Carnival 2007
The 2007 Carnival is officially over, but we haven't quite finished telling our stories at BlackNotBlack. Our Rio series concludes this weekend with a few more strange tales. In the meantime, we managed to track down a few images from Monday night's big finale.
HELP!
We spent maybe 4 or 5 hours dining at Sobre as Ondas, and around twenty past midnight I saw the doorman at HELP! lay out the velvet rope. I could see where everybody wanted to go, and we decided to join the scene. We had to see why this place
had a reputation of ill behavior, a quick moving queue, and an English name. The club was already packed, though we had hit the doors right after opening. I recognized the staff—they were the ladies parading the Avenida all night.
We saw nothing but encouraging smiles. Just like that, we found the perfect blend of chaos, insanity, and paradise. With a slamming beat. Of course everything in Rio has a beat. Steve wondered how they could allow cameras inside with all of the travelers set up for blackmail. I headed for the kiosk to purchase drink tickets. Doug, he . . . wait a minute, where the fuck was Doug?
Doug was running—no shit, actually jogging in place, warming up his A-game. Doug speaks English only, and somehow I got stuck with translating duties, which included fetching drinks. I had plenty of laughs for a short while, yet slowly had a headache growing from the sound sensitive strobe lights and
techno-latino.
Fortunately, the band kicked in with the rhythm everybody came to dig. Samba does not exactly produce a dance—more of a trance. You have to move, because you will not find a seat. I couldn’t even find space to work the wall. Fortunately, I’d
already cut myself off the
caipirinhas, so I had plenty of energy left for the rest of the night. Trying to figure out how to politely decline services from the freelancers, I also needed to bounce away the other tourists requesting my wisdom. Even in the bathroom, other customers sought me for advice: “How much do they charge?”
I gave no answer, since I have no idea why anyone would expect a sincere answer to any questions in the bathroom. I left, trying to remember where the rest of the guys could be. I walked to the first bar, couldn't find them. I remembered the club had maybe ten bars. I centered myself toward the stage, lost and confused, then heard my name. Doug and his service providers required more of my translating skills. I required another beer. I just pointed at my empty beer can while heading for the drink ticket booth. What do you know, I bump into Steve and Egan. We grab a round, I ask them if they've taken a visit upstairs. I suggest we find out what else HELP! offers.
Chairs, tables, and a little more air than downstairs. Give yourself a minute to chill and observe the festivities. We could see Doug down there, all right. With a trail of freelance professionals haggling over his time. Plenty of dudes with more cash, credit, and spare key-cards for 5 star hotels had to wait for a night when Doug decided to party elsewhere. I wish I made this shit up, people, but even my imagination has its limitations. Doug had chosen
carneval as the place to get his game back.
I worked on my rap as the samba troupe kept the beat. Don't worry, I did not try to touch a microphone nor make any impression with my peckerwood skills. Too much heat and rhythm and soul filled this room. I wondered what else a customer could find upstairs, but I saw nothing. No hidden doors nor stairwells popped into view; then again, that may only be open to a special market segment. If this were truly a brothel, I assumed they knew how to let the girls bring the punters through a separate door. Like the front door of a luxury hotel (foreshadowing? . . .stay tuned . . .).
Time came for the club to close. Only understood this when the band quit playing for the first time in five hours. Egan mentioned how in samba, when the band has 10 drummers, 10 horn players, and 10 singers, they can rotate their breaks while keeping the beat. No need to punch out for fifteen minutes, nor wait for the lunch whistle. And the dancers on the floor simply kept on dancing as the doors opened for all to exit. At this point, many of professionals wore nothing but glitter and pumps. Of course, they cannot get their feet dirty and sticky—so unprofessional and uncivilized.
Right across the street, a dj spins, more drummers drum, people dance, and the sun rises over the ocean,
na praia de Copacabana. Egan said the sunrise looked pearl white, and went to grab some beers. I said it looked a little too bright, and went to the bazaar to buy some sunglasses. Doug said the sunrise had a touch of pink, and wondered why his entourage left him for a bigger payday. Steve said it looked like a sunrise, and went back to the apartment to crash.
A couple beers later, and a few more samba shuffles, we finally introduced ourselves to Sabrina, the
mesera taking care of us all week at the same
baizhirinha. Asked if she worked again the next day, she said she worked every day. We said we'd see her again, after the samba parade.
Avenida Atlantica Vice
Every customer comes with those bulging, moist, expectant eyes of a man who has escaped from his prison for a week or two. It may be the puritanical monotony of the working week that drives the men to seek relief: not raging bulls, exactly, more like cows waiting to be milked.John Burdett
Bangkok TattooOn night four we went in search of dinner and ended up in Copacabana. We’d had some great adventures so far, only some of which I've described. In short: three allnighters, an excellent street party, two meltdowns, a near-death experience, and a gas-filled apartment that—in a building full of smokers—did not explode. All typical vacation fun. But on Copacabana’s Avenida Atlantica on Sunday night, near a disco called Help, we walked into ground zero of a citywide vice explosion. There were scores of outrageously dressed women. I’m talking bikinis and high heels, red capes and devil horns, negligees and fairy wings, and countless miniskirts that revealed more ass than they covered. Professional girls, these? Indeed. In fact, we had wandered unknowingly into one of the most famous hubs of the global sex trade.
There was an outdoor restaurant called Sobre as Ondas right next to this scene—we snagged four chairs and rubbernecked while eating dinner. The Avenida was the floor of the New York Stock Exchange and Bartertown rolled into one. The whores were magnificent, and came in more varieties than simply the nearly naked. For instance, see that girl riding a skateboard and wearing baggy camo fatigues? Yes, she’s a prostitute. See that perfectly coiffed woman wearing a business suit and carrying a briefcase? Yes, she’s a prostitute too. The meter maid? Her too. The Brazilians had taken the oldest profession, added a dash of niche marketing theory, and frappéd them into a moneymaking miracle.
Music, singing, and drumming were constant. The street crackled with the energy of a high-tension line. There were hard and fast negotiations going on everywhere—I mean serious business, with frowns and demands and counteroffers. The men involved were mainly of a certain type—those so steeped in sexual ineptitude that people could almost see it stamped on their foreheads. But the rules of the sex trade gave them control. Female free will had been abolished. Two-hunded bucks in pocket now equated to superheroic virility. These men whistled, shouted vulgar come-ons, and generally behaved exactly like losers given carte blanche in a sexual Disneyland.
Amongst this throng Doug, Ari, Steve and I were clearly non-participatory—other than the fact that we were having a great time just watching. I’d say twenty percent of the men were chill and seemed to have their shit together. The rest were problem children from north of the equator somewhere, and just like the Brazilian water supposedly went backwards down the drain, Brazilian hookers were going to reverse every failure and blow-off they had ever suffered. For their part, the girls made their preferences clear—they flocked to the non-predatory guys, including us. It made sense—if you’re going to fuck for money, first try the guys whose eyes aren’t spinning like the reels on a slot machine. No need to service some overwrought social misfit if you can avoid it.
We made it clear we didn’t want to partake in the wares, but that we didn’t mind the company. Several girls joined us after Doug gathered some chairs (he may have been browsing at this point, but I’ll get to that in the next post). There were two types of girls on the stroll—year-round pros, and opportunists. The pros had no time for nonsense, no time for socializing.
One of them might pretend for a minute to be friendly, but soon she’d segue into her pitch: “Serious now, handsome, you wanna party with me or what?” When we said no she’d leave fast enough to burn rubber. The girls who sat with us and stayed were the second breed—opportunists. They had plenty of time to shoot the breeze because they didn’t consider themselves hookers. One of them laid it out for me: “I work all year up north in a store and make like three-thousand dollars. I come here for carnival and make three thousand in a week. What would you do?”
We bought pitchers of
sangria. Girls rotated from our table and others replaced them. There would be a few whispers traded as our companions presumably informed the newcomers: “These guys? No, they’re not buying pussy—just drinks. But they don’t mind if you join them.” Occasionally one of the girls might doublecheck our intentions: “Have you changed your mind yet, baby?” But generally they didn’t pressure us. Why would they? Why would they waste their time when the street was jammed with men eager to ransack their bodies? The ones who decided it was time to sell simply left. The ones who wanted to socialize stayed. And we all laughed like we were at a frat party as the ancient spectacle of sex-as-commerce pulsated wildly around us. We spoke Spanish and Ari had a little Portuguese and we were communicating fine.
Rio’s year-round pros are into volume, while the opportunists are about quality. They don’t want to have sex with twenty men during carnival then go back to their secretary or hostess jobs up north with what they perceive as a lie in their hearts. They’re hoping for the most benign of johns—the Canadian who would never cheat on his wife but wants dinner with a beautiful woman and is willing to pay for the company. Or the German who will buy her for ten days straight—twenty fucks from one stranger translating to something more forgivable than the alternative. Forgiveness is an important part of the milieu, keep in mind, because every one of these girls is at least nominally Catholic—which means they’re expertly schooled in the art of burdensome guilt. To avoid that guilt, they will stiff you in a second. They’d rather run off with your money than go through with the sinful deed. How much money they can make without actually ending up on their backs in a hotel room is another of the many games played during carnival. And yes, free drinks are part of it too, so perhaps they were working us as well.
Just a few doors south stood Help, which Ari mentioned last post. Travel guides explicitly warn to stay out of the place. It's the largest disco in South America. It was closed at the moment, but many of the people on the Avenida seemed to be waiting for it to open. We asked our girls about it. They said the place was great—wonderful music, strong drinks, all night dancing. We filed that away. Quarter after midnight or so Help opened and half the people on the street poured inside. Our girls said farewell and we were alone. We took a survey—continue to relax and enjoy the spectacle on the street, now considerably diminished, or go to club Help?
Labels: brasil, brazil, copacabana, prostitution, rio, travel
First Hangover, Second Daytrip
Definitely need to lay off the
caipirinhas.
That I remember from the first day waking up in Rio de Janeiro. Luckily, the curtains kept the direct sunlight from piercing through my eyelids. Did not stop me from covering my eyes with my forearm, just in case. One of the guys walked in as I awoke, asking, “Are you alive?”
“Technically,” I answered. Not an attempt at sarcasm, just reflexive dialog.
We’d bumped into some dude the night before at a club who informed us that they were not pouring good
cachaca. Naturally, I did not let this stop me from ordering more
caipirinhas. The first two rounds definitely tasted like rotgut. The third round tasted better, and each round thereafter tasted just perfect. Easy to presume the whole town planned to pour the cheap stuff during
carneval, and I did not study up on brand recognition, so it basically made sense to stick to beer and wine from here on out, since the parties should last past sunrise.
In need of some breakfast, at 3 or 4 in the afternoon, I hustled the mate who was able to walk to join me for some pizza on the beach. Strolled down to Copacabana, had a pizza and beer at a
baizhairinha. Could be the same spot from which we watched the sunrise. I recognized the club across the street every travel book said to avoid. HELP! the marquee advertised. I wondered if that advertised what they served, since the books said it catered to pushers, hookers, and thieves. We needed to find out the next night, because the sun was blazing pretty hot at the moment, and the rest of the population had a different rhythm than we could feel. Travelers shopping, locals jogging and playing volleyball. The energy felt better to explore one of the natural sites.
So we hopped in a taxi, requesting a trip to Pão de Azúcar—Sugar Loaf. The taxi driver was playing
bossa nova, and he did not try to break any local speed records. The fare was cool, and the gate to Pão de Azúcar was visible. The gondola ride up to the first rock moved smooth and mellow. Perfect recipe for my current health and equilibrium. The second gondola took us up to the top, the actual loaf of sugar that seems to either grow from the Earth or was laid down gently an eon ago.
Even big pieces of rock can enjoy
carneval.
The view does the reputation justice. We could look upon different communities around the city, as everybody seemed to flock to the beaches. It hit me how foolish it was to think to conquer every party in town during one trip. This city is huge, and
carneval brings in an additional population. Nothing to conquer here, no need to make an impression, this place commands a bit of liberty. Sitting on top of this rock, I found it easier to examine one tree at a time, one flower at a time, as the bird songs set the ambiance.
A different place to live a different way. The university sits near the foot of Pão de Azúcar. I wondered how so many successful intellectuals, artists, and designers could live in Rio full time without going crazy.
72 Hours in Rio Limbo
My friends and I aren’t the type to read travel guides. Brazil requires a visa of U.S. citizens, so most of the tourist info we picked up was an adjunct to acquiring our documentation. Other than that, Ari probably glanced at a few web resources concerning restaurants, and I scanned and summarily ignored a few safety warnings—not because I have a death
wish, or am indifferent to the possibility of my kidneys ending up bound for Bangkok courtesy of Organ Pirate Airlines, but because I grew up black and poor and can see trouble coming from miles away. I don’t always stay out of it, but I can spot it like an inbound freight train. Which means I don’t need to see a State Department travel alert to know that Rio risks are cousin to Los Angeles risks or Chicago risks. The only pertinent question is whether you are comfortable taking those risks.
All four of us were fine with it. I was an upstart ladder-climber at Playboy (before rejecting it all for a move to the third world), but didn’t feel as if Beverly Hills lunches and parades of soon-to-be Photoshopped models had dulled my edge. Ari was raised middle class but had lived in Costa Rica and was perhaps more acquainted than any of us with tropical squalor. Steve was military-bred, and had grown up dirt poor in trailer parks and shoebox apartments all over the American south. And our last was Doug. He was the only one of us still tethered to his turbulent past. He actually arrived in Rio two days late after being coerced by his family into attending the funeral of his father—who once stabbed him. Put it all together and we just weren’t the worrying types re: personal safety and Rio.
In a city so large and alien, it was inevitable we would spend our first couple of days getting the lay of the land. Ari already talked about the restaurants in his last post. Here’s what we learned about the beaches: the accepted wisdom that they are standing room-packed with perfect, near-naked bodies is a myth. A substantial percentage of the locals have fled town, and a great number of pale folk from the northern hemisphere have arrived to fill the vacuum, which means the sands host a mix of people, not all of them ready to be crowned Miss Brazil. The best-known beaches are Leblon, Ipanema, and Copacabana. In terms of cleanliness and exclusivity they rank as listed. Another frequented beach is Botafogo, on the backside of the bay. No matter which you choose, the earlier you arrive the more they live up to their hype. But there’s one small problem with that—you’ve been out drinking and dancing until sunrise. You have to sleep sometime. If you enjoy the Rio nightlife, you miss the prime hours of its beachlife.
But you win whichever choice you make—because it's Rio.
There are clubs all over town, but after dark Copacabana is where it really happens. It took us three nights to get over there. Not because we were avoiding it (which many travel guides suggest), but because we first thought chic Ipanema would be home to better nightlife. But while Ipanema buzzes during daylight, with its shopping and restaurants and that amazing expanse of sand occupied by volleyballers and
frescobolistos, it’s quieter after dark. Night two we opted for a foray deep into the city via cab searching for hidden hotspots. We found hotspots, alright. Hell, we found little enclaves so supercharged they were practically fissile (even the doorman at one of them couldn't take anymore and passed out—above), but we didn’t find a spot that felt
right. Damn—we were missing it. We'd made it all the way to Rio and carnival was passing us by somehow.
Night three was Doug’s first, and we had grand plans, but the emotion of his father's death and subsequent funeral chose that evening to catch up with him. He got obliterated on
caiparinhas and broke down in tears. It was a full meltdown. I was like: "Dude, the guy
stabbed you."
Doug's response: "He was still my father."
And with that he staggered into the night. I could have stopped him from leaving. There was a moment when I could have poured him into a cab. But I was actually somewhat preoccupied watching a
bateria and dance troupe rock the nightclub. The drummers were deafening, and the dancers—male and female—were near-naked and undulating under blue and purple lights that made them as radiant and strange as jellyfish. Doug wasn't an afterthought, by any means. But I figured he was just going out for air. My mistake, and for the rest of the night and into the next morning I kept imagining his carcass bobbing in on the tide, his liver extracted and slated for auction in Thailand after arriving via an Organ Pirate red-eye (see paragraph 1).
I needn't have worried, though. Doug survived, like always. He passed out in a gutter and, in a miracle that can only be attributed to the compassionate Buddha, was neither robbed nor harvested for his eyeballs. He awoke the morning after his Chernobyl event with two girls standing over him. He said they looked like they were going to school, but no schools are in session during carnival, to my knowledge. They must have been guardian angels—garbed as schoolgirls to symbolize a lesson learned. Doug said he managed to croak the name of the guesthouse and they brought him to us, an act of purest kindness toward a foreigner they would never see again. I think I told Doug he’d used up a life on that little misadventure—eight more to go.
And only eight more days left in Rio.
First Restaurant, First Night
A Garota d’Ipanema.
Yes, that place. A great terrace restaurant known all over the planet as the birthplace of
bossa nova. Actually,
bossa nova existed before Jobim composed 'The Girl from Ipanema', but the restaurant changed its name to that of the song eventually. It's in all the travel books, so you should know the history and address already. No, it is not a cheesy theme restaurant with the same song playing over and over again. It ain't Brazilian Hooters either. It actually has character and good food. Be patient when you get there, because they will be busy. No tables available in the restaurant? No problem, they bust out some tables on the sidewalk for you.
Wish to understand the concept of
aperitif? Order a round of
caipirinhas, and you will learn how to take your time sipping a cocktail before dinner. If you go on Saturday, order
feijoada, the national dining experience of Brazil. Every place serves
feijoada on Saturday. Yes, I believe this is a requirement during your trip in Rio. But we did not visit A Garota d'Ipanema on a Saturday. I think it was a Thursday, and I recognize something else on the menu.
I recommend the
churrasco mixto for the whole table. It's basically an assortment of meat on a hot grill. Ask the waiter for some
ensalada mixta, y'know, mixed salad for all to share with the grilled meat. Take your time, your food will not get cold, and you can keep ordering
caipirinhas and
cervejas as long as you please. You came to Rio, so you do not need to hurry up and relax. You did that back home already, trying to decide what to pack and how early to get to the airport.
They do not bring the check until requested. Tips are usually included, as I recall, around ten per cent. Never hesitate to ask, or round up. We never had a problem with service, since we knew to be patient. I delivered my
'portu-ñol' and asked for recommendations everywhere we went.
After dinner, you might need a walk on the beach to settle everything down. Take a stroll down Avenida Atlantica,
na praia d'Copacabana. Check out the flea market/bazaar down the middle of the avenue, or simply kick back with a beer or five at one of the many
baizhirinhas on the beach. If you think you arrived at the bazaar/boardwalk too late because you don't see many people, just wait. The bazaar does not close, the
baizhirinhas do not close, and the restaurants and bars stay open late. The doors to the club did not open until midnight, as I recall, and we left around seven in the morning. Or was it eight, nine?
Ipanema Streetdancing
By the time your plane lands you’ll be vibrating with possibility. This is going to be different than anything you’ve done before. This will be a challenge.
The cab ride to town takes you past some of the notorious
favelas, the ones you’ve seen in the film
City of God. They’re on your right, spilling like litter down the lush hillsides. As you speed into the heart of Rio you’ll see a city battened down for a squall. Scores of locals have fled for parts unknown. Shops that operate the rest of the year are closed down for the next two weeks. The city is stripped, all the valuables hidden away. And for good reason—you’ve arrived three days before carnival and you can already see people partying in the streets.
You and your friends have rented an apartment in Arpoador, a point of land between Ipanema and Copacabana that puts both famous beaches within easy walking distance. After you get situated you venture out and immediately find yourselves swept up in a street party. A flatbed trailer carries a sound system and a troupe of transvestites. People dance, sing, and drum on whatever is at hand; capoeira masters fling themselves through the air; twelve-year old kids trundle along selling beers from wheelbarrows. Pretty soon you’re drinking doublefisted.
When you encounter a street party in Rio, chances are it’s being sponsored by one of the city’s samba schools. Your
Lonely Planet or
Let's Go Brazil has already explained the function of these schools and the competition upcoming Sunday and Monday in the Sambadrome, but it may not have mentioned that at these street parties schools seek an early edge by unveiling the songs they’ve written for their official performance. They hope to embed the tunes in the minds of the masses, so that when the school and its
bateria march in a few days the crowd has learned the words and will sing along. Crowd participation is thought to sway the judges, though the eventual winner of the competition is invariably accused of having bribed their way to victory.
Your street party finally spills onto Ipanema Beach around sunset. You’ve been in Rio for three hours and you’re already winded, sweaty and covered in beer. You need a restroom—badly. But you won’t find public restrooms in Rio. It quickly becomes clear that thousands of people in your predicament simply use the beach. Piss on a palm tree and there’ll be three more guys at compass points doing the same. You keep your eyes on the sky and try to ignore the smell. At first you sympathize with the
cariocas, abstractly, as you empty your bursting bladder and befoul their paradise. But then you realize it’s the
cariocas who are doing this.
Is this what you expected so far? Not really, but you’re sanguine enough to understand that municipal authorities cannot possibly accommodate a million plus tourists and the litres of Skol they’ve drunk. In Rio your ecstasy is always tempered by guilt. A brief glance over your shoulder and you see those
favelas again. They are always there, reminding you that as you party people are suffering. You’ve read that tourists book slum tours. Would you do such a thing? Wouldn’t that be a bit like turning human beings into zoo animals?
You can’t think about all this now, because you’re a little drunk and you’re starting to wilt in this incredible heat you’re not used to. Rio is a little overwhelming at first—to the body, the mind, and the eyes. But what you’ve seen is nothing—it’s been three hours. You won’t believe what’s to come.
Labels: brasil, brazil, carnival, ipanema, rio
had a reputation of ill behavior, a quick moving queue, and an English name. The club was already packed, though we had hit the doors right after opening. I recognized the staff—they were the ladies parading the Avenida all night.
already cut myself off the caipirinhas, so I had plenty of energy left for the rest of the night. Trying to figure out how to politely decline services from the freelancers, I also needed to bounce away the other tourists requesting my wisdom. Even in the bathroom, other customers sought me for advice: “How much do they charge?”
I worked on my rap as the samba troupe kept the beat. Don't worry, I did not try to touch a microphone nor make any impression with my peckerwood skills. Too much heat and rhythm and soul filled this room. I wondered what else a customer could find upstairs, but I saw nothing. No hidden doors nor stairwells popped into view; then again, that may only be open to a special market segment. If this were truly a brothel, I assumed they knew how to let the girls bring the punters through a separate door. Like the front door of a luxury hotel (foreshadowing? . . .stay tuned . . .).
A couple beers later, and a few more samba shuffles, we finally introduced ourselves to Sabrina, the mesera taking care of us all week at the same baizhirinha. Asked if she worked again the next day, she said she worked every day. We said we'd see her again, after the samba parade.
Every customer comes with those bulging, moist, expectant eyes of a man who has escaped from his prison for a week or two. It may be the puritanical monotony of the working week that drives the men to seek relief: not raging bulls, exactly, more like cows waiting to be milked.
Music, singing, and drumming were constant. The street crackled with the energy of a high-tension line. There were hard and fast negotiations going on everywhere—I mean serious business, with frowns and demands and counteroffers. The men involved were mainly of a certain type—those so steeped in sexual ineptitude that people could almost see it stamped on their foreheads. But the rules of the sex trade gave them control. Female free will had been abolished. Two-hunded bucks in pocket now equated to superheroic virility. These men whistled, shouted vulgar come-ons, and generally behaved exactly like losers given carte blanche in a sexual Disneyland.
One of them might pretend for a minute to be friendly, but soon she’d segue into her pitch: “Serious now, handsome, you wanna party with me or what?” When we said no she’d leave fast enough to burn rubber. The girls who sat with us and stayed were the second breed—opportunists. They had plenty of time to shoot the breeze because they didn’t consider themselves hookers. One of them laid it out for me: “I work all year up north in a store and make like three-thousand dollars. I come here for carnival and make three thousand in a week. What would you do?”
Just a few doors south stood Help, which Ari mentioned last post. Travel guides explicitly warn to stay out of the place. It's the largest disco in South America. It was closed at the moment, but many of the people on the Avenida seemed to be waiting for it to open. We asked our girls about it. They said the place was great—wonderful music, strong drinks, all night dancing. We filed that away. Quarter after midnight or so Help opened and half the people on the street poured inside. Our girls said farewell and we were alone. We took a survey—continue to relax and enjoy the spectacle on the street, now considerably diminished, or go to club Help?
The view does the reputation justice. We could look upon different communities around the city, as everybody seemed to flock to the beaches. It hit me how foolish it was to think to conquer every party in town during one trip. This city is huge, and carneval brings in an additional population. Nothing to conquer here, no need to make an impression, this place commands a bit of liberty. Sitting on top of this rock, I found it easier to examine one tree at a time, one flower at a time, as the bird songs set the ambiance.
wish, or am indifferent to the possibility of my kidneys ending up bound for Bangkok courtesy of Organ Pirate Airlines, but because I grew up black and poor and can see trouble coming from miles away. I don’t always stay out of it, but I can spot it like an inbound freight train. Which means I don’t need to see a State Department travel alert to know that Rio risks are cousin to Los Angeles risks or Chicago risks. The only pertinent question is whether you are comfortable taking those risks.
In a city so large and alien, it was inevitable we would spend our first couple of days getting the lay of the land. Ari already talked about the restaurants in his last post. Here’s what we learned about the beaches: the accepted wisdom that they are standing room-packed with perfect, near-naked bodies is a myth. A substantial percentage of the locals have fled town, and a great number of pale folk from the northern hemisphere have arrived to fill the vacuum, which means the sands host a mix of people, not all of them ready to be crowned Miss Brazil. The best-known beaches are Leblon, Ipanema, and Copacabana. In terms of cleanliness and exclusivity they rank as listed. Another frequented beach is Botafogo, on the backside of the bay. No matter which you choose, the earlier you arrive the more they live up to their hype. But there’s one small problem with that—you’ve been out drinking and dancing until sunrise. You have to sleep sometime. If you enjoy the Rio nightlife, you miss the prime hours of its beachlife.
There are clubs all over town, but after dark Copacabana is where it really happens. It took us three nights to get over there. Not because we were avoiding it (which many travel guides suggest), but because we first thought chic Ipanema would be home to better nightlife. But while Ipanema buzzes during daylight, with its shopping and restaurants and that amazing expanse of sand occupied by volleyballers and frescobolistos, it’s quieter after dark. Night two we opted for a foray deep into the city via cab searching for hidden hotspots. We found hotspots, alright. Hell, we found little enclaves so supercharged they were practically fissile (even the doorman at one of them couldn't take anymore and passed out—above), but we didn’t find a spot that felt right. Damn—we were missing it. We'd made it all the way to Rio and carnival was passing us by somehow.
I needn't have worried, though. Doug survived, like always. He passed out in a gutter and, in a miracle that can only be attributed to the compassionate Buddha, was neither robbed nor harvested for his eyeballs. He awoke the morning after his Chernobyl event with two girls standing over him. He said they looked like they were going to school, but no schools are in session during carnival, to my knowledge. They must have been guardian angels—garbed as schoolgirls to symbolize a lesson learned. Doug said he managed to croak the name of the guesthouse and they brought him to us, an act of purest kindness toward a foreigner they would never see again. I think I told Doug he’d used up a life on that little misadventure—eight more to go.
Wish to understand the concept of aperitif? Order a round of caipirinhas, and you will learn how to take your time sipping a cocktail before dinner. If you go on Saturday, order feijoada, the national dining experience of Brazil. Every place serves feijoada on Saturday. Yes, I believe this is a requirement during your trip in Rio. But we did not visit A Garota d'Ipanema on a Saturday. I think it was a Thursday, and I recognize something else on the menu.
After dinner, you might need a walk on the beach to settle everything down. Take a stroll down Avenida Atlantica, na praia d'Copacabana. Check out the flea market/bazaar down the middle of the avenue, or simply kick back with a beer or five at one of the many baizhirinhas on the beach. If you think you arrived at the bazaar/boardwalk too late because you don't see many people, just wait. The bazaar does not close, the baizhirinhas do not close, and the restaurants and bars stay open late. The doors to the club did not open until midnight, as I recall, and we left around seven in the morning. Or was it eight, nine?
By the time your plane lands you’ll be vibrating with possibility. This is going to be different than anything you’ve done before. This will be a challenge.
You and your friends have rented an apartment in Arpoador, a point of land between Ipanema and Copacabana that puts both famous beaches within easy walking distance. After you get situated you venture out and immediately find yourselves swept up in a street party. A flatbed trailer carries a sound system and a troupe of transvestites. People dance, sing, and drum on whatever is at hand; capoeira masters fling themselves through the air; twelve-year old kids trundle along selling beers from wheelbarrows. Pretty soon you’re drinking doublefisted.
Your street party finally spills onto Ipanema Beach around sunset. You’ve been in Rio for three hours and you’re already winded, sweaty and covered in beer. You need a restroom—badly. But you won’t find public restrooms in Rio. It quickly becomes clear that thousands of people in your predicament simply use the beach. Piss on a palm tree and there’ll be three more guys at compass points doing the same. You keep your eyes on the sky and try to ignore the smell. At first you sympathize with the cariocas, abstractly, as you empty your bursting bladder and befoul their paradise. But then you realize it’s the cariocas who are doing this.
You can’t think about all this now, because you’re a little drunk and you’re starting to wilt in this incredible heat you’re not used to. Rio is a little overwhelming at first—to the body, the mind, and the eyes. But what you’ve seen is nothing—it’s been three hours. You won’t believe what’s to come.
