Having alluded to a forthcoming “all the foods I ate” post for close to a year now, I figure it’s about time to ante up.  And so I present this picture-heavy display of various cuisines I was cognizant enough to take pictures of while abroad.  It’s far from complete and woefully lacking in description and character, but, as always, is better than nothing.

Peru

My time in Peru was divided between kooky “jungle medicine” tours in January and my Machu Picchu adventures in June.   Since food from the earlier trip was covered in this post, I’ll only cover the latter delectables here.

Alpaca.  Like its cousin, the llama, these South American beasts of burden are used as pack animals, tourist attractions (Peruvians love to dress them up in brightly colored clothes and then ask for money after you take a picture of one) and, of course, food.  They’re surprisingly good, too, and not nearly as tough as I would’ve guessed.

Alpaca with a side of... well, I'm not certain what this was, but it was vaguely reminiscent of grits.

In Lima, I decided to give cuy (guinea pig) a second chance. The results? It's still as worthless a meal as I found it before. Not bad, per se, but so much effort and mess for about four bites worth of meat. What's the point?

Rocoto Relleno. Stuffed peppers. A popular dish in the south of Peru, though this was a particularly fancy version as it's from Cuzco and marketed to tourists.

Rice pudding with raisins from a street vendor. The woman had a cart with four different flavors that I couldn't tell the difference between. Warm and tasty, though as with most street food down here, it'd never pass a US health inspection

Chile

I didn’t grab many shots of Chilean food.  Santiago had many seafood restaurants, though I couldn’t find sea bass anywhere.  Also, I really don’t much care for fish, so these restaurants did nothing for me.  Combined with the fact that Chile was the most expensive country I visited in South America, I didn’t eat out very much.

The restaurant informed us that this was a traditional Easter Island soup. Not bad, but nothing special

Ecuador

Food from Ecuador was also mostly covered here, but I’ve got a few additions.

Sugarcane juice. These machines take a stalk of cane, run it through and then dump out the excessively sweet (shouldn't be surprising) juice. It's also possible to just buy a stick of surgarcane and chew on it for a bit, if that's your thing...

One of the main food attractions of Banos is the toffee, even though I've never met anyone that likes it. This toffee is made by repeatedly pulling at it from a metal pole affixed to the wall (as seen in the background), then wrapping the pulled toffee around said pole and pulling again until it reaches the desired consistency. This open-air-dirty-pole method likely wouldn't work in the states.

Brazil

As popular and enjoyable as Brazilian barbecue restaurants are in the states, I wasn’t overly impressed with Brazilian food.  Maybe we went to the wrong places.  My friend Jaimee joined me for much of these spots and we had similar lackluster reactions to the country’s offerings.  We visited one steakhouse that, like its US counterpart, involved serving men roaming about with a wide variety of all-you-can-eat meat to slice for their patrons, all with several buffet style tables of fresh food in the background.  It was good, but bore little difference from what one would expect at similar restaurants in the states.

A popular local delicacy that I never quite figured out was manioc, a powdered form of cassava root that, throughout Brazil, is served with slivers of beef jerky.  This side can be found served with almost any meal in Rio.  Despite its ubiquity, we found it fairly bland and pointless, like eating bits from the bottom of a jerky bag that had been dropped into sawdust.  Meh.

Top of the list in Brazil was the açaí (pronounced “ah-sah-EEE”) smoothie.  Mixed with bananas, ice and sugar (apparently the fruit is, by itself, quite bland), this densely blue drink is both energizing and uniquely flavorful.  I made a point of having at least one of these daily.

Pastels (pronounced, in that bizarrely Portuguese way, as "pahs-TEY-ees"), are the Brazilian equivalent of empanadas. Unlike their baked Argentinian equivalent, these are larger and often deep fried. In addition to the standard chicken and ground beef flavors, "pizza"-filled is an option in many places, and not too bad

Crepe on a stick, filled with thick pockets of dulce de leche caramel and then covered in chocolate. We found this one at a random beachside stand between Sao Paolo and Rio.

Coconut water. Jaimee's favorite. Vendors were located everywhere with large coconuts on ice. Upon ordering one, they would use a machete to open it, then serve the beverage with a straw.

Steak, pineapple, sweet potato puree and, at bottom, manioc with jerky

Açaí berries with a glass of the puree on the side (pic not mine)

Nearly everything is available on the beaches of Rio de Janeiro, including a wide selection of food. This vendor carries a small cooler of cheese and a small over to bake said cheese, which is eventually removed and passed over on a stick

Uruguay

I only visited Uruguay for about three days, and the food wasn’t terribly different from what we found across the river in Argentina.  One treat that we were told was Uruguayan in nature was Clerico. Much like its red sangria cousin, clerico is a white-wine based fruit punch served with an ample supply of fruit.  My mother’s not much of a drinker, but she was so taken with it that we ordered two pitchers.  From a recipe online:

Clerico, with mother in background

And the winner is…

Argentina

(pic not mine) Argentinian style pizza. It's more common to have cheese, like the right half. Dough is excessively bready, for my tastes, and every slice gets a single olive.

The cuisine of Argentina is, much like its urban architecture, more heavily influenced by Spanish, Italian and French culture than anywhere else on the continent.  For instance, no breakfast is complete without medialunas (literally: half moons), the Argentinian name for croissants.  Breakfast is meant to be simple and light, to the point where those seeking fare more substantial than the standard coffee, orange juice and medialunas are generally out of luck.  Ham and cheese sandwiches are also fairly popular for breakfast, though for some reason no one believes in making these with more than a single slice each of ham and cheese, regardless of the thickness of the bread.

Brazil, the -guays, Chile and Argentina all have variations of the empanada (Note: there is no tilde over the ‘n’ and thus these are pronounced em-puh-nah-duh, and not “em-pan-yah-duh” as I mistakenly said for the first week or two that I lived here), for which I am thankful.  The doughy half-circles are sold with a wide variety of different stuffings in the middle.  Ground beef is typically my favorite when selecting one of the quick, warm mid-day snacks, though another variety includes a densely starchy corn pudding that’s also quite good.  Most vendors sell chicken varieties as well, but empanada de pollo always ends up tasting a bit dry.  There seems to be an unspoken rule that the dough that wraps each different filling be folded in a specific way to make the varieties more recognizable.

Rounding out the fast food selections is a wide sampling of standard sandwich fare.  Like anywhere else on this continent, hamburguesas are widely popular, as are “hot dogs” (that’s how they’re called here as well).  However, why one would go for a simple hot dog when choripan are available, I’m not sure.  From “chorizo“, the insanely good Argentinian beef sausage and “pan” for bread, this sandwich slices a massive chorizo down the center, coats it chimmichurri (a spice rack’s worth of different seasonings all in an oil and vinegar base) and serves it on a fresh French roll.  There’s a reason why there are so few American fast food restaurants here — they’re unnecessary.  Of all the countries, I think Argentina had my favorite street food.

A variety of empanadas, filled with beef, chicken, egg, onions, tuna, cheese and other fun ingredients

As fun to make as they are to eat

My friend Nicole displays an Argentinian hot dog with one of the more popular condiments here: potato chips

A choripan covered in chimichurri sauce. These epic sandwiches still make my mouth water and typically go for no more than $1.50

My attempt at making chimichurri. This attempt yielded incredibly tasty results, but it was closer to a salsa than a chimichurri. Still, as I had plenty of corn chips, this mistake wasn't much of a problem.

All of these are merely lead-ins, of course, to Argentina’s most famous of coronary-inducing main courses.  No, not red wine, though there’s plenty of that to be found here on the cheap as well.  I’m talking, of course, about steak.  Massive, bloody, succulent, affordable steak.  How affordable, you ask?  Well, this massive cut of tenderloin that I used to make about seven large cuts cost me the equivalent of four US dollars:

Yeah.  I miss that.  Parillas are Argentinian barbecue restaurants, and typically you can find several on the block of any busy street.  Restaurants like these specialize in meats, typically served with a side of meats and your choice of two additional meats.  Sometimes, these meals come with a small side salad, though it should be noted that the salad is made entirely of meat as well.  In short, Argentinians like their meat, and tend to order a large platter brought out to the table on a hot plate (often with a compartment for hot coal kept underneath to keep the food warm throughout dinner) with about 4-8 different meat varieties.  Purees of either regular or sweet potato are available, though that’s generally it as far as non-meats go.

The only downside to this is a general lack of options for dinner (which, I’ll remind you, is eaten between 10 pm and midnight throughout most of Argentina).  Most restaurants (and parillas for that matter) also serve a handful of pasta and noquis (gnocci) dishes, though the pasta options are almost identical throughout every restaurant in the entire country.  As much as I miss the steaks, I think the lack of options in Argentina would’ve gotten to me over time.

A parilla, with food guide (note: pic not mine). I mostly agree, though I found in many cases the chorizo I had was from beef and not pork.

The best steak dinner I had in Buenos Aires, by far, was at La Cabrera. There's always a line to get in, but they provide free champagne and cuts of steak (on toothpicks) to those outside, so even waiting is a pleasure at La Cabrera. Each serving gets four large cuts of meat with six dipping sauces each and then eight more hot tapas (not yet pictured). Epic, decadent meal, and one of the culinary highlights of Buenos Aires.

A more primitive parilla. In Ushuaia, a guide brought us out on kayaks to a cold island in the middle of nowhere and proceeded to build a fire for his makeshift parilla. There, an hour from civilized land by boat, sitting on fallen logs, we had a meal almost as perfect as the one above.

And for dessert?  Helados, and lots of it.  Meaning iced cream, the typical Argentinian helado is closer to Italian gelato than anywhere else I found in South America.  The frosty treat is popular across the continent, though harder and more similar to US iced cream elsewhere.  The Argentinian style is rich, creamy and ubiquitous.  There are almost more helado shops than parillas, with each one trying to out-gourmet the next.  Equally widespread are alfajores (al-fah-WHORE-eys), which some friends and family were lucky to get upon my return home last May.  These treats are made from two cake-like cookies pressed together with dulce de leche (caramel) in the center, and then usually coated in a thin layer of chocolate.  I found them “OK” at best, but the locals love ‘em.

A standard sampling of helados

A typical alfajore. I actually found pictures of my favorite style, but I only found said style once. These are the more readily available variant.

A typical Argentinian bakery. These are also tremendously widespread, and nearly every one seems to do a good business. Argentinians love their pastries.

Because who hasn't ever thought, upon eating a candied apple, "If only this had popcorn on it..."

Candied fruits, also with popcorn. I couldn't bring myself to try one of these, due to the thickness of the shiny, sugary glaze covering the fruit. Interestingly enough, I never saw these again until China, where they're also quite popular (sans popcorn, though)

Oh yeah.  Mate. Argentinians love their tea, and specifically, yerba mate.  Mate is a holly plant used to make tea throughout most of southern South America, though most popularly in Argentina.  As boiling the leaves tends to make them unpleasantly bitter, mate is instead steeped in hot water.  Due to high amounts of caffeine, the drink is a stimulant and is considered a social beverage in Argentina where it is passed around in small cups made from gourds called guampas.

Mate in Argentina, from Iguazu Falls in the north to Ushuaia in the far south, is inescapable.  Argentinians carry their guampas with them everywhere, typically with a small bag of tea, a bombilla (metal or wood straw used for drinking the tea while filtering out the leaves) and a thermos of hot water.  The leaves typically pack enough punch to be used for 7-10 servings of hot water; when they fail to provide any flavor, the mate is discarded and the gourd promptly refilled.  On buses, Argentinians pass their gourd around like a joint in a college dorm room.  At parties, it’s as likely that they show up with a thermos of hot water and a bag of mate as it is that they’d bring beer or wine.

Personally, I like the flavor but never quite got used to properly handling the bombilla.  The majority of these straws are made from metal, which doesn’t have much of a problem conducting heat.  Combine this with the near-boiling temperature of the hot water and it’s searing pain on the lips.  Though the response from all Argentinians is the same: “Oh, you get used to it…”

A bag of mate, along with two goards and a bombilla straw (pic not mine)

Carnival Fail

What are you looking for from Carnival?  The question was half-heartedly asked of me a few times, always upon hearing I intended to be in Rio de Janeiro rather than, say, Olinda or Salvador de Bahia.  “If you’re looking for the Disneyland Carnival, Rio’s it.  Salvador’s where the party’s at, man…”  This downplaying of Rio isn’t entirely true, as her streets explode with (if you can find them) blocos — moving street parties that follow the path of a flatbed truck carrying a performing samba band — and the beaches saturate to uncomfortable levels.  There is definitely a party here.

Ipanema beach during Carnival

A far more significant mistake was failing to secure a spot in a hostel early on.  After months of travel, I’d taken for granted just how effortlessly hostels provide all the necessary social and advisory needs.  For just 3-15 dollars a night and the minor annoyances of thin sunken mattresses, overcrowded rooms, poor ventilation, vomit-filled sinks, people that don’t have a problem having sex directly below you on a bunk-bed, people that have a problem with you having sex directly above them on a bunk-bed and very little personal storage space, the hostel is possibly the greatest benefit to solo travelers available.

While some of the more expensive hotels I’ve stayed at down here (well, never more than a two-star…) are manned by well-dressed, clean-cut locals, the English is choppy at best and they rarely know more than a few restaurants or attractions to recommend.  Hostel employees (who generally always speak English) on the other hand tend to function as expert concierges to nearly every culinary, social, cultural, religious or hedonistic desire the fledgling tourist might require.  In most cases they’re backed by a wall of information, maps, directions and ideas.

In addition to all the inherent advice given by the hostels themselves, there’s no greater resource than other travelers.  Those on their way out after a weekend or a week bumming around a particular location are only too glad to talk about their exploits, especially quick to share any pitfalls or off-the-beaten-path locations that’d be otherwise impossible to find for someone just passing through.  The generally friendly nature of travelers makes it fairly easy to find short-term traveling partners and good company as well.

(of course there are some downsides to having hosteled in Rio for Carnival, as nearly every South American backpacker seems to be aware of this story…)

So, as I made my way each time through the living room of the beautifully furnished apartment, doing my best to be respectfully quiet and unobtrusive, I realized I might have made a slight mistake.

Compounding this was my lack of Portuguese and the rarity of casual English speakers in the loud, street-side parties we managed to track down.  Blocos are vibrant and infectious with loud, percussion-laden samba music and slow-moving crowds, but with the exception of a single interestingly successful evening, Jaimee and I failed miserably to connect with random party-goers.

With two days left to spare, Jaimee returned to the States leaving me to wander the streets striking up less conversations with locals than at nearly anywhere else since I’ve been travelings.  In my mind I’d envision a dream team of friends from Pennsylvania, New York and Maryland that would dominate the streets of this festival, creating an experience like no other.  The sad reality of it was that I was by myself, and only more and more cognizant of that fact due to being surrounded by the biggest party on earth.

Maybe it’s a classic example of experience not living up to expectation.

Eh, there were some good things.

The Sambodrome

Samba “school” is a misnomer, as they aren’t schools in any traditional sense so much as groups of samba representatives from every district in the city.  Fourteen schools spend an entire year creating their own massive army of floats and dancers — complete with an original samba song, which is played on repeat for their entire parade — to march down through the sambadrome past thousands of drunken spectators and a crowd of judges.  The sambadrome itself is unlike venues for any other type of event, measuring several city blocks — a massive amount of the city’s real estate for something apparently only used in any capacity for four days of the year.

A close-up of some of a school's performers and the elaborate suits they'e forced to spend an hour relentlessly dancing in

Primary schools (14 of them) are split between the Sunday and Monday nights of Carnival while 14 lesser schools perform on Friday and Saturday.  No one was entirely clear on what prize awaited the “lesser” schools, though common perception was that it was an opportunity to advance the following year to a primary spot, as this year’s loser gets knocked down a peg.  From about ten at night until six in the morning, each school gets about an hour to trot out thousands of dancers, four to five floats and a scantily clad queen, all dancing relentlessly down the half mile or so of the sambadrome with unwavering smiles plastered on their faces.

From piecing together common elements in the garish outfits of  the dancers and intricate designwork of each float, it’s clear that each school presents a theme of some sort that influences their entire presentation.  A float with a massive bust of Jules Verne is followed by one of a submarine pulled by giant squids, in a sea of flag-adorned dancers representing Around the World in 80 Days.  A giant roulette wheel is chased by a hundred dancers dressed as packs of cigarettes (vices?).  A focus on cars, trains, planes and boats alludes to a general theme of transportation but not much more.

Jaimee and I went on Saturday, and while we witnessed “lesser” schools, it was still one of the biggest spectacles I’ve ever seen.  The stands are divided into “sectors” and we found ourselves placed in Sector 9, which is basically a sector comprised of bleachers towards the end of the throughway.  Across the way are the more expensive sectors — private booths like small parties made up of those willing to spend a little extra to view the display.  Food and drinks here are plentiful and there’s surprisingly little price-gouging, even for mixed drinks.

From the "transportation"-themed school, this float was something of a transformer, switching from a train to, uh, a bunch of people in black dancing weirdly. Or something.

The more expensive sectors across the way. By this point in the night (or morning) they'd cleared out a bit, though we were surprised by all of those sitting on the edges, even in the higher booths.

No clue.

Who doesn't love tanks?

Just to sort of give an idea of the size of this thing...

Yeah, I'm sure this one's never been done before...

This was the beginning of the Jules Verne-themed school

20,000 Leagues Under the Sea

This group apparently has lots of Pride in America.

Each float (no matter how bizarrely conceived) had about this level of effort and detail put into it. The schools work year-round for a single night's performance.

Dancing cigarettes. There is a context for which I'm sure this makes sense.

Jaimee and me with various spinning shining things in the background

Roulette, with a boundless supply of vice-themed dancers in tow

I was celebrating something -- a school, maybe? -- by dancing with flags they had handed out. Smart move giving them to intoxicated people... It's close to five in the morning at this point and many people have already taken off.

Jaimee and me, enjoying the spectacle.

I actually have like 30 pictures with this French girl. For some reason I kept getting her to pose with me. Maybe it's because she gave me the bunny ears...

Bloco Parties

The banda, in blue and white hats, lead the bloco along

They shuffle down the street with the slow lurch of drunken zombies, heads bumping steadily to the persistent thumping of live samba music.  The parade-style parties share the same general idea as the larger sambadrome presentations, but are far more informal and open to the public to join in as the flatbed truck carrying the banda (it just means band) of musicians lumbers slowly forward.

Blocos range from small, unpublicized affairs that are little more than glorified drum circles while a crowd watches on to massive beachfront events bringing in as many as 200,000 onlookers.  There are estimated to be between three and

four hundred of these roving parties over the course of Carnival week in Rio, though only about forty of them are highly publicized.  Based on our luck in actually finding any, the publicizing is a little sloppy.

One of the smaller, less publicized blocos. We stumbled upon this one accidentally while wandering through a part of town less known for its parties.

At one point, Jaimee and I found ourselves on a nearly deserted corner at four in the afternoon on Friday, standing beneath a sign that basically translated to: “Bloco - HERE, Friday, 4 pm.”  Walking streets that are peculiarly empty for being so close to the beach during what’s heralded to be the biggest party in the world.  Crossing one of these streets, a car careens around the corner and almost plows into me without slowing as I only narrowly throw myself over it screaming an obscenity that even non-English speakers all clearly recogized.  Minutes later, in a clothing store we’d entered to find something for Jaimee, a local woman approaches me.

Beach Blanket Bloco. One of the larger ones we went to, the banda (on the slowly moving platform above) steadily moved down the sidewalk as large crowds to either side followed along.

“You speak English, right?” she asks.

“Si.”

“You have to be careful here.  We.. These drivers.  They are not nice like you.  They are not like drivers where you come from.  They always more important than people walking.  They will…hit.”

It’s true.  Never have I seen drivers with less regard for pedestrians than in Rio.

There are apparently blocos going on non-stop at some point in Rio for all of the long Carnival weekend.  Unfortunately, only a few are going on in set locations at any given time.  We begin asking passers-by and anyone that understands English for advice, getting directions from knowledgable-looking people that appear to mean well, though after walking upward of ten blocks in the random directions the point, fruitlessly, aren’t of much help.

A few days in and we start to grasp how things work.  Pete had tried to hook me up with one of his friends down here, who’d emailed me a list of bloco locations that actually got us to a few as they were going on.  The friend would’ve been a great resource, except that his phone died the first night of Carnival and his bloco email was the last I heard from him until after I’d left Brazil.

So… Carnival.  Interesting?  Sure.  Fun?  At times.  Did I do it right?  Oh hell no!

Rio at sunset

Given that the bulk of the Carnival experience takes up about four days, ten days in Rio de Janeiro sandwiching the festival allows for an interesting tourist vantage point: From a bustling, oversized beach city, Rio swells up uncomfortably to “Disneyland on acid” proportions, only to fizzle back down into whatever passes for normalcy.  I slacked on lodging and found myself short of accommodations with only a month to spare prior to Carnival, and only through one of my friend Pete’s connections was I able to secure a spot in an apartment owned by the mother of one of his friends.  She was incredibly sweet, though once the festival kicked off, I realized this probably wasn’t the optimal lodging situation for what could potentially have been a sloppy, sweat-and-alcohol-saturated week.  I’ll get into my Carnival failure in the next post, but even if I completely failed at the Carnival experience, there are worse places to be than Rio.

Rio de Janeiro — literally “River of January” and also known as A Cidade Maravilhosa, or “The Marvelous City” — once served as the Portuguese empire’s capital here, and is still the second largest city in Brazil after the far more sprawling and uniform Sao Paulo.  After seeing City of God, I was naturally worried about crime in the city, though most of that takes place within favelas, which are supposedly among the worst slums on earth.  Adding insult to poverty, tour groups now run through the favelas in bulletproof vehicles, giving tourists a chance to see just how terrible it is to be poor.  Jaimee and I opted out of this tour.

A Quick Geography Lesson

A fairly accurate cartoon map of Rio.

The steep, rocky peaks that break up Rio’s otherwise flat, beach paradise stand poised around the city like a rocky crown, less a mountain range than a series of individual protests from the planet against man’s slow encroachment.  It’s no surprise as Rio’s Tijuaca Forest and White Stone State Park are the largest and second-largest urban forests in the world.  Few places on Earth better exemplify the contrast between city and nature, as massive skyscrapers and cityscapes trail off into tall, foliage-covered crags shooting off violently, improbably, into the sky.  Every square meter of developable real estate has been utilized here.  Anything else gets a teleferico or big Jesus statue put on it and turns into a tourist attraction.  Win-win.

Sugarloaf

Flamengo - Meaning “Flemish,” it likely got its name from its central beach being owned by Belgians in the city’s very early years.  Not the most happening spot in Rio, but fairly calm and quiet.  This is where our apartment was located.  Its beaches aren’t terribly good, but it’s not more than ten minutes away by cab or bus to Copacabana or Ipanema.

Pao de Acucar - “Pao” meaning “bread,” and “Acucar” for “sugar.”  Literally, Sugarloaf.  A tall peak accessible only by cable car (used in a famous battle scene between James Bond and Jaws in Moonraker) that provides a fairly outstanding view of the city and surrounding islands.  It costs money, of course, so if you’re on a budget, it’s not that different a vista than what you get from Corcovado.

Corcovado - “Hunchback” in Portuguese.  The big Jesus.  I wanted to suavely hang-glide by the guy and wave, but it turns out he’s too far from the cliff you jump off of to be anything but sacrosanct background scenery.  Like Sugarloaf, it’s a great vantage point, and a place where it is apparently cool to do the Jesus pose in a photo-op without it being frowned upon.

Corcovado

The Red Curvy Line on the Left Side of the Map - That’s the cliff I jumped off of with the help of a large kite-like device.  The updraft is strong enough to immediately carry any jumpers brave or stupid enough to take the leap (assuming they’re wearing the right apparatus).  How anyone figured out this was possible in the first place is beyond me.

Copacabana - It turns out the Barry Manilow song has nothing to do with this world famous beach.  It was in my head for days before I actually listened to the words — it’s about some far less interesting nightclub in Cuba, apparently.  The beach is tremendous in length, heading west towards a large breaker that separates it from the equally large Ipanema on the other side.  Despite its proximity, the sand and ocean look and feel different here.  I’m told it’s less popular as well, and admittedly I liked Ipanema much better, but both beaches appeared to be equally packed.

Ipanema - If you’ve always wanted to sit under an umbrella by the ocean and have anything you could possibly want delivered directly to your seat, and you don’t mind some slight overcrowding, this is the beach for you.  You probably know the song “The Girl from Ipanema.”  You”d recognize it if you heard it, anyway.  Well, the girls are nice enough, but if you know that song and “Mas Que Nada” (by either the Tamba Trio or Sergio Mendes) and you’ll recognize half the music played in bars and by street bands in Rio.  It’s not the infectious nature of these songs that make them hard to get out of your head — they’re literally being played at all times throughout Rio.

Ipanema beach. The man in center is selling chips of some kind from an enormous bag, scooping them up with a plastic cup for all interested buyers.

Getting High in Rio

Despite the two craggy mounds of Sugarloaf with matchbox-sized cablecars riding small strings of thread upwards in the distance just outside our balcony, Jaimee and I avoid the obvious tourist destination in favor of the similarly high altitude Corcovado for all the obvious reasons:

1. Cooler sounding name
2. More centralized lookout point
3. Big tourist Jesus

Posing with Jesus

A train takes us slowly up the mountainside.  It strikes me that it’d be an ingenious — if slightly sacrilegious — photo-op to share Jesus’s welcoming pose.  Not wishing to offend, I do so from below, out of the gaze of the throngs of seemingly devout tourists (they’d have to be to buy all the Jesus The Redeemer magnets, snowglobes, keychains, ashtrays, aprons, t-shirts and commemorative plates on sale at the gift shop here).

My discretion proves unwarranted.  From above, a line of people wait to share the pose.  Jesus doesn’t seem to mind much — his large, giddy smile is almost reminiscent of Dogma’s “Buddy Christ.”  I consider retaking the shot, but following the universal “the more people do it, the less hip it is” rule, I opt out.  I’d always thought Rio’s Jesus was enormous, and it’s quite large from up here, though he’s just a small silhouette of a cross from anywhere else in town.  The location is central enough, though, that what he lacks in size, he makes up in ubiquity, as even at night (due to some powerful floodlights) Jesus is almost inescapable from anywhere in central Rio.

From all the way up here, Rio de Janeiro is beaches, ocean, islands, mountain with a small side of city.  Our presence is everywhere, but seems superfluous to the all-encompassing nature around it.  It’s beautiful.

One of the views from Corcovado. Ipanema and Leblon are directly behind me in this picture.

Sugarloaf as seen from Corcovado

Jaimee leaves with two days left on my temporary lease and little to do.  I don’t speak Portuguese and don’t know anyone here, and surrounded by one of the biggest parties on earth, these facts are starting to get to me.  I’ll save that for the next post.

Riding up to Sugarloaf. Apparently there is a club that operates at the top every Saturday night, though we never made it.

Sugarloaf is a bit of hike from the apartment, but its peak hovers above everything else for the entire walk making it an easy landmark.  Unlike Corcovado, the ride up is by cable car rather than train, but the view neither more or less spectactular.  My camera is new and terrible, and its pictures and my own inability to connect with anyone in the town whose tremendous fiesta is only beginning to simmer down begins to wear me down.  In line for pasteis, I misunderstand the order of the lines (One is to pay for a food ticket, the second is to trade said ticket in for food.  Guess what order I waited in…) and throw a pointless tantrum, unintelligible to any of the natives, and shamefully ignored by any english-speaking tourists.  I walk away hungry.

The view from Sugarloaf

Less and Less Sand Every Day…

It turns out we’ve made it to Rio with just enough spare time to get a few days of fairly genuine Rio de Janeiro before the Carnival crew sets in.  I’d imagine it’s very much like being in Daytona beach during the last few days before “college spring break” wave crashes down, bringing with it an unending supply of hedonism, lawlessness and general douchebaggery to the entire city.  Nearly everyone I’ve met from Rio since Carnival has made a point of telling me they make a annual pilgrimage out of the city while the festival’s in full swing.

A fried cheese vendor carries a portable oven with him. The cheese is dipped in oregano and cooked just enough to make it soft without melting it.

By Friday, Ipanema and Copacabana both are uncomfortably saturated with tourists and locals, looking less like a beach than a crowded music festival.  Tuesday is still pre-Carnival, and while the beach is dense with families, students, tourists and other assorted locals, it’s comfortable enough to settle down with a rented umbrella and seats.  The gear comes cheap (around five dollars) and with it, a full-service waiter specializing in all basic mixed drinks.  Not everything is available from the small, beachside shacks set up as bars, but caipirinhas are pretty much guaranteed.

For food — or anything, really — beach-goers instead rely upon traveling vendors, continuously making their circuit through all nine of Ipanema’s postos.  Rising up at regular intervals above the throngs of people like miniature versions of Rio’s mountains behind them, the postos mark the different segments of Ipanema’s beach and provide (for a fee, paid after waiting in a ridiculously long line) bathroom and shower services.  Posto 9 has been famous for decades as the “hip” posto where all the artists, painters and interesting and attractive characters hang out.  After spending our first visit, I was informed it’s now the gay hangout, though few displays of affection, gay or straight, took place by us on the crowded yet lackadaisical beach.

Another vendor, this one selling heated pastries filled with some form of meat.

Vendors loop through umbrellas as thought on a regular trail, with familiar faces showing up every twenty minutes or so in case I might have changed my mind about buying a Brazilian flag beachtowel that turns into a tote bag.  Food is in abundance here, generally kept hot in insulated container or cooked fresh on the beach with small, portable coal-burning ovens.  Several men carry miniature barrels — one under each arm — serving mate, a popular buzz-inducing tea (that is even more wildly popular throughout Argentina).  Any other potentially necessary beach accessory comes directly to our chairs with only a brief flash of eye contact as a signal of intent to buy: sunglasses, tanning lotions, jewelry, towels, swimwear, assorted tourist kitsch and drugs.  It’s likely the most full-service beach in the world.

But because the water’s just too damned cold, it easily loses any “best beach” awards in my book.  Nice place for tanning and people watching, though…

Boardwalks stretch along the vastness of both primary beaches (Ipanaema and Copacabana) but don’t connect, requiring a slight detour into the city to cross from one to the other.  Copacabana doesn’t seem geographically different, and the bars and sport-oriented attractions (volleyball courts, handball courts and other derivations of internationally popular beach games, combined with pull-up bars and other means for the physically fit to casually display their fitness levels publicly) are just as abundant on either side.  One popular variation of volleyball involved only using heads and feet, a la soccer.  It would’ve been far more impressive if any of the rounds got past two volleys, though.

A coconut milk vendor. These guys have stacks of coconuts which are freshly cut for buyers and served with a straw. Probably Jaimee's favorite purchase, though they did nothing for me.

I can see why Ipanema fans feel the way they do.  The beach just has a better vibe…

Assorted Others

• 

  My room in Flamengo

  I’m pretty sure Brazil has the worst napkins on Earth.  I think I’m going to dedicate an entire post to “The Napkins of South America.”

• My waterproof Olympus 1030 died off the beach of Ipanema, causing me to seek out a new camera.  Electronics are extremely expensive in Rio, and based on the selection, close to a year behind in terms of the newest models.  My first camera purchase was terrible and while I was allowed to return it for an exchange, it was necessary that the new camera be as or more expensive than the original.  As the one I wanted was not, I was forced to buy diapers as well.  For whatever reason, diapers were the only thing in the electronics (???) store that covered the gap in prices.  Upon paying for merchandise in these stores, you are given a ticket and sent to the back where the ticket is given to a stockroom boy to retrieve your new gear from the back.  After ten minutes waiting, the guy returns with my camera and starts to explain those diapers are not available.  Despite my explaining that the diapers are not necessary, he calls the manager over, who follows me out of the store stating something in Portuguese while I walk rapidly out the store, head down, saying “no diapers!  no diapers!”  I was worried he was going to send people after me, but he stopped pursuit after I left the store.
• Buses have turnstiles on the inside that are impossible for all but the most slender people to get through.  It’s horribly designed, and borderline cruel to fat people.  It is also borderline entertaining.

The only thing that could make this experience more awkward for this woman would be a tourist snapping pictures of her.

• Trash.  They don’t use trashcans here so much as open metal baskets attached to poles, raised up about four feet into the air.  Likely this is to protect the trash from rampant, feral dogs which roam the streets of nearly every South American town.  It’s not exactly clear how these baskets are collected by trashmen as sometimes the trash is thrown sans bags, which would be a nightmare to collect.

This shot of a South American trash pedestal was taken a few weeks later in Argentina, but since I'm discussing it here, I wanted to have a picture to go along with the description.

Ending on a High Note

From the start, “hanggliding by Jesus in Rio” has been high up on the to-do list, so it was a bit of a disappointment to see how far we’d actually be flying from the guy.  I wasn’t looking to high-five a statue or have any kind of profound, adrenaline-fueled religious moment, but if nothing else it would’ve been a good photo-op.  Still, jumping off of a cliff while attached to a glorified kite still makes for a filling morning.

"There've been almost no accidents this year..." I'm told.

Waivers signed, we — the instructor, two other riders plus gear, all crammed together — ride to the top of peak in an old hatchback that often seems unwilling to take on the steep, windy road.  Disassembled next to me is the glider in a large tote barely bigger than a glorified gym bag.  This gym bag is going to carry me off of a cliff.

At the top, a runway trails off into a long wooden ramp that descends off of the cliff at a slight angle.  A line of fliers are queued leading towards the start of the ramp, and expectant gliders not yet paired with a device wait to either side of the runway in harnesses and helmets, adrenaline building as each jumper makes his way into the air.  Those waiting listen in on the instructions given verbatim in broken English to each nervous rider:

“You put your arm around me here,” the instructor says, guiding his tandem pupils arm around his own back to a flap of canvas along is shoulder, “and don’t let go. When I say ‘RUN’ you run with me.  You move like I do.  Look forward.  When we reach the edge of the ramp, you run.  These are most important: You do not jump!  You do not stop running!  You run with me off the edge.  Wind does rest.”

Near the edge of the runway

I nod and know this will not be a problem for me.  Whatever fear might grip me as the space before me dwindles down to nothing will always come second to my deep fear of embarrassment.  I will not be that guy that trips up at the end of the runway, plunging awkwardly forward and down, while onlookers wait to determine that I’m well before allowing themselves to be amused by the somersaulting pile of nylon and skin that just plummeted down before them.

My turn arrives and the instructor reviews everything.  Hands, feet and all other assorted limbs are in the right places.  I stand looking forward — forward and not down — my eyes affixed far in the distance, past city, buildings, beaches, certain death, out onto the vast expanse of ocean before me, waiting on my cue.  A countdown from three is given and we jog at a surprisingly leisurely pace downward, matching strides as though in a three-legged race.  At the end, I don’t stop, nor do I jump.  The runway ends and we are flying.

Into thin air

The descent is — oddly pleasant.  Adrenaline fuels the initial jump — or run, rather — but once aloft, the sensation is one of floating slowly downwards, with barely more than a light breeze marking our passage through open space.  The expanse of northwest Rio spreads out below me, a large hillside made up of enormous homes with impossibly large yards this close to the city’s center, often with pools and tennis courts as well.  “Our most famous director lives there,” the pilot tells me,  pointing at one of the larger mansions.  “Our Spielberg.”

He swirls the glider in an endless series of interconnected ‘S’ shapes, steering it through almost imperceptible motions of the central bar that his hands stay perpetually gripped to.  His hands push softly to the right and the bar moves mere inches that bring about a massive spin rightwards.  My only rule now that we are aloft: Never touch this bar in any way.  Instead, my only attachment to anything really is to a strong canvas harness that connects to my groin and upper back.  I’m flying.

The view from above, including the pole that appears to be the sole means oof steering the glider.

We’re surprisingly far over the ocean now in a trip that’s lasted every bit of the promised fifteen minutes.  I hadn’t expected riding a kite off of a mountain to be so relaxing.

“I’m going to spin around now to the beach.  It’s going to get fast as we get close, but don’t worry — we’ll slow down right before landing and you just run.  Ok?”

“Sure!”

It all happens as promised.  The ground comes fast and hard — seemingly too fast to possibly slow in time to a brisk run, but a light pull at the last moment on the bar catches a billow of salty air.  We land together in a jerky, arrhythmic jog, but manage to safely avoid the ignominy of falling to our knees into the sand.  Two quick clicks free my harness from the glider (that’s all that was keeping me attached through our descent!?) and the experience is complete.

A glider darts in for a landing

The trip almost hadn’t happened.  My bus to Sao Paulo leaves in 45 minutes, and my lugguge still waits for me at the apartment across town.  But some things are worth taking risks for.

Going to a ¨futbol¨ game in Brazil was on my list from the very beginning.  I´ve always found the sport incredibly boring to watch, but assumed the raw energy of the local fans would compensate for the low scores and excessive running that we Americans find so terminally boring.  I was wrong.

Also, it rained.

I am having so much fun in this picture.

I think Jaimee enjoyed herself at least.

A typical vista, coming over a hill along the coast of Brazil between Sao Paulo and Rio

Cresting another hill along Brazil’s Atlantic coastline between São Paulo and Rio de Janeiro, I feel a sense of expectant awe grow in me. It’s neither the first nor the last of such ascents we’ve taken along this trip, and the views are barely dissimilar from one another. But looking out over a vista of hills turned beaches that steadily melt into an ocean dotted with a near endless supply of small islands manages to stay fresh and exciting the same way similar works by a favorite artist might. My friend Jaimee from the States put the rental car on her card — it’s way beyond my meager budget at this point in my frugal travels — stretching the seven hour drive out to over two days to fully take in one of the most beautiful coastlines in the world.

“This is even better than the drive from San Francisco to Big Sur,” I say.

“No, it’s not better. It’s just a different kind of good,” she corrects me. She’s one of my favorite road trip partners despite how easily we fall into mutually heated arguments over things almost entirely subjective.

Our destination is Rio de Janeiro, and more specifically what Carnival transforms the city into. But moreso than usual, the “getting there” is the best part. This ride was easily my favorite experience in Brazil.

Jaimee enjoys a fresh beverage...

...and so do I

Transvestite Motocade Assualt

“Did you just see that guy on a motorcycle wearing a bra,” Jaimee asks.

“I thought it was an ugly woman.”

There had been a cluster of teenaged girls huddled around the young, lanky biker in cheap lingerie who had sneered at us in makeup as we drove past. A green neon line superimposed on the GPS over a map that looked nothing like the twisty, narrow street our rented Fiat careened through assured us we were on the right path, but more and more evidence was adding up to the contrary. It’s not the first time technology had led us astray on this trip — the GPS initially being set to “Avoid Highways” had gotten us into one of the less savory neighborhoods of São Paulo just minutes after leaving the car rental agency — but we’d unfairly assumed it to be firmly entrenched on our side by now after two hours of fairly accurate advice.

A tunnel through a small mountain had led us into this town, and we had only planned to stay long enough for lunch at McDonald’s (a Brazilian Big Mac is identical in flavor and name to its American counterpart in every way. It is not even “La Big Mac.”) Unfortunately, the small mountain that hosted a high-speed tunnel into town, also hosted a series of poor neighborhoods directly above it. To a GPS, there is apparently little differentiation between these two vertically parallel roadways. To someone going the wrong way up twisty, barely paved, one-way shantytown street, there is a tremendous difference. This difference is compounded by the presence of angry, transvestite bikers barrelling down from above.

They dot down the road at first in small numbers, then more densely as the cluster thickens, one or two to each bike. Whether this is a daily function or some bizarre local holiday isn’t immediately clear, but they all crane their heads by us, glaring, laughing, shouting ominous Portuguese declarations as they pass. The road’s too narrow for me to maneuver and I ride up against the edge of a wall to give as much berth as possible. We’re foreignors, lost and obvious, blocking something strange and celebratory, and it’s not appreciated.  Some angrily pound the sides of the fiat as we pass.

“Oh my God. I feel so unsafe right now. This is terrible.” Jaimee says it all calmly without emotion, almost as though sarcastic.  She is not in any way being sarcastic.

Twenty. Thirty. Maybe forty or more bikes zip down around us before the stream dies off to a dribble. I spin the car around on the narrow hillside, praying no more bikes shoot out unexpectedly from above while doing so, and proceed to dart back toward town. On the GPS, the overlay of a map generally seems accurate, only to confuse itself by mixing in the alternate path, rendering it effectively useless. I’m driving now is a sense of urgency that’s wasted by my lack of knowledge as to where I’m physically located, yet every bra-wearing biker — we’re seeing them everywhere now — fuels this necessity to find our way from these backstreets and once more on a highway — any highway — again.

It's almost worth clicking on the picture to enlarge and look closer at the two nearest our car. The tranny on the back of the bike might be giving the most vacuous stare ever.

Eventually we manage to find our way. Like most other experiences down here, the scariest, the most pointless and the most surreal are the ones that stay with us best, long after having ended.

Everything else passes by us along the way, immediately put away in the mind like half-memories, collections of strange images and fragments of anecdotes. An abandoned amusement park with sinister trashcans and ticket booths. Small coastal highways that dwindle down to single lane bridges that look neither supportive nor inviting. Long, unmarked dirt roads that GPS assures us are correct, ending in tiny buildings huddled together to make a town where everyone sits together around a single television to watch a futbol game. None are noteworthy on their own, but it’d hardly capture the spirit of the trip to leave them omitted.

I found the ticket booths the creepiest, but Jaimee was most freaked out by the trash cans.

A narrow one-lane bridge. We almost weren´t certain from the posts at either side if it was even legal to cross.

I don´t really care for soccer in any way, but I´m not above pretending to for a good photo-op.

It’s a Paraty

Towns along the coast are as nice or nicer than any beachfront vacation spots in the States that I’ve been to. Each has its own charm and character, its own size and substance. Posh, larger resort areas are followed by more quaint towns with barely more than a gas station and a place to buy some cheap pasteis. The fried dumplings are similar in size and idea to your typical empanada, though fried and fully saturated by oil; it makes no sense to me how so many Brazilians I see are so incredibly fit with this being the one reliable snack food available in any town.

I´ll put out another food entry soon with more on All Things Empanada.

At times we make stops in larger towns with names like “Ubatuba,” paying to park while navigating through large beachside concession stands, safely enshrouded from the sun by umbrellas. Other times, a side quest leads us down unmarked sandy roads in search of a beach only hinted at by signs, maps and our general understanding of the local geography. The Fiat reliably tearing through the open coastline, we stop and claim complete ownership of these beaches, barren but for stray dogs and the occasional empty cabana unmanned during this apparent low season. It’s a seven hour trip that takes us close to three days.

A random beach we found our way onto.

Paraty (pronounced Para-Chee) is one of the more famous and idyllic stops along this route, just past the midway point between São Paulo and Rio. A white church from colonial times sits starkly along the edge of the waterside, creating a photo op fully taken advantage of by post card vendors throughout the region. A small “old town” with cobblestone streets bustles with touristy — though fantastic — restaurants and gift shops with all the standard local kitsch. Roads are closed to all but horse-drawn local carriages, and various actors role-play classic historical sterotypes that may or may not have graced Paraty’s streets in the past.

The old church at Paraty

The Pirate, for instance, sauntering through town while sneering abrasively, comes off a little too much like a Jack Sparrow knock-off. And really, who the hell dresses up like a pirate for a living anyway? The African Slave, on the other hand was genuinely fearsome. Turning down a side street, I came across him for the first time with no knowledge of Paraty’s paid local characters, only to bump into over six and a half feet of mountainous muscle encased in massive, broken chains. Well over three hundred pounds of muscle, his clothes are old and tattered, and slightly rust-stained from supporting the chains for so long. His eyes bulged as he stared down at me, before moving his intense, zombie-like gaze forward into space over the road behind me, his quivering glance somewhere between confused and enraged.

The Misty Chill

“Dude. You’re AWESOME!“

A slight ringing still comes from the heavy chains as they swing about his motionless form. He does not acknowledge my observation of his awesomeness, and eventually I leave him to his silent rage. Looking back, a block later, he remains in the same hulking stance on the corner, unmoving other than deep, heaving breaths.

I’m pretty sure he was one of the city’s paid characters, at least.

This isn’t my first time in Paraty. Plans with Jaimee were ephemeral at best before her arrival and could’ve taken us anywhere from Florianopolis (a mistake to have missed, I’ve been told) to Iguazu Falls (I’d get there eventually and unexpectedly). I had days to kill before her arrival, and had been told by many that there are few places just hours away from São Paulo that are as perfect for wasting away

The view out the front door of the Misty Chill. I never quite understand how some cheap hostels manage to have far better views than some of the more expensive hotels in town.

a few days as Paraty. Two days at the Misty Chill hostel was ample time for rides to local beaches by bus, boat or even my own poor swimming abilities at times. Misty Chill came recommended as a “party hostel,” likely for having happy hour drink specials on caipirinhas (my least favorite drink in Ecuador, they’re made perfectly in Brazil, which makes sense given they are the national drink) and a general good vibe from the unanimously attractive people working there.

One of them, a Canadian (I think — they don’t really have discernable accents when they don’t say “eh,” and the “aboot” thing seems to be localized to the Toronto region) woman slightly younger than me, turned out to be running the place. She’d worked for IBM and got burnt out on technology and the system, coming to South America looking for something else. I listened to her carefully. For nearly a day, I make my way around town with three marginally lapsed Hassidic Jews. Lapsed enough to wear relatively normal looking clothes (scandalous for hassids) but not so lapsed that, while drunk, the male tried to talk me into leaving the bar and returning to the hotel to put on tefillin. I have no doubts within me that this was his sole intention, by the way.

“They just make me feel so good when they’re on, you know? They’re like powerful. Man, I really want to put some tefillin on you. I think that’d be awesome.”

It’s the most bizarre proposition that’s ever come my way, but I politely don’t dismiss the idea, allowing time, drunkenness and short attention spans to keep me from being wrapped in the sacred leather straps. For several hours, I feel that I am flirting with one of the girls, before she tells me she has never kissed a man before and would only do so with one she was fairly certain she would marry. I couldn’t tell if this was a warning or an offer. We watched a cluster of local drummers together, carefully being orchestrated for the upcoming Carnival celebration then went our separate ways.

The Hasidic girl and the drum orchestra. She confessed that she'd only begun exposing her shoulders in the past week or two. When in (or around) Rio...

Narrow, old streets piled together from uneven rocks that make walking awkward and uncomfortable suffer from poor drainage, giving them at times canal-like properties, even if their accumulated water is less than a foot or more deep. Stretching out to sea is a single enormous dock, extra wide to handle boat crews in matching shirts seated under umbrellas before their respective schooners and partyboats, all calling out for riders. The landscape of local beachs, mountains dying off into the ocean in grand natural piers and endless islands creates a glut of natural aquatic attractions vast enough to easily fill the thirty or more large boats here willing to take people on three hour tours.

Paraty´s uneven stone streets are more fun to look at than they are to walk on.

Forty bucks gets you about five hours on one of the ships, each with distinct personalities ranging from mellow, to family-oriented to Girls Gone Wild. The latter I was not aware of until our trip had ended. Bumming around scenic island beaches through clear cerulean blue water isn’t a bad way to spend five hours.

Pictures from the Boat

Our home for five sunny hours

Small, beachy islands dot the waters here, always with mainland Brazil´s mountains in the background. This is someone´s private island. I am fairly certain I hate whoever lives here.

A public beach. Small boats take riders to shore, though most of us just swam.

There were usually one or two of the other boats at each of our stops.

More boats, more islands, etc, etc

Relaxing to some live music. The guy mostly knew only Jack Johnson and Bob Marley songs, which meant his playlist completely matched those of every hostel or DJ in town.

Jaimee and me

Diving from the sides of the boat

Rio de Janeiro

Our proximity to the famous city is given away at first more by the increase in fast, reckless driving than by any increase in urban landscape. Until now, drivers have seemed mostly calm and patient, adhering to basic traffic laws and propriety. That sort of gets tossed upon crossing Rio’s borders. It’s night, and too difficult to gauge the beauty and vastness of the city, as I’ve heard too many horror stories about finding one’s self in the wrong part (or any part) of Rio’s favelas.

The GPS takes us almost directly to the Fiat’s pre-appointed drop-off point. For everything else, it is forgiven.

Language Lessons

“Bome Gia,” the girl behind the counter of the Sampa — a colloquialism for Sao Paolo — says.

It’s “bom dia” in the book.  The Lonely Planet Guide to Conversational Portuguese. It’s not likely to have words like “tessellated” or “rubious” but useful for life-saving operations like bathroom seeking and finding bank machines.  “Gia,” with an undeniable J sound that slithers through her softly vibrating teeth as it comes out.  It’s the first odd pronunciation of a language that on paper looks like a close cousin to Spanish, yet upon recitation comes out as a miasma with equal parts Spanish, French and Russian thrown into the mix.  Perhaps some middle eastern flair like Hebrew or Farsi as well.

So “D” turns into a soft “G” sound.  I can work with that.

Except that there are rules in play that no one’s clued me into.  “Cidade,” the Portuguese word for “city,” is pronounced “sih-Dah-je.’  A “D” is a “D” when it wants to be, apparently.

“T” also loses its edge, becoming a lispy “ch.”  If a word ends in L and is made plural, the L sound is replaced with “AYES.” The L is still there on paper, of course.

After grilling the Sampa girl for information on local restaurants, attractions and other things that can’t be missed — “you have to try the acai [pronounced "ah-Sah-EE"] — I use her undivided attention to get a better handle on Portuguese.

“First off,” I say, “Look at this:“  I pull out the barely touched Lonely Planet Guide, turning to the hip ‘At a bar…’ section towards the back.  “Here’s rum, see.  The drink?  I like it.  And in English — R U M.  No problem.  Portuguese?  R U M.  Perfect!  Easy.  Except they’ve got a phonetic section, you know, how it’s actually pronounced, right?  And they spell its pronunciation H O O N G–”

Speaking of things being lost in translation...

“Si!  Hoong!”  She interjects with a smile.  The ‘g’ at the end is almost silent, adding a nasally quality to the word.  Nearly every sentence I’ve heard spoken here has the silent ‘g’ attached to something or an “oosh” sound that makes far too many words rhyme with “douche.”  Most people are too mature to make this connection.

“Well,” I say in an only mildly condescending tone that immediately betrays my US nationality with my ability to turn ignorance into arrogance, “isn’t it weird to spell a word R U M, but then have a spelled out pronunciation that doesn’t have an R, U or M in it?”

“Oh nooo,” she explains with an overwhelmingly sunny smile.  “You just don’t understand how our letters are pronounced!  The R letter?  It is pronounced like your H.”

“‘M’ is ‘Ng’ and ‘R’ is really an ‘H’?  That makes sense…”

She smiles, cutting through my sarcasm with innocuous agreement.

“So Rio is actually pronounced “Hio”?”

“Si!” (actually, “SEENg” but there’s no confusion over this trivial change of speech).

“Why not just spell it with an H?”

The question apparently does not warrant a response, as it does not get more than the continuation of a smile that has yet to waver through my scrutinous assault on her language.  As we discuss Rio — Hio– I’m reminded of another question I’ve had for some time about another popular Brazilian city whose pronunciation varies from person to person.

Every section of town I visited had plenty of strange, mildly disturbing murals like this.

“So how exactly do you say S A O Paolo?  Some people say ’san’  Paolo, while others say ’sow’…”

“‘Sawng‘” she says, again with that silent ‘g’.  “‘Sawng’ paolo.  Any time a Portuguese word ends in ‘ao’ it gets that same ‘ohng’ sound.”

“…ok…”

It makes no sense to me, though I´ve wondered about the pronunciation of this city for years, so I appreciate the correction.

I´m here for three weeks.  It´s not enough time to justify attempting to really learn a language, but some words just make life easier.  I´ve seen others put together far better lists of the “need to know words”.  Here´s all I cared to know for three weeks in Brazil:

Shopping: Numbers 1-1000, I Want…, How much is this?, Do you have…?

Directions: Right, Left, Street, Block

Basic Needs: Bathroom, Food, Water, Beer, Rum, Map, ATM Machine, Where is…?

Conversation: Please, Thank You, You´re Welcome

I´m probably missing a few, but one can get around passably with the above.

Surprisingly, “Thank you” gave me the most trouble.  “Abrogado.”  Every time I thanked someone, I inevitably said “Gracias…. uhhh, I mean, ABROGADO!”  I never once said Abrogado first in all my time in Brazil.

Upon eventually leaving Brazil to head southward, on into Argentina, I spent a week thanking people inadvertently in Portoguese.  Without meaning to, this place set me back a month or more on my Spanish.

Culture Shock Never Gets Old

A truly frugal traveler would’ve put some time into figuring out the local shuttle system, but I’m jetlagged and confused, have a new language and currency system to make sense of and I still feel marginally guilty for not saying goodbye to my temporary Peruvian girlfriend.  There’s a wad of Brazilian cash in my pocket I’ve yet to make sense of.  A truly intrepid traveler would’ve looked up exchange rates in advance and known how many dollars each local bill equates to.  I haven’t been terribly intrepid lately.

Sao Paolo's Cathedral. It's impressive, but every major city down here seems to have its own, equally impressive cathedral. I think I'm starting to get a bit jaded.

I stare down at the rainbow of bills to find every major color represented, making money sorting decidedly more easy, except for the fact that the 2 and 100 Real — a word meaning both ‘Real’ and ‘Royal,’ it’s pronounced “ray-AHL,” except when pluralized it becomes “ray-EYES” — bills seem to be the same color blue.  It’s some of the weirder cash I’ve seen so far; all fronts identically carry “The Effigy of the Republic,” a soulless female bust representing the country’s pro-republic stance.  In a move surely lauded by Greenpeace, the bills’ backs portray some of Brazil’s indigenous critters, ranging from the Sapphire-spangled Emerald Hummingbird to the Golden Lion Tamarin.

And who could forget the Dusky Grouper?  He gets the pristine placement on the 100-real note.

The cab ride to Sampa’s over an hour, even with little traffic.  It’s hard to tell the personality of the city from my vantage point along its highways.  True to its #6 spot on wikipedia’s “world’s most populous cities” list, an endless cluster of similar buildings flow by like a cheap animator’s repeated backdrop.  Concrete Jungle Grays and Urban Planned Park Greens blur by under the overcast Sao — Sawng — Paolo sky.

I Get Around

Despite barely scratching the surface of the enormity that is Sao Paolo, I had little desire to discover more.  Some cities just compel me to keep delving further into their personalities.  Others push me away.  The region of town I stayed in had all the charm and character of the village in New York City: young, hip, eccentric, arty, great restaurants and super-expensive to live there.  I talked with young restaurant owners about setting up shop in the city after past lives working standard 9 to 5s.  At a club, a Brazillian band played American monster rock ballads of the 80´s (sung with perfect American accents, only to switch into incomprehensible Portuguese between numbers.

The bustling town center. See how it bustles.

Cities are hubs of life and culture, the crossroads of a country of where history happened and is being made.  Long-term traveling tends to make one jaded, and boundless access to museums of every variety become commonplace.  Another Monet?  Pssh.  Every major city’s art gallery’s got one of those.  Nice statue of a guy on a horse!  But I saw one just like it in Quito, and I’m told the artist was an orphan with a clubfoot. Your Santander Building is cool, but it’s such a copy of the Empire State Building that brochures handed out upon entry explain “This building was designed as an imitation of the Empire State Building.”  Nice park…

Actually, Sao Paolo does have one of one of the better urban parks I’ve come across.  Even with a map, I got comically lost for close to an hour, finding myself in the same spot accidentally on three separate occasions.  Multiple lakes, museums and fields for every major sport, all meticulously maintained.  After riding the riverboat down to Peru and noting that it lacked garbage cans because everyone — crew included  — used the river as a dumpster, finding not only rampant trashcans but recycling as well was a nice treat.  Don’t get me started on the easy access to public water fountains that don’t induce explosive diarrhea.

A view from within Sao Paolo's central park

Some travelers are bored out of their mind by this city.  Others have told me it’s among their favorite in South America.  Maybe it’s got a quirky personality.  Or maybe I just didn’t go to the right places…

Views From The Empire Sta– Santander Building

Despite admittedly being architecturally modeled after The Empire State Building, The Santander Building is less than forty stories tall. It still offers a fairly spectacular view of the city from its observation deck.

I’m fairly sure there’s no overlap of buildings between these pictures taken from atop Santander.