we went back to the hostel where we drank more champagne with a slew of loud U2-obsessed-Italians and a couple of Brooklyn chics whereupon I got my second Happy-Birthday-in-Spanish-of-the-night (by this time it was starting to loose its luster, I'm not going to lie).
Then... us girls went off to Dreamland, no not sleep, but the bar with marshmallow-like chairs that we lazed on as we took whiskey, vodka and tequila shots while discussing American politics, the scenester scene and everything in between. Needless to say it was the most extreme/songs in Spanish/ Eureka/political conversations/talking to guys with tribal tattoos all over his face/finally eating grilled cheese sandwiches/ Birthday I ever had. Perfecto.
The following day was left for recovery where we visited Eureka again and to get supplies for a much needed hangover tea party, eventually getting to bed early for our five in the morning bus ride to Rio Gallegos. After another day's journey of embarcar, disembarcar, embarcar (get on, get off, get on, get off) we got Rio Gallegos, what Neda coined as the ¨butt hole of Argentina,¨ and thankfully only had to stay for fifteen minutes before jumping onto the next bus to Mendoza. The two day trip which followed was uneventful except for my kind neighbor who recommended a wonderful and cheap hotel whose backyard was arbored by bright green bushels of grapes, as many as we could eat, and of course, the first thing me and Neda did was see who could fit the most in their mouth, she won, surprisingly...and you though I had a big mouth!
Next time entertainment of our missed flight, Peru and Machu Pichu.
Ciao
Alex
(Side note - Just as I was writing this my camera has been stolen (along with my credit card, money and two of my passports), so I will post the photos I have but Bolivia will now be sorely lacking...boo ladrones)
Patagonia
Coming from a hot and incredibly dry Mendoza, the air as we stepped off the bus in Bariloche was amazingly crisp. A Swiss inspired town, compete with a cornucopia of chocolate shops and wood cabin-esque housing as well as a breathtaking view of the mountains, Bariloche seemed to be the epitomical first foray into Patagonia. Much like Tahoe, a rich blue lake lapped affront a huge snow capped mountains and considering that we were excited to have left the high concentration of cities behind, we were more than okay with spending some time in Patagonia.
And time we would spend, considering that our last night in Mendoza we befriended a group of artisans at the ¨feria artesanal¨ drinking wine with them behind their stall as they sold their wares, helping them pack up and cooing over their newborn. Anyhow when we returned from dinner that evening, I forgot to grab my camera battery and charger from the front desk and so begins the story of my unpaid part time job. (will return back to this later)
After arriving in Bariloche we stayed at the Marco Polo hostel which included dinner in its cost, and whose communal meal turned the entire hostel into a dorm-like atmosphere; people eating, playing pool and drinking before heading out to the Wilkenny (the favorite Irish Pub in town) or the Roxy (a dance club that follows the strange and somewhat unnerving trend of playing a song for all of a minute before switching on the next).
It was at Marco Polo that I asked the front desk to call the hostel in Mendoza to have my charger and battery sent down to Bariloche, a simple procedure they assured me, sent on the next bus and I could pay when I picked it up the following day, fine.
In the meantime, drunk with overconfidence I think due in part to the natural beauty, and in part to a couple of nights at the Wilkenny, we decided to partake in the three day up Cerro Catedral trek as the first backpacking trip of South America.
The first day we started out late, climbing the steady incline scrub brush until coming upon a dead tree forest, their trunks bleached bone white and burned around the edges, alongside the beautiful blue Lake Gutierrez. Past the picture perfect streams (by this time I was kicking myself again for my faulty short term memory and wishing I more than a cheap disposable camera) and a bamboo forest, the final hour of the five hour hike turned rock climbing at a sixty degree angle, whereupon out of nowhere beamed the Refugio Fray and we stumbled upon it, weak thighed, wearing sweat-wet clothes that would never dry before the sun set.
The following day we headed out early to where the trail was supposed to pick up, around the end of the lake and past the huge rock up to the right. We started out on the trail but all we saw was the dusty path in front of us and a mountain face to the right. This is where the path became demarcated by mere red circle painted on seemingly haphazard rocks.
We climbed up (and when I say climb I mean four extremities on a eighty five degree mountain of boulders and rocks with our huge backpacks) until we reached a beautiful lake plateau. After a short break we headed up a even steeper and less rocky more slippery mountain taking our bread, cheese and avocado lunch with the most amazing view. The way down was not so safe, being that the red circles
and dots had to be painted on the very few solid things that existed the very loose dirt slope. I basically skied down the slope on the verge of falling off the 2000 km mountain and finally landed in rocky dried riverbed which led to a FULL 20 minutes of flat valley walking.
From here my knees were telling me to stop but we kept on trekking through the valley to what a fellow backpacker´s book called a ¨short but very strenuous¨ climb. This book was averaging half the time on the dissension so I was really interested what this second mountain range was to look like.
In a row of about ten, pairs and groups, we started up this short but strenuous¨ hill which despite being deceptively small, got the heart pumping again. When we finally reached the top I was hoping this was what the book had predicted, but as I expected it was too easy, and we came upon a plateau with a high mountain double the size and covered with snow affront us.
The climb up was strenuous and surprisingly short (maybe they did know something about something) and when I reached the top I saw the entire valley below, the previous mountain range to my back, and a view which literally left me eye level with a huge black and white condor that circled the snow crested mountains. The dissension down was more steep than the first mountain range we descended and there was a lot less dirt skiing, but harder on the knees and toes, so when we finally
reached the Refugio (which means refuge in English) the three levels of creaky wooden dorm beds looked like heaven.
The final day back was an uneventfully beautiful but steady stroll of 12 km which I
could have skipped it was so easy by comparison. Though since it was not the high season anymore we got to the road where the bus was supposed to run, and found out that it did no more, so off me, Neda as well as eight Israelis went walking another 5 km to the next town where it rumoured to stop once or twice a day. (Side note - There were so many Israelis in Bariloche and South America in general, and it
seemed they were pretty much the only people on these intense hikes...though it was probably quite a breeze for them considering most of them are traveling after finishing their military service)
So off we go in hopes of hitching a ride on the way since the promise of a bus is not so hot. We figure two, but very smelly, girls have a better chance catching a ride than with a whole slew of people so we start to separate ourselves, but as we grab our bags a bus comes, and not just a bus, but the RIGHT bus back to Centro. I am amazed at our fortune since I was so tired by that time I had no interest in trying to hitch back, staying pleasant and talking to the driver in Spanish.
We arrive back and after finding another less Animal House-like hostel head for the showers and sort out the desperate laundry situation. After I head to work, I mean the Marco Polo, to see if my package has been sent because it is not at the bus station. They haven´t sent it. Tomorrow for sure.
The next couple of days we schlep around, meeting a ban of professional kayakers that have been driving a vegetable oil run Japanese firetruck from Alaska to Ushuaia (the tip of Argentina) for the last year. I call the bus station and the Marco Polo each day.
The following day I head off again to my unpaid job calling Mendoza where they said they hadn´t even sent it, and who am I again, this is a hostel not a post office. I hang up.
Stuck in a very beautiful but touristy town me and Neda decide to go camping while still keeping our fingers crossed for the battery. Now this camp site is five stars, a beautiful hawk forest, with a spotless bathroom and gasp, toilet paper. I abandon hope of receiving the battery in Bariloche, tell them to send it to Bolson, because of
course they have not sent it yet, and take a mere couple hour bus ride to Bolson where we set up camp in a countryside like setting.
Bolson
Despite our impressing cooking skills of Choripan (Chorizo Sausage Hot Dog) on a grill, a fire fashioned of wet twigs, the Patagonia winter weather was cold. I, however, slept like a cold rock, while Neda froze and moved to a hostel the following morning.
As for the never ending battery story apparently they have said they sent it to a hostel in Bolson and so a couple of days later after attending an independent Argentinian movie screening, reggae night and meeting up with that tranquillo band of kayakers, I moved to another hostel in an effort to claim it.
Of course it doesn´t come, and after spending another couple of days hanging out with local artisans at the feria during the day, being cooked a carne relleno (stuffed steak feast) at night, going to a local birthday party in the middle-of-generator-run-no-where and getting stuck out there with food poisoning from eating fresh applies,
berries, and walnuts aside the tree they call the tree of dreams... I finally received my battery, hooray!
The following day we left for Rio Gallegos in order to get down to Ushuia before winter truly set in, but ended up getting stuck (the bus schedules are sporadic at best) and heading to see the thunderous cracking glacier, Perito Moreno in Calafate.
More tales of Perito Moreno, my birthday glacier hike and Ushuia to come.
We have arrrived into Argentina, home of the Guacho (Argentinian Cowboy), a fine steak, the Malbec and a strange accent that we only got the hang of at the end, whereupon we have been shunned now by almost every other country. Perhaps its was due to our city-hopping or impossibly high expectations but we hardly stayed in Buenos Aires for a couple of days before realizing that it was really just a city like
any other and wanting to move on. Despite Neda´s short bout with body modification, and some self led (or do I mean lost) walking tours through a beautiful western style city, we high tailed it outta there in hopes of catching the last day of the three month long Mendocino wine harvest festival.
Now while Mendoza was a beautiful our travels there is another story entirely. We boarded a two story bus with upholstery circa 1980, furry chartreuse and almost entirely worn through, though ironically they were still able to shell out the dough in order to maintain the frigid air conditioned climate, typical of all South America buses. The bus ride was supposed to take a mere 12 hours and after they fed us a somewhat edible airplane-like meatloaf and mashed potatoes I dozed off to sleep for the night, everything seemingly going according to plan.
When I awoke at 3 in the morning (we had left at 9 the night before) we were at a standstill and apparently (according to Neda who was way to livid to entertain notions of sleep) we had been stopped for four or five hours while waiting for a new battery in the middle of Argentinian nowhere. Finally we got a new battery but no more than an hour or two later we stopped again because something else had blown out. This is not to mention all of the other times we stopped in order to pick up people, refuel, serve food, change lanes and sneeze, you name it.
So there we sit watching our dreams spending the last day of the wine festival in Mendoza slip through our fingers as I hurry to dry off all of my things which, because they were on the floor in front of me for safekeeping, had gotten soaked when the bus started leaking everywhere. If my all my books wilting up like flowers and tearing
with vulnerability was not enough, the sweetest little old lady sitting next to me was soaked all the way through when she fell asleep and the bus leaked all over her seat, staining her little old lady pantsuit. Incredibly the driver refused to let her get her bag out from under the bus (although we were stopped and obviously not doing much other than frothing at the mouth) and so she sat for hours in a wet little flowered beige pantsuit, is that not the saddest thing you ever heard!
Fast forward a couple of hours we finally have promise of a new bus, and with it, renewed hope that there will not be a massive bout of suicide in the middle of Argentinian agriculture fields. The new bus pulls up, and we are slightly disheartened because it mirrors the former to a T, but by this point I would have settled for a turtle if it moved, so we jump on.
The rest of the ride was not a terrible, especially not after buying a couple of bottles of Seagram´s whiskey at some trucker stop to ¨calm our nerves.¨ The Segram´s might have a little too relaxing though because when we stopped momentarily to pick up some more people I got off and a little confused started running after another Mendoza bus as it was leaving then getting into a fight ,in Spanish nonetheless, atop the second level of the bus (don´t ask). Regardless after 25 hours we finally arrive in Mendoza, 10:30 at night and missing the wine festival and the concert entirely.
Now being the go-getters that we are, we are not going to let a little thing like the end of a wine festival disrupt our plans of Malbec inebriation so we recruited one very large (think the hulk but not green) Kiwi, rented motorized mountain bikes and after a couple of false starts we finally took off to the local Mendoza Bodegas in hopes
of good wine and perhaps a little sport of drunken bicycle riding.
Getting into the barrio (outskirts, neighborhood) we were doing fine, though finding the Bodegas (there was supposed to be four) was another story altogether. We rode back and forth, our shitty little map becoming increasingly more deteriorated and me breaking my chain while going up an incline and falling forward, in slow motion, off the seat and finally landing in the middle of the road. Barely a scratch I get up, only to realize that the chain now did not work at all and so I was unable to peddle in order to get going fast enough to start the little motor. Being the ever gentleman/gentelhulk the Kiwi offered to switch me bikes and so he got the task of a running start each time we stopped to ask directions, turn around, red light etc.
After three hours, Neda almost getting hit by a car and falling off her bike, a sore bum and many conflicting directions we finally gave up for a bottle of wine at a cafe and bought our own freaking cheese plate. By the time all had been eaten and drunk we were running late and so we then started the ride home, weaving in and out of cars, Emil running to start the bike at each red light when it bike continually sputtered and died. Even after hauling ass we arrived an hour late but if you think a thing like that could damage our spirits, think again.
The following day; me, Neda, the Hulk and our new recruit (don´t ask me how we convinced anyone to come with us) the Dutch writer, with spirits renewed, bravely forgo-ed the ¨lead¨ tour for a bus into Malpui in order to try our luck with bicycle wine tasting yet again. Although the climate there is like a desert, dry and hot, the wind was nice and we had fun actually being able to stop (we went for the normal bikes this time) at one place, drinking and then riding off to the next.
The following nights we kicked around Mendoza, partaking in a Tango pizza party, bowling, and lastly brushing up our Spanish as we drank wine with the local artisans behind their stalls in the feria (craft market) but Patagonian mountains were calling to us and we were soon off to Bariloche, our first foyer into Argentinan Patagonia.
So I will be the first to admit that we have been bumming around cities a bit, but just you wait for the new and extreme adventures to come!
In an effort to vacate a very wonderful and yet pricey Brazil we took a bus straight from Rio to Floranopolis (which was in the south of Brazil) and then an hour later, Floranopolis to Chui. From Chui, a small boarder town in Uruguay, we were planning to take a bus to Punta del Diablo, though arriving at four in the morning an not having any Uruguayan pesos limited our options substantially and I ended up asking our bus driver to drop us off at the side of the road next to the Punto del Diablo off ramp. From there we proceeded to walk for three to four miles towards town and even though we were in good spirits watching the sunrise, not to mention to finally be walking again or moving in general, we did not the refuse the ride into town when a nice gardener stopped and gave us a lift.
In the back of a pickup amidst the lawn mower and shears, we sped along a dusty road until reaching the ocean, pastel rustic beach houses and hammocks adorning the coast side. Our new friend dropped us off at what he thought was a really cheap hostel, but upon hearing it was twenty five American dollars a night we left for another hostel which was subject to both Carnival prices and lack of room, and after
a valiant attempt he abandoned us to our own devices.
Having minimal Lonely Planet information, we resorted to the tourist information office who pointed is in the direction of a rustic little piso that had a small stove and range as well as dining room table. We were taken with the cottage-like atmosphere and haphazard decor for a while but when it poured and we woke up to a swamp, the water running down the walls and fireplace, we were a little less enchanted. Punta
Del Diablo, a little hippie Uruguayan surf town named most probably for its incredibly strong winds (that or it is some moral comment about the obscene amount of pot smoking hippies) was sweet enough but after a couple of days we realized that there was not a whole lot to do and the wind, makes for great surfing but rather chilly suntanning.
We left Punta del Diablo that rainy day, invested in some camping gear and got away with only paying five dollars for four days of camping in Santa Teresa. Despite arriving in the rain we got our site set up quickly and soon were making friends with all of our neighbors who we were camping right next to due to the massive influx of campers for Carnivale. (The line for the only store each night was around the block
and people were buying whole shopping carts of beer).
The campsite was gorgeous though, a eucalyptus forest infested with emerald green birds who cheerfully greeted our hangover each morning. There were surprisingly a lot of Brazilians there (one would think they would stick around in Brazil) and we danced each night of the three day festival on the beach to electronic and Brazilian music. During the days we played volleyball on the beach, met, drank and ate with a lot of Uruguayans that spoke really fast, disheartening me as to my knowledge of Spanish, but overall having a wonderfully chill Carnivale.
After five days we caught a bus to Montevideo which was just as romantic as I pictured it. The Neoclassical buildings aside streets lined with trees and parks, accompanied a remarkably tranquil feeling added to our infatuation with the city. Our hostel was incredible having a skylight patio, checkered marble floors and serene blue and white tiles. Our room had french doors with high lofted ceilings and beds... and can you put a price on not sleeping cramped in a ¨two¨ person tent on a downhill slope without a pillow?
The moment we left our hostel in order to explore a bit of Montevideo someone came up behind me and pulled my hair, concerned I turn around and isn`t it Barbara, the sweet Brazilian we met on the bus to Uruguay who was in Montevideo visiting her friends. Immediately we left with her and her friends to see a ¨Murga¨ which is a comedy/musical/social commentary about Uruguay, South America and the United States done at the end of Carnival. Although we did not understand all of it, the actors dramatic movements and songs aided in our comprehension of the Murga and the politically active atmosphere of Uruguay in general. Which was quite a change from a fun loving and more blissfully ignorant Brazil.
The following days were spent with Barbara at the Museo de Torres Garcia, a impressionistic cubist painter from Uruguay who studied in Barcelona (with Gaudi) and Paris, and exploring the city with Alfredo another local that we met in Santa Teresa. It was here, through our almost entirely Spanish conversations to Barbara I had renewed my hope in our Spanish abilities, and the amount of light skinned people enabled me to blend in a little better and I was relieved to not be a sore thumb of an American curiosity.
After five days we hesitantly left Montevideo for Colonia Sacramento where we caught a ferry to Buenos Aires. Next time, our month and a half long travels through Argentina.
It has been a long time coming, I know, I make no excuses.
An energetic person, as I have been known to be, the second day in Ipanema (yes, that song was stuck in my head for the entirety of my stay) I flounced off the a bus, as I have been know to do, leaving my futuristic wallet clatter on the step as it screeched away. This was the being of my stint solely depending on my sugar mama (Neda) for money and the reason that we were obligated to be Rio Bums. Tough
life, I know.
Catete (pronounced ca-te-che), a northern barrio of Rio, was located closer to downtown and furnished the first Parliamentary house which remained functional until the late fifties and has since been turned into a museum. Here its streets are filled not with tourists but locals, selling kabobs, salgados (deep fried savory pastry) and fruit, a sad irony of a cornucopia of food for sale in a city strewn with
poor children.
The hostel we stayed at doubled as a place for extended stays and so within a couple of days we had made friends with the local guys, barbecuing lime-sugared chicken wings, drinking caipirinas on the street, and going out to Lapa at night. Lapa is a place all of its own, the barrio encompassed by large aqueduct arches, serves as the
heart of the local sweaty humid nightlife. The main island between two main one-way roads is packed with people selling rice and beans, hamburgers, liters of beers from small stands as a drum circle plays music across the street in the park. The other side of the street is lined with clubs for Samba, Reggae and Hip Hop, a cacophony of noise
all seeking to be heard above the rest and as you walk past you feel as if you are walking through entirely different worlds. People with individual carts around their neck sells tequila shots and cigarettes and you feel euphorically confused in some chaos of Brazil, America and Mexico.
During the days I would lay out at the local beach where the swarms of people peppered the beach and children slid their dark bodies through the wind churned blue-brown water. Vendors walked along the beach, their dulcet tones gracing my peace with prospects of popcorn, beer and water. After I would walk back through the shady sculpture garden that once was kept solely for the likes of the Presidential Palace, passing colonial building and the old church, as well as the former barbecues whose grates now stand filled with prayer induced candles and sacrificed bits of bread and flowers. I would walk past the abstracted graffiti and alongside the artisans selling their wares, past the suco bars (juice bars) their fruit spilling out in long braided garlands of açai, bananas, pineapples and guavas. It is not hard to understand why we stayed so long.
Now although part of our days were lazily vacationing we also learned the city, as a local, which is founding doctrine of the Rio Bums.
A couple of days after arriving we met a local mandolin player at a suco bar, (juice bar where they have every type of known and unknown juice possible, including the açai) and like in Sao Paulo we went for a walk of Centro (downtown) and inadvertently stumbled into a local run, and free, walking tour. We visited a old bank refurbished as a museum that housed some the works Aleijadinho, a sculptor who fell lame due to a genetic disease and ended up cutting off his legs, strapping a chisel to his arms (for his hands did not work) and was hoisted up to sculpt some of the most intricate religious statures in Ouro Prêto. Talk about dedication.
Afterwards we went out to Lapa to a club named for Democracy and danced the night away to all different forms of Samba, Condoble and Marcha, his long dread locks and legs leading me miraculously around the dance floor and disguising my utter lack of Samba skills. After we went to the Scenarium, a three story bar/restaurant/prop rental house where the ceiling rained with Japanese umbrellas and old television
sets were stacked as you walked up the spiral staircase. An seventy-year-old car and an entire counter and shelving unit of an antique pharmacy, complete with brown aged bottles, filled the massive second floor. Wooden carved Mary statues (that far exceeded those at the museum) alongside a wall of a hundred of antique clocks and
cupboards filled with porcelain stoic doll faces looking out at you, silent and ivory they laid below the crystal drops of chandeliers and hanging rusted beach cruisers. This place was magical and although it was closing, Roberto´s (the musician) connections from playing their regularly got us an inside look.
Another day getting to know the city, me and Neda walked to the Jardin Botanico getting eaten alive with tropical blood suckers and then another day the Christo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer). The largest statue of Jesus Christ in the world, it stands 30-meters tall and holds Rio in his 28-meter outstretched arms. With other friends we sang at a local beach birthday bonfire and danced in the rain soaked
block parties held in anticipation of Carnival.
We stayed for a while and made the best of it. I finally received my credit card, paid back my sugar mama and went south, unable to afford the 20 to 150 rials increase at each hostel during Carnival week. And so the tale end here for Brazil, next stop Punta del Diablo, the Point of the Devil.
As we crossed the border into Uruguay this morning and watched the sun rise over the woodland sky I can not say I was not a little nostalgic of our weeks spent in Brazil and our short stint as, what we fondly refer to as, the Rio Bums. Here is my story.
After a tediously long twenty nine hour flight including three stop overs and realizing that Spanish is not quite enough to get by on, we finally arrived in Brazil. While it took me one exhausted minute to feel that the romantic ideal was dead, it similarly, only took one
minute to fall in love.
The Brazilian culture is enviable at best, and enough to postpone globe trotting aims (as you will see) at worst. Sao Paulo is Brazils (sorry I can not use commas, granted I can see them on the keypad but using them is something else entirely) industrial capital, though for the constant swarms of people milling about all times of the day, drinking beer and closing up shops and restaurants at three in the afternoon, you would not think it. Despite having a touch of a cold when we first arrived and the inevitable jet lag, we managed (so hard I am sure) to drag ourselves out and each night where we were befriended by nice locals, traversing the city with impromptu walking tours, and stumbling into local Samba festivals and strangely purple painted pets.
Brazilians are nothing if not proud and the "Paulistas" will tell you that Sao Paulo is by far the best Brazilian city but after a couple of day we decided to catch a bus to Rio to see what the "Cariocas" had in the way of pristine beaches and live music.
After a six hour bus ride with some ADHD kid gracing our entire trip with prepubescent Portuguese songs, we arrived in Rio de Janiero. We thought about saying something but perhaps there is an upside to not knowing the language, read; getting smacked in the head by his very large mother. As I stepped off the air conditioned bus, the eight five -ninety degree weather hit me sticking me to my backpack and running down my back. Slightly more annoying than my perspiration we almost got royally ripped off for a taxi when we were quoted 15 rials (7 dollars) but, perhaps fell victim to the ol switch-a-roo when the guy handed us over to some other driver who told us that he followed the meter. Fifteen minutes later upon arriving at our hostel in Botafogo the meter read 35 American dollars! So we kindly asked for our bags and then stuffed a third of the price in his hand as he drove off, shaking his head.
After meeting a couple of Australians, a cute Botofogian couple, watching the sun set and rise in Ipanema and getting a map-like sporadic tan (due to poor application) we decided to keep hostel jumping from Botofogo to Ipanema (suburbs of Rio). Ipanema was
beautiful, white sand beaches and all the comforts of home but in order to evade an Santa Monica-like atmosphere packed with touristas we opted to continue onto Catete, where more locals live and is closer to Centro. It is here where the real story of the Rio Bums begins.
Not to bore with novel-esque emails (and everyone likes a little anticipation, right?) Part II of the tales of the Rio Bums is to come as well as our current travels in Uruguay for Carnaval at Devils Point.
Hope all is well with everyone and I would love to hear how everyone is doing. Despite the fact that this computer is missing a couple of keys and the space bar seems to keep sticking, I have relatively regular access to email, so please do not hesitate.
Also apparently computers from the eighties do not have USB ports so I will keep searching so I can upload some images of Brazil. If you want to check out my current (sin South America) website the address is; www.flickr.com/photos/alexmolloy
Ciao
