Dreaming of a White Christmas

So if you are still looking for that special stocking filler, then look no further

Rio #2

After 46 hour bus jaunt from Natal (more about that at some stage) I have arrived in Rio to sit out my last 3 days. Weird Weird Weird.

By the way: There are no presents for any of you in my rucksack so donīt even think about it. No Hard rock cafe Sydney t-shirts / bottles of Thai sauces / Llama foeti / mini christ the redeemer statues (that glow in the dark) / hammocks / key chains / stick of brighton rock.

Right, who is buying me a pint first of all?

Natal

This hungover slug has come to a grinding halt in Natal where life is just too pleasant to continue. Living in a castle, chilling on the beach and hanging out with a mad Danish author.

You forget that you are living in such a paradise, but every so often you are pulled back to irreality. Like this morning after doing some laundry (I told you travelling is fun) I was hanging the clothes out to dry and I get this strange feeling that I am being watched. I turn around and sitting on the wall behind me is a small monkey, looking at me as if to say "what the hell are you doing" whilst chewingly contentedly on a mango he has just plucked from the adjacent tree. We have a bit of a chat and I return to partake in breakfast on the veranda.

The only other thing of import to say is that in one weeks time I shall be getting on a 747 and crossing the Atlantic at 700mph, ending what has been without doubt the best 360 days of my life.

Praia do forte / Aracaju / Maceio

My travel speed has decreased to that of a elderly, infirm, hungover slug travelling backwards through honey. I have been gradually making my way up the north east coast from Salvador. The great thing about this stretch of coast is that it is just one giant beach with crystal blue waters, palm trees and the inherent risk of falling coconuts putting an abrupt end to ones travels...

Praia do forte is a beautiful small beachside town complete with humming birds and small monkeys just north of Salvador. Aracaju is nothing special, but the owner of my hostel in Rio was there on holidays and had invited me to come and stay with them in their parents apartment. Gift horse, mouth etc., so I wasnīt passing up on the chance of a free nights sleep. I arrived at the apartment and realised straight away that it wasnīt your average middle class Brazilian family. The apartment wasnīt one of many on the 4th floor... It WAS the fourth floor. Probably about 200m2, in the downtown area, overlooking the river, 3 balconies and enough space to swing an ocelot. When I woke up the next morning, everyone was out of the house (parents, brothers & sisters etc.), but there were not one, but TWO maids in the kitchen. One fussed about me and lead me to the dining room where a 12 seater table was set for one. So I dined on fresh bread rolls, scrambled eggs, cheese & brazilan cold cuts, fresh fruit salad and pineapple, all washed down with some freshly brewed brazilian coffee served in a fine bone china cup. Somehow it didnīt fit in with my whole living on stale bread and water, sleeping in drains world traveller image (hey I was sitting on their finest mahogony chairs wearing the same boxer shorts I had on for the previous 2 days...), but life is hard and one has to be flexible. So I "Ahemed", asked for more coffee and retired to the living room to watch TV... 2 well fed days later I bid (bade?) farewell to my family (I was getting to used to the luxury thing) and headed up to Maceio, which has some of the nicest beaches in Brazil. The first day there I duly sunscreened up my whole body but somehow omitted my face. The next day I looked like one of those monkeys in Japan that sit and fart in hot springs all day. Onwards ever onwards (this time in a group comprising of an Englishman, an Israeli and a Guatemalan - anyone got a joke handy?) towards Olinda, the first capital of Brazil. A street party or two later and I had to leave - I was having fights with the Israeli. He was inclined to walk 4 kilometers out of town to save 50 cents on his food. I tried to explain that the energy we would lose just by walking all the way would be more than the money we saved. He just growled at me, so with his 3 hear SAS style military training in mind, I fled towards Natal.

Salvador

As soon as you arrive in Salvador you know there is something special about the city - there is an electric vibe rising up from the streets from the moment you step off the [twentyfuckingseven hour] bus. music emanates from every car, van, bus, house, restaurant, bar and hotel. The sounds of samba, salsa, reggae, bossanova and frevo fill the air. The first night I took a stroll around the pelourinho (old city), just following my ears to the closest music source. It turned out to be an all female drum ensemble - Dida. The girls ranged in age from 8-15 and they were all amazing drummers. They played their hearts out for ages, all the time with infectious grins on their faces. I reckon my arm would have fallen off after about 5 minutes. During one piece all the girls had to come to the front to do a little dance around their drum. To be honest I have never seen such self confidence in a 10 year old before. They danced around their drum, jumped up on the the drum, posed, did some cartwheels and generally strutted their stuff. I think any western girl that age would have been mortified to be put in front of so many people to dance, but no, these girls lapped up the attention.

That was basically the sum of Salvador - sleep late (cos there was no going to bed early with all the music being played), read a little, wait for sundown, grab a beer and head out to the nearest music venue. Most of the drum bands would do a procession through the cobbled streets, so it had a bit of a mini-carneval feel to it all. I will never forget one night the procession stopped outside a barberīs shop where a man was getting a haircut. The barber proceed to dance around the man, taking a snip out of his hair everytime the bass drum sounded. The victim customer took it all in his stride and was even bopping around in his chair a bit. I didnīt wait for the end product, but it was definitely a hair cut with soul.

In between times there were always some blokes in the squares around town practising Capoeira. Some not so good - pissed blokes pretending to fight, but some were breathtaking, kicking each other and missing each otherīs heads by milimeters & miliseconds. One guy was even doing some backflips over his opponent. Salvador is a wonderful place, music in the air, street parties every night, beaches, cheap accomodation, great food & men pretending to kick the shit out of each other. Now why canīt we have that back home?

Mr. Cab Driver

As opposed to Europe where one must either show extensive leg or cleavage (in case of a girl) or throw oneself in the middle of the road (for a man) to get a taxi, in South America the Taxi drivers are positively aggressive in getting your custom (if you appear to be a gringo). Walking by a taxi rank is the equivalent of a half naked lady walking by a building site - you get whistled at, shouted at and basically terrorised. If you stop walking curb side, deliberate for a second and look any way confused (which admittedly I do far too often), a taxi will pull up beside you within seconds. If you happen to have a Lonely Planet in your hand at the same time, then they will nearly drag you into the taxi. Yesterday I was standing on a main road at a zebra crossing waiting for the little green man with 30 Brazilians around me and a taxi driver stops in front of us all, rolls down his window and says "Taxi?" expectantly.

Idiots.

I have always harboured a deep dislike for taxi drivers, pratically all around the world they are crooks, conmen or just have no clue...
In Prague I once hailed a cab, got in and told the driver where I wanted to go. He nodded and headed off straight ahead, after a couple of kms, he turned right followed by another right soon after, then straight ahead for a couple of kms and he let me out. Yes, I was basically one block away from where I started and had to pay about 30 Kopecs for the pleasure.
In Malaysia they refuse to turn on the meter and are difficult bastards to bargain with. Once I got the guy down from 5 dollars to 2 dollars for a trip to the bus station, so not knowing where the station was, I thought I had a bargain. The driver nearly just pushed the car there - it was less than 1 km away... Sucker. He even grinned at me when I handed over the money.
In Singapore, one of the smallest cities in the world, I asked the driver to take me to a large (and presumably well known) hotel where I was meeting someone. The driver had never heard of the hotel and proceeded to drive all around the world for sport looking for it. I suggested he ask somebody on the street, so we played a round of "ask the locals" and on the second attempt found a bloody ex-pat (of all people) who directed us to it.
In Vietnam if you ask a taxi driver to take you to a certain hotel, he will invariably tell you it a) is terrible, b) is full of prostitutes, c) is closed, d) has burned down, e) doesnīt exist or f) has been zapped by a WMD. If you insist he will probably take you there, but on the way will stop by his brotherīs hotel which of course is nicer, cleaner, cheaper, friendlier etc. etc. If you still insist on going to your original hotel the driver will pull a face and grumble like a troll for the rest of the journey.
In Munich I once had a meeting and not much time so I jumped in the cab and told him where I wanted to go. The driver growled at me in deepest Bavarian and told me to basically "walk you lazy fuck". It was two blocks away and my custom wasnīt good enough for him.
In Dublin due to licensing laws there was a chronic shortage of taxis up until recently. Of course the taxi drivers were very happy about this and campaigned bitterly against issuing more licences. At night people would wait (due to Dublinīs excellent public transport) for hours at the main taxi ranks. At Christmas there were stories of people waiting 3/4 hours for a taxi. One night I got so pissed off I walked the 8km home.

So as a mini-revenge against taxi drivers I have perfected a new sport which I have entitled "Taxi Baiting". It involves standing on main streets looking confused (easy) and waiting for one to come by. When he stops and rolls down his window you look at him for a while, look at the taxi (getting his hopes up all the time) look in a certain direction, wait a couple of seconds and then finally say "eh, Noo.". They normally harrumph and speed off disgruntedly. Last night I managed to get 6 hits within the short walk home from a bar to my hostel.

Ah, the simple pleasures in life.

Rio de Janeiro - The start of a love affair?

Before I arrived in Rio I decided I was going to stay in Ipanema. I had visions of myself sitting on the beach, guitar in hand, crooning to the local beauties as they sauntered by. Rio was having none of it and as I arrived there was a rainstorm that would have put Atlantis 2 miles further underwater. I walked into my hostel of choice and said "Hi". There was a guy on the sofa and beer in hand he countered "Soft fucking day, huh?" in a distinctive Cork accent. I smiled, he grinned, we started drinking, we bonded.

The hostel was in a small cul-de-sac with two other hostels beside us and our place turned into a bit of a party central due, in no short measure, to the corkmans & my thirst and my (by now) honed DJing capabilities on the hostelīs stereo. Everyone seemed to be either starting a world trip or were in the final days of their journey before heading home. So the conversations were either of the "Hi, where you from?", "How long are you travelling?", "Wow, where have you been?", "Tell me about x" (For how much I cherish these conversations, see: Traveller Trumps), or of the far more preferable "I donīt care what you do or where you've been, lets talk shite and have a drink" variety.

The week shaped up as follows:
Thursday: No party party
Friday: Lapa street party
Saturday: Salsa party
Sunday: Favela Funk party
Monday: New liver party
Tuesday: Beach

With that I packed my bags and got on the bus to Salvador de Bahia on Wednesday morning.

ps. After 1 week I still know nothing more about the Corkmanīs life and times other than his name.

Penultimate photoset

So while it pisses rain here in Rio, look at what sunny Peru was like.