After a 3 hour trip involving two buses and a taxi (at the princely sumo of S$15 or approximately US$5) I have finally left Peru and hit Copacabana and the southern end of Lake Titikaka (also spelled titicaca or titqaqa depending on how you feel on the day). Having experience the town for approximately 30minutes I have this much to say. CHEAP!
Me being me, after checking into the room and hurling the most pungent bag of washing at the lovely Bolivian Hostel owner, I went looking for food…..well, cheap food. As it turns out, due to the town´s vicinity to the lake, trout is cheap. How cheap? Well having stuffed my face full of chips rice salad and a large trout ala Diablo I was forced to part with Bs$25 or a little less than US$4. This may seem a little on the pricey side but this did include a beer which cost a little over US$1 itself so I decided I wasn`t being completely ripped off.
Me thinks this town may need a little investigation.
Prior to Copacabana, my last stop was Puno, which to be honest deserves little more than a footnote. In my opinion the most notable thing that happened in the town was that I bought a whole cheese for $2. Sure I visited the floating islands etc but they really weren´t too much chop, so I`ll move on.
Arequipa, the stop before last, on the other hand was a pretty cool city. With go karting and paintball just around the corner I dived into the action after 15 minutes of arrival and found myself well occupied for 2 weeks. I shan`t say things started well in Arequipa but I did have fun. At the end of the first day my paintball team mate had already shot me 3 times in the bum and by the end of the first week I had become paralysed by altitude sickness at a height of 5335m, vomited on a tent and thrown a bike 2 foot into the air during some downing hill mountain biking… damned if I don`t love the place. Whilst I am disappointed to leave it would seem that Bolivia opens the door to some slightly more reckless pursuits. To hell with public liability, Bolivia sets itself up to be a place of fun and stupidity and I truly look forward to watching some midget wrestling!
Monday, 7 April 2008
Monday, 25 February 2008
A short one to try and get back into writing (sorry)
There’s nothing quite like running of the side of a 250m high mountain to make you think about your own life. Having landed in Peru approximately 1 week ago with Owen, a lad from Red Deer, Canada, who I met in B.A. it was only 1 day before we decided to taker the leap and sign up for a week long Paragliding course. The concept of the course was explained to us briefly by a man somewhat resembling a Peruvian Mr. Miyagi* from Karate kid. From the first day we would be flying solo off small dunes and we would slowly move up to bigger, longer flights, progressing to the level of student pilot, allowing us to fly anywhere in the world under radio instruction.
Despite having this explained to us, each day has started exactly the same. We drive to the site, Owen reminds me that he is scared of heights during the journey and upon arrival he looks over the cliff or down the mountain, turns his head and says ¨have I told you I hate you, Rob¨. I explain that he really should have realized what he was getting himself into and I get the same reply ¨I don’t care…..I really hate you¨.
Bobbing up and down in the air being tossed around by thermals causes me very little stress, in fact it is actually quite relaxing floating so high and watching the world pass by below you, the take offs on the other hand are a little more scary. Running off a cliff takes a little bit of blind faith and determination. The first thing you are told is, ¨if I say keep running¨, keep running, if you don’t, the glider will deflate and you will drop a fair a few meters before it re-inflates…you won’t get injured in these places but it will be a little scary. A little scary?
I personally would consider it terrifying, and thus as a result run like hell with only one eye open. …It seems like the only logical thing to do.
Outside of paragliding there is little else to say about Peru. Everything we have done and seen has been paragliding related and all the people we have met; bar those at the hostel are paragliders (who by the way are absolutely lovely people). To be honest I am amazed at how nice the Peruvians are. One of the guys wants to start and export company with me, wants to show me how the property market works in Peru and also assist in the purchasing of a Kombi van to drive around South America. This fact is causing me a certain amount of guilt. Part of me can’t believe how nice he is, the other half is dubious of his intentions….but to be fair all Peruvians I have met are super helpful. One Peruvian girl after a short chat, learnt that I wanted to eat Cuy (Guinea Pig). Taking this on bored she has so far written two monumental emails explaining about all the food in Peru, where I can get it and how much I should pay. I’m going to be a fat, fat lad!
Plans for Colombia are coming along nicely with the assistance of the paragliding lads. It seems we may have a place to stay and as I said help to purchase a vehicle from the wanted ads. I’m guessing we will leave Peru some time early next month so that we can hit donkey festival in late March. From all stories we can rent our own donkey and dress it up for the parade. I can hardly wait!
* Direct quote from our instructor - When there is no wind, there is no paragliding....only para-waiting.
Despite having this explained to us, each day has started exactly the same. We drive to the site, Owen reminds me that he is scared of heights during the journey and upon arrival he looks over the cliff or down the mountain, turns his head and says ¨have I told you I hate you, Rob¨. I explain that he really should have realized what he was getting himself into and I get the same reply ¨I don’t care…..I really hate you¨.
Bobbing up and down in the air being tossed around by thermals causes me very little stress, in fact it is actually quite relaxing floating so high and watching the world pass by below you, the take offs on the other hand are a little more scary. Running off a cliff takes a little bit of blind faith and determination. The first thing you are told is, ¨if I say keep running¨, keep running, if you don’t, the glider will deflate and you will drop a fair a few meters before it re-inflates…you won’t get injured in these places but it will be a little scary. A little scary?
I personally would consider it terrifying, and thus as a result run like hell with only one eye open. …It seems like the only logical thing to do.
Outside of paragliding there is little else to say about Peru. Everything we have done and seen has been paragliding related and all the people we have met; bar those at the hostel are paragliders (who by the way are absolutely lovely people). To be honest I am amazed at how nice the Peruvians are. One of the guys wants to start and export company with me, wants to show me how the property market works in Peru and also assist in the purchasing of a Kombi van to drive around South America. This fact is causing me a certain amount of guilt. Part of me can’t believe how nice he is, the other half is dubious of his intentions….but to be fair all Peruvians I have met are super helpful. One Peruvian girl after a short chat, learnt that I wanted to eat Cuy (Guinea Pig). Taking this on bored she has so far written two monumental emails explaining about all the food in Peru, where I can get it and how much I should pay. I’m going to be a fat, fat lad!
Plans for Colombia are coming along nicely with the assistance of the paragliding lads. It seems we may have a place to stay and as I said help to purchase a vehicle from the wanted ads. I’m guessing we will leave Peru some time early next month so that we can hit donkey festival in late March. From all stories we can rent our own donkey and dress it up for the parade. I can hardly wait!
* Direct quote from our instructor - When there is no wind, there is no paragliding....only para-waiting.
Monday, 31 December 2007
A bunch of stuff that should have been written ages ago.
As the end of the year rapidly approaches I am starting to feel a little guilty about failing to update my blog a little more often....so here is an attempt at a wrap up.
Last day of BJJ
As I wandered into the academy, the knowledge that I was turning up to BJJ for the last time was starting to weigh heavily...that is until Allan (the instructor) announced that the days training would give way to a game which he called (which is to say made up on the spot) American/Brazillian jiu jitsu ball. Of course, no one in Brazil has any idea how American football works, so this slight deviation from standard rules, was a slight deviation from the ¨standard, completely incorrect rules¨.
....The end result?
A hilarious yet ruthless game involving throwing/wrestling the closest person to you (ball or no ball) mixed with some hilarious set plays and a little bit of ball throwing...genius! To be honest I don´t think I have laughed so hard in some time nor been so sore the next day.
In an attempt to maintain some level of fitness I decided to try and do some BJJ in Buenos Aires. Unfortunately due to a fall down some stairs in Brazil 4 weeks earlier (no I wasn´t drinking) I have after one session grown an enormous (about half the size of a billiard ball) cycsty thing on my hip. After AR$400 at the hospital seeing multiple specialists it seems I have to rest and it will go away....so after trying for two days to rest, it seems that my lump will be doing a world tour. Rest indeed? pffft!
Buenos Aires in an excellent city full of great architecture, parks and a bit of a crazy night life. It takes a little while to get into the 2am kick off for all night life but once you get into it, you find yourself somewhat stuck. The problem is this, you start at 2am you therefore finish at about 6am at the earliest and thus you are unable to check out before the assigned 11am checkout time, so you stay another day. The next day starts mid afternoon as a rule you have a few beers and BAM! you do the same thing you did the day before. Don´t get me wrong, it´s a fun life with great food and great wine at an all too impressive low low price....but it starts to tear your soul apart after a while. A quick look at the 65 year old frenchman, who I have been told has been traveling for 20 years was the final straw. At 65 (i`m guessing his age)he gets up every morning and starts slowly on a few beers ...at 11am. From here he moves onto wine and he doesn´t leave the desk until about 2am. It takes the guy 4 rests to get up a small flight of stairs (4-5 minute rests each time) and it is believed that most of his injuries have been caused by the seizures he has at night, which tend to make him fall out of bed.
...so it´s out and off to Bariloche (the gateway to Patagonia)for me to learn some spanish and as luck may have it do some more BJJ. This few weeks should be full of glacier walks, tango lessons (I apologise in advance to any girl I have to dance with), spanish classes and some good healthy living. As a mixed blessing, the only hostel I could get intro is the worlds most boring and thus should be very condusive to study (in the same way the brussel sprouts are condusive to good health) so, it´s clean livin´ for a few weeks...or so I think.....
Photos to come!
Last day of BJJ
As I wandered into the academy, the knowledge that I was turning up to BJJ for the last time was starting to weigh heavily...that is until Allan (the instructor) announced that the days training would give way to a game which he called (which is to say made up on the spot) American/Brazillian jiu jitsu ball. Of course, no one in Brazil has any idea how American football works, so this slight deviation from standard rules, was a slight deviation from the ¨standard, completely incorrect rules¨.
....The end result?
A hilarious yet ruthless game involving throwing/wrestling the closest person to you (ball or no ball) mixed with some hilarious set plays and a little bit of ball throwing...genius! To be honest I don´t think I have laughed so hard in some time nor been so sore the next day.
In an attempt to maintain some level of fitness I decided to try and do some BJJ in Buenos Aires. Unfortunately due to a fall down some stairs in Brazil 4 weeks earlier (no I wasn´t drinking) I have after one session grown an enormous (about half the size of a billiard ball) cycsty thing on my hip. After AR$400 at the hospital seeing multiple specialists it seems I have to rest and it will go away....so after trying for two days to rest, it seems that my lump will be doing a world tour. Rest indeed? pffft!
Buenos Aires in an excellent city full of great architecture, parks and a bit of a crazy night life. It takes a little while to get into the 2am kick off for all night life but once you get into it, you find yourself somewhat stuck. The problem is this, you start at 2am you therefore finish at about 6am at the earliest and thus you are unable to check out before the assigned 11am checkout time, so you stay another day. The next day starts mid afternoon as a rule you have a few beers and BAM! you do the same thing you did the day before. Don´t get me wrong, it´s a fun life with great food and great wine at an all too impressive low low price....but it starts to tear your soul apart after a while. A quick look at the 65 year old frenchman, who I have been told has been traveling for 20 years was the final straw. At 65 (i`m guessing his age)he gets up every morning and starts slowly on a few beers ...at 11am. From here he moves onto wine and he doesn´t leave the desk until about 2am. It takes the guy 4 rests to get up a small flight of stairs (4-5 minute rests each time) and it is believed that most of his injuries have been caused by the seizures he has at night, which tend to make him fall out of bed.
...so it´s out and off to Bariloche (the gateway to Patagonia)for me to learn some spanish and as luck may have it do some more BJJ. This few weeks should be full of glacier walks, tango lessons (I apologise in advance to any girl I have to dance with), spanish classes and some good healthy living. As a mixed blessing, the only hostel I could get intro is the worlds most boring and thus should be very condusive to study (in the same way the brussel sprouts are condusive to good health) so, it´s clean livin´ for a few weeks...or so I think.....
Photos to come!
Thursday, 29 November 2007
Nice music, it's a shame about the crack!
Whilst being described, by Lonely Planet, as the center of Afro-Brazilian culture one other fact is slightly more eye catching when reading about this city and that is the quote “if you are going to get robbed or pick pocketed in Brazil it will probably happen in Salvador”
Arriving at about 9pm I found myself wandering the streets of Pelourinho following lonely planets small map attempting to get my hostel. What LP failed to mention was that the most direct route takes you through a favela. Fortunately for me a helpful crack addict was happy to guide me to my Hostel and for nothing more than a few centavos (thank you Mr. Crack Addict).
Before arriving at my hostel (10 minutes walk) I was asked for money, a sandwich, a drink or anything else people could think of. It would seem that the addicts in the city have quickly learned that asking for cash gets them no where, so they will often ask for food, which they subsequently sell to fund there habit. The other option of course is slightly more criminal and given the title of this blog it is probably about time I visited this issue, especially as the only other theft so far was electronic and thus non confrontational and therefore boring.
Having been in Salvador a few days it was time to head west to Lencois for some trekking, swimming etc etc. Unfortunately earlier in the week, having been in Salvador about 15 minutes I rapidly developed a, shall we say, lower intestinal disturbance. Which to me seems quite strange given the fact that I'd only eaten a prawn based meal which I bought off the streets... who could have guessed?
Anyway due to poor bus timetabling it seemed that I was forced to spend 3 hours in Salvador's somewhat shady bus station. This of course would have not been a problem save for the aforementioned disturbance. Despite any amount of tactical riggling one fact was certain, I would have top brave the public toilet system of Salvador bus station with all my luggage.
Making my way into the bathroom was somewhat difficult, given my volume of luggage, this of course was to be nothing compared with entering a cubicle. Realising I was carrying all my worldly possessions I decided to take a remote cubicle stack my bags and use the facilities...it was at about this point that it all went a little sideways. The size of my bag made maneuvering very difficult so I was not looking behind me. When I finally did turn to enter the cubicle I noted 2 very important things. 1 – was a big black man walking behind me, the other was four sets of eyes peering out form other cubicles. It seems that I had fallen for the “Salvadorian toilet ambush” truly one of the oldest tricks in the book. Entering the cubicle I closed the door, locked it, dropped my bags and reviewed the situation. I had all my possessions, little room to move, a dodgey belly and five people looking my way. Bugger!
I considered using the facilities to remove one of these factors but considered that being set upon in such a position may leave me somewhat...um ...compromised.
I turned and looked back over the stall. Black man still there, 4 sets of eyes still scanning, no visible way out. IU reviewed my 1m x 2m “safe haven”. Toilet seat as a weapon? No they pad toilet seats in this country so it would be like weilding a pillow in a knife fight. Damn it, damn it, damn it! It was at this stage I noticed footprints on the toilet seat and realised that someone else had probably climbed their way out of the situation. O considered this fact. Nope, too much luggage and too clumsy to climb especially given the dicky intestinal tract I was sporting. Ooh this is bad, this is bad, this bad!
I looked back over the cubicle and this time the big black man was gone. I didn't know where, which made me a little jumpy but it did provide some hope. I looked to the other side of the corridor and noted and older man , maybe 55 standing stock still in his cubicle. It was clear to me he had also realised his predicament. He was also frozen in his stall. I made the international face of “what do we do know”and he responded rapidly with a friendly facial tick. Hmmm not so useful. I looked up the corridor again. Nothing. I looked back at the old man and again all I got was a squinting face. Bugger.
My situation was now clear, if I stayed any longer I was almost begging to be “robbed”, I had to make a move and hopefully he would follow...or so I thought.
Looking back at the old man a final time before wading into the fight everything snapped into focus. This time the man squinted again but slowed his squint purposefully. The reality was he was one of those guys who can't quite wink without closing the other eye as well and this to make sure I was 100% about his intentions he also licked his lips, made a kissy face and allowed his hands to travels in a southerly direction towards his fly. Crap!
I reviewed the situation again. I had entered a bus station toilet cubicle at approximately midnight and had been watched by a multitude of eyes hidden behind doors. A man had been walking up and down the corridor selecting his, shall we say evening companion, and there were footprints on the seat top provide the equivalent of a super box bird eye view of the action. If anyone was to get ¨Robbed¨ it would seem that they hoped it was them.
It was at this point that some fear slid away and disappointment set in. If I was to come face to face with a subset of the Brazilian gay community, why couldn't it be the subset that helped to improve your dress sense, re-modeled you apartment or taught you to dance. Why did it have to be the seedy, public toilets based underbelly...and then it hit me. For me, nothing could follow more closely the story of my travels. For those who read my last travel writings you will probably remember the regular references to “George Michael” and my apparent physical similarities. I guess the only way to turn the whole story up a notch was to be involved in a George Michael-esque situation and as I can quite remember all the word to “faith” it seems that the world had little other option but to play the only other card it had left “seedy toilet love”.
I grabbed my bags, choose not use the facilities and boarded the bus for a 6 hour trip to Lencois and decided that the riggling was a small price to pay.
So where is the story of robbery you may well ask? Well that is far less interesting. On a night out I was offered a random piece of jewelery for R$3. I agreed it was a fair price ands handed over R$10. As was often the case in Rio the street dealer had no alternative but head into the nearest shop for change. So the lovely young lady headed into the shop and I waited at the door...for 10 minutes.
“She's not coming back is she”
“Ah...no!”
She had opf course piled into the toilet 9 minutes and 30 seconds earlier and bailed out the window. I shrugged my shoulder and laughed. God I 'm stupid!
Having thoroughly learned my lesson (I did go to university after all), 6 days later I wandered into a shop to buy some water. the shop owner wandered over, stated the price and I again handed over R$10. He wandered to the back office to get some change. At this stage another man ran into the shop and darted into the “back office” read “toilet” to grab the offender who was again climbing out the window. The real shop owner then asked what I wanted and offered to sell me water for twice the price I had payed for the same, water in the same shop 4 days ealrier. I grabbed my money and walked out. Salvador is certainly the center of Afro Brazilian country and is beautiful in many ways, but If I was you I watch your purse strings, avoid public toilets and assess whether or not the man actually has a nervous twitch or if it is something more sinister
Arriving at about 9pm I found myself wandering the streets of Pelourinho following lonely planets small map attempting to get my hostel. What LP failed to mention was that the most direct route takes you through a favela. Fortunately for me a helpful crack addict was happy to guide me to my Hostel and for nothing more than a few centavos (thank you Mr. Crack Addict).
Before arriving at my hostel (10 minutes walk) I was asked for money, a sandwich, a drink or anything else people could think of. It would seem that the addicts in the city have quickly learned that asking for cash gets them no where, so they will often ask for food, which they subsequently sell to fund there habit. The other option of course is slightly more criminal and given the title of this blog it is probably about time I visited this issue, especially as the only other theft so far was electronic and thus non confrontational and therefore boring.
Having been in Salvador a few days it was time to head west to Lencois for some trekking, swimming etc etc. Unfortunately earlier in the week, having been in Salvador about 15 minutes I rapidly developed a, shall we say, lower intestinal disturbance. Which to me seems quite strange given the fact that I'd only eaten a prawn based meal which I bought off the streets... who could have guessed?
Anyway due to poor bus timetabling it seemed that I was forced to spend 3 hours in Salvador's somewhat shady bus station. This of course would have not been a problem save for the aforementioned disturbance. Despite any amount of tactical riggling one fact was certain, I would have top brave the public toilet system of Salvador bus station with all my luggage.
Making my way into the bathroom was somewhat difficult, given my volume of luggage, this of course was to be nothing compared with entering a cubicle. Realising I was carrying all my worldly possessions I decided to take a remote cubicle stack my bags and use the facilities...it was at about this point that it all went a little sideways. The size of my bag made maneuvering very difficult so I was not looking behind me. When I finally did turn to enter the cubicle I noted 2 very important things. 1 – was a big black man walking behind me, the other was four sets of eyes peering out form other cubicles. It seems that I had fallen for the “Salvadorian toilet ambush” truly one of the oldest tricks in the book. Entering the cubicle I closed the door, locked it, dropped my bags and reviewed the situation. I had all my possessions, little room to move, a dodgey belly and five people looking my way. Bugger!
I considered using the facilities to remove one of these factors but considered that being set upon in such a position may leave me somewhat...um ...compromised.
I turned and looked back over the stall. Black man still there, 4 sets of eyes still scanning, no visible way out. IU reviewed my 1m x 2m “safe haven”. Toilet seat as a weapon? No they pad toilet seats in this country so it would be like weilding a pillow in a knife fight. Damn it, damn it, damn it! It was at this stage I noticed footprints on the toilet seat and realised that someone else had probably climbed their way out of the situation. O considered this fact. Nope, too much luggage and too clumsy to climb especially given the dicky intestinal tract I was sporting. Ooh this is bad, this is bad, this bad!
I looked back over the cubicle and this time the big black man was gone. I didn't know where, which made me a little jumpy but it did provide some hope. I looked to the other side of the corridor and noted and older man , maybe 55 standing stock still in his cubicle. It was clear to me he had also realised his predicament. He was also frozen in his stall. I made the international face of “what do we do know”and he responded rapidly with a friendly facial tick. Hmmm not so useful. I looked up the corridor again. Nothing. I looked back at the old man and again all I got was a squinting face. Bugger.
My situation was now clear, if I stayed any longer I was almost begging to be “robbed”, I had to make a move and hopefully he would follow...or so I thought.
Looking back at the old man a final time before wading into the fight everything snapped into focus. This time the man squinted again but slowed his squint purposefully. The reality was he was one of those guys who can't quite wink without closing the other eye as well and this to make sure I was 100% about his intentions he also licked his lips, made a kissy face and allowed his hands to travels in a southerly direction towards his fly. Crap!
I reviewed the situation again. I had entered a bus station toilet cubicle at approximately midnight and had been watched by a multitude of eyes hidden behind doors. A man had been walking up and down the corridor selecting his, shall we say evening companion, and there were footprints on the seat top provide the equivalent of a super box bird eye view of the action. If anyone was to get ¨Robbed¨ it would seem that they hoped it was them.
It was at this point that some fear slid away and disappointment set in. If I was to come face to face with a subset of the Brazilian gay community, why couldn't it be the subset that helped to improve your dress sense, re-modeled you apartment or taught you to dance. Why did it have to be the seedy, public toilets based underbelly...and then it hit me. For me, nothing could follow more closely the story of my travels. For those who read my last travel writings you will probably remember the regular references to “George Michael” and my apparent physical similarities. I guess the only way to turn the whole story up a notch was to be involved in a George Michael-esque situation and as I can quite remember all the word to “faith” it seems that the world had little other option but to play the only other card it had left “seedy toilet love”.
I grabbed my bags, choose not use the facilities and boarded the bus for a 6 hour trip to Lencois and decided that the riggling was a small price to pay.
So where is the story of robbery you may well ask? Well that is far less interesting. On a night out I was offered a random piece of jewelery for R$3. I agreed it was a fair price ands handed over R$10. As was often the case in Rio the street dealer had no alternative but head into the nearest shop for change. So the lovely young lady headed into the shop and I waited at the door...for 10 minutes.
“She's not coming back is she”
“Ah...no!”
She had opf course piled into the toilet 9 minutes and 30 seconds earlier and bailed out the window. I shrugged my shoulder and laughed. God I 'm stupid!
Having thoroughly learned my lesson (I did go to university after all), 6 days later I wandered into a shop to buy some water. the shop owner wandered over, stated the price and I again handed over R$10. He wandered to the back office to get some change. At this stage another man ran into the shop and darted into the “back office” read “toilet” to grab the offender who was again climbing out the window. The real shop owner then asked what I wanted and offered to sell me water for twice the price I had payed for the same, water in the same shop 4 days ealrier. I grabbed my money and walked out. Salvador is certainly the center of Afro Brazilian country and is beautiful in many ways, but If I was you I watch your purse strings, avoid public toilets and assess whether or not the man actually has a nervous twitch or if it is something more sinister
The dirty 30's
Whilst for most, this statement is a bit, shall we say, redundant, it is important to clarify this fact before I move on.
I am a very disorganised person.
...to be honest it even goes a bit further than this. When I try to be organised things just never work out. It is, almost always, much better for me to float along and just let it all work out. Massive preparation for job applications, for example usually means I don't get the job, apathy on the other hand means I'll be offered the job, told I'm an impressive candidate and assured I will rapidly get a raise. Given this fact there is no massive surprise about how my 30th birthday would pan out.
Approximately 2 weeks before the day arrived I started considering my options and came up with a tight yet workable schedule.
Morning – Hang glide over Rio
Afternoon – Go to Maracana stadium and watch one of the biggest ever football games held in the stadium.
Evening – Go to Casa Rosa., listen to Samba and let the night drift away.
...Here's how it actually turned out.
12:01 – Find myself at home drinking Cuba Libres with an Australian friend whilst listening to some tunes.
02:00 – see 12:01 am
03:30 – wake up on my couch and realise that my spine is trying to approximate a question mark. Consider waking friend on other couch, but instead just turn off the light and go to bed.
09:00 – Get woken up by another friend with the statement “I'm not letting you sleep your 30th birthday away”. Have a shower and marvel at feeling 100% fit and healthy. Look out of the window and feel a rolling disappointment caused by bad weather. Scratch “go hang gliding over Rio” from my mental list.
13:00 – Learn that Futbol (that's how they spell it) tickets have not been organised and try and organise an alternative.
15:00 – Make my way to Maracana stadium to purchase tickets off scalpers with a solid R$40 limit set in my mind.
16:00 – Get offered tickets for R$40, decide it was all too easy and we could get them cheaper. Turn them down and keep searching.
18:00 – Game starts with us sitting on the outside with no tickets. The word “tightarse” is used liberally and a game of roll the beer bottle down the ramp commences and we bet on the cans final resting place (bottom of the ramp, side of the ramp, grabbed by one of the 8.3 million can collectors before reaching its destination).
18:32 – A huge crowd surges towards the stadium as someone on the inside forgets to close a gate. Motivate friends to make the dash, although fail to invoke enough enthusiasm. Slow trot to gate. Policeman breaks from crowd and runs past at high speed. Tactical shotgun is fired in the air and is pointed at us as well as the rest of the crowd. Go white and and find an increased need to go to the toilet.
18:45 Return to “can game” but part way through meet a gent who can get me the flares and fireworks that I always wanted. Follow man across bridge and soon find that he actually doesn't actually know where he can get them. Head back along bridge but note three suspicious individuals who have set themselves up to mug me. Turn around go back under the bridge and find friends.
19:30 – Catch a cab to Casa Rosa and listen to Samba. Receive some birthday cake from Adriana (my house mate) who has taken it from someone else's birthday party.
???? - Go home and sleep off a truly well organised day.
So all in all, I give this birthday a 7.8, with most points being lost due the fact that I didn't get to judge any bikini contests. After all, I got to hang out with friends, Got to do something I'd never done before (react to a shotgun), and generally got to enjoy the place in which I was living, you can't ask for much more than that...can you?
I am a very disorganised person.
...to be honest it even goes a bit further than this. When I try to be organised things just never work out. It is, almost always, much better for me to float along and just let it all work out. Massive preparation for job applications, for example usually means I don't get the job, apathy on the other hand means I'll be offered the job, told I'm an impressive candidate and assured I will rapidly get a raise. Given this fact there is no massive surprise about how my 30th birthday would pan out.
Approximately 2 weeks before the day arrived I started considering my options and came up with a tight yet workable schedule.
Morning – Hang glide over Rio
Afternoon – Go to Maracana stadium and watch one of the biggest ever football games held in the stadium.
Evening – Go to Casa Rosa., listen to Samba and let the night drift away.
...Here's how it actually turned out.
12:01 – Find myself at home drinking Cuba Libres with an Australian friend whilst listening to some tunes.
02:00 – see 12:01 am
03:30 – wake up on my couch and realise that my spine is trying to approximate a question mark. Consider waking friend on other couch, but instead just turn off the light and go to bed.
09:00 – Get woken up by another friend with the statement “I'm not letting you sleep your 30th birthday away”. Have a shower and marvel at feeling 100% fit and healthy. Look out of the window and feel a rolling disappointment caused by bad weather. Scratch “go hang gliding over Rio” from my mental list.
13:00 – Learn that Futbol (that's how they spell it) tickets have not been organised and try and organise an alternative.
15:00 – Make my way to Maracana stadium to purchase tickets off scalpers with a solid R$40 limit set in my mind.
16:00 – Get offered tickets for R$40, decide it was all too easy and we could get them cheaper. Turn them down and keep searching.
18:00 – Game starts with us sitting on the outside with no tickets. The word “tightarse” is used liberally and a game of roll the beer bottle down the ramp commences and we bet on the cans final resting place (bottom of the ramp, side of the ramp, grabbed by one of the 8.3 million can collectors before reaching its destination).
18:32 – A huge crowd surges towards the stadium as someone on the inside forgets to close a gate. Motivate friends to make the dash, although fail to invoke enough enthusiasm. Slow trot to gate. Policeman breaks from crowd and runs past at high speed. Tactical shotgun is fired in the air and is pointed at us as well as the rest of the crowd. Go white and and find an increased need to go to the toilet.
18:45 Return to “can game” but part way through meet a gent who can get me the flares and fireworks that I always wanted. Follow man across bridge and soon find that he actually doesn't actually know where he can get them. Head back along bridge but note three suspicious individuals who have set themselves up to mug me. Turn around go back under the bridge and find friends.
19:30 – Catch a cab to Casa Rosa and listen to Samba. Receive some birthday cake from Adriana (my house mate) who has taken it from someone else's birthday party.
???? - Go home and sleep off a truly well organised day.
So all in all, I give this birthday a 7.8, with most points being lost due the fact that I didn't get to judge any bikini contests. After all, I got to hang out with friends, Got to do something I'd never done before (react to a shotgun), and generally got to enjoy the place in which I was living, you can't ask for much more than that...can you?
Saturday, 6 October 2007
Club Vinte dois
Have you ever wanted to Glad wrap your whole head?
...actually scratch that.
Have you ever seen one of those machines in a warehouse that is used to wrap a pallet in plastic?
Have you ever considered using it to tightly wrap your whole body in a protective water tight cocoon?
Well until two days ago the thought never crossed my mind…but that was two days ago!
Drinking in the pub directly across the street I was drinking a few quiet beers with my friend Nick and his house mate. His house mate was Brazilian and spoke very little English. Despite this fact there was very little doubt as to what he wanted to do that night. Although I may have lived across from this small drinking hole for some 6 weeks I was unaware that directly above it was Club 22…. a strip club. Nick house mate, who I will call Renzo as I have forgotten his real name was very very keen to move the quiet drinking session upstairs but unfortunately met some mild resistance from the two of us. Fortunately for him, he had not yet played his trump card. “It costs R$10 to enter, you get 3 free beers and can play pool all night”. Cha-ching! Knowing that pool costs R$15 and hour, I, and you will be surprised to hear this, decided that it was probably worth it due to the fiscal benefits. I was of course very wrong.
In Nick and my mind the club would be a huge place with shows at one end and pool tables at the other. There was no doubt we would be harassed at some stage but we though the interruption every twenty minutes was probably worth it given the savings….we were of course wrong. Luckily for us, Nick convinced the door lady to allow us to look before paying entry, and a good thing too. The whole establishment was about as big as the average lounge room and the two pool tables were about the length of my forearm and I guessed they were probably not up to international pool competition standards. Size of the table, of course, was not going to be the biggest issue when playing pool. To walk around the table once you would have to ask the seven ladies sitting around it to move.
…and speaking of the ladies, what a treat! I was transfixed by one girl who wore a bikini with straps on the bottom which crisscrossed her somewhat chubby body 7 or 8 times. The effect of such a garment was to make her look somewhat like a Christmas ham and was a sight that almost caused me to start giggling…but this was no giggling matter. The hunters having fixed on their prey, two rich gringos and there almost certainly rich friend, were now in sight and, more importantly were the only people, other than the workers, in the establishment. Standing up in the “sexiest of ways” the girls moved forward and we were forced to perform the standard Brazilian greeting of kissing them each on both cheeks. I considered buying some tequila to swab each of their cheeks but decided it was probably a touch rude. It was at this stage my mind crossed to the image of the pallet wrapping machine and the relative safety it could have offered me. If in two weeks I break out in a mass of buboes I’m blaming Renzo!
...actually scratch that.
Have you ever seen one of those machines in a warehouse that is used to wrap a pallet in plastic?
Have you ever considered using it to tightly wrap your whole body in a protective water tight cocoon?
Well until two days ago the thought never crossed my mind…but that was two days ago!
Drinking in the pub directly across the street I was drinking a few quiet beers with my friend Nick and his house mate. His house mate was Brazilian and spoke very little English. Despite this fact there was very little doubt as to what he wanted to do that night. Although I may have lived across from this small drinking hole for some 6 weeks I was unaware that directly above it was Club 22…. a strip club. Nick house mate, who I will call Renzo as I have forgotten his real name was very very keen to move the quiet drinking session upstairs but unfortunately met some mild resistance from the two of us. Fortunately for him, he had not yet played his trump card. “It costs R$10 to enter, you get 3 free beers and can play pool all night”. Cha-ching! Knowing that pool costs R$15 and hour, I, and you will be surprised to hear this, decided that it was probably worth it due to the fiscal benefits. I was of course very wrong.
In Nick and my mind the club would be a huge place with shows at one end and pool tables at the other. There was no doubt we would be harassed at some stage but we though the interruption every twenty minutes was probably worth it given the savings….we were of course wrong. Luckily for us, Nick convinced the door lady to allow us to look before paying entry, and a good thing too. The whole establishment was about as big as the average lounge room and the two pool tables were about the length of my forearm and I guessed they were probably not up to international pool competition standards. Size of the table, of course, was not going to be the biggest issue when playing pool. To walk around the table once you would have to ask the seven ladies sitting around it to move.
…and speaking of the ladies, what a treat! I was transfixed by one girl who wore a bikini with straps on the bottom which crisscrossed her somewhat chubby body 7 or 8 times. The effect of such a garment was to make her look somewhat like a Christmas ham and was a sight that almost caused me to start giggling…but this was no giggling matter. The hunters having fixed on their prey, two rich gringos and there almost certainly rich friend, were now in sight and, more importantly were the only people, other than the workers, in the establishment. Standing up in the “sexiest of ways” the girls moved forward and we were forced to perform the standard Brazilian greeting of kissing them each on both cheeks. I considered buying some tequila to swab each of their cheeks but decided it was probably a touch rude. It was at this stage my mind crossed to the image of the pallet wrapping machine and the relative safety it could have offered me. If in two weeks I break out in a mass of buboes I’m blaming Renzo!
Wednesday, 26 September 2007
The gas man cometh...
Spending many of my days wandering the streets of Rio De Janeiro, it can be expected that I get the desire to eat something, most days, which I’ve never seen before. It was during one of these walks that I purchased Cashew fruit.
Cashew fruit provides a very simple example of how wasteful we Westerners are. It is my understanding that most cashew fruit is thrown away or burnt as it is too difficult to transport and sell so we only sell the seed (about 1/30 of the total mass of food). The fruit itself is fist sized and mostly red with a great big fat nut on top (bigger than what we see by about three times due to the large shell). So how does it taste?
It’s really hard to say…and I’ve eaten two. The fruit is quite juicy but somehow manages to dry your mouth out. The only thing I know which is similar in this way, is deodorant….I know, I know most of you aren’t stupid enough to put your finger in your mouth after spraying your pits, but personally I’m up to about 37 incidents so am familiar with the situation, so I guess you’ll just have to take my word that they are similar.
Anywho after bringing all the cashew fruit and numerous other fruits home, I then had to get my housemate to tell me what I had purchased and then how to eat it. As I had, unsurprisingly, bought all the fruit that required some form of preparation, most was left to rot in the fruit bowl. My housemate (Adriana) found my stupidity to be quite hilarious and also watched in awe as I quartered oranges (footie game style) and proceeded to eat. “What you doing, this not how you eat and orange!”.
Eventually we turned in and Adriana wandered off to her room shaking her head, wondering how someone so large could no so little.
In wasn’t until about 4 am that my unfamiliarity with this place would hit again. Waking in the middle of the night, I smelt what I thought was gas. So wandered over to our hot water system (a small box covered in burn marks and needs to be lit every time you have a shower),situated just outside the kitchen. I smelled the air again and could smell something that might be gas, slightly concerned I spent half and hour putting my nose into every part of the box to try and find the source. No positive identification was made. Not wanting to wake my house mate at 4am, in my sleepy haze I picked up a box of matches and considered lighting one to identify the leek, after a short time considering this option I decided that I had read enough “Darwin Awards” to know that this was what is called a “shit idea” and quickly put the matches down.
So with my nose still picking up some odour but unable to identify the source I decided to listen to the gas unit. Pressing my ear against it I could hear a hissing sound. Unfortunately the unit was connected directly to the water pipes and the sound was not definitively gas hissing.
By 4:45am and I was getting a little jumpy. I turned the mains gas off (still a hissing sound was present) and I closed the door. I also went to my room closed the door and piled clothes against the crack at the base to stop the gas seeping in. Having watched Myth Busters blow up a using gas, I figured this would probably suffice. I opened my window up to maximum (despite knowing this would make me the number 1 mosquito target in Rio) and turned the air conditioner fan on full. Considering the other possibility, asphyxiation, I slept with my head at the foot of the bed so that the outside air blew directly into my mouth. I thought I would be kinda ok.
Waking late the next morning my house mate was in…lets say a “not so good mood”. She was not angry but disappointed here gas system was broken and she couldn’t have a shower.
“Ummmm…”
Before my explanation could spill forth, there was a knock at the door and the gas man arrived.
“Bugger!”. Knowing the cost of trades men I could see this might cost me.
The gas man quickly got to the job at hand and determined the failure was due to the fact that the mains were switched off (surprising!). It was at this stage the stupid gringo got the chance to explain the situation to his housemate.
Adriana became mildly concerned and asked him to check for gas leaks just in case there was a problem. As you may be aware, in Australia this is done with one of the gas probey thinga majigs. A safe and reliable way to find a leak. Not the case in Rio. They light a match and waggle it around seeing if things go boom (Genius! I could have done that last night). Despite the odd smell and the presence of a large white man hightailing it out of the kitchen at triple speed nothing went boom and the whole situation was put down to me “being an idiot”.
…oh and as an aside I did find the source of the gassy smell. It seems that cashew fruit along with drying your mouth out are quite smelly….I expect them to deport me in 8 days!!!
Cashew fruit provides a very simple example of how wasteful we Westerners are. It is my understanding that most cashew fruit is thrown away or burnt as it is too difficult to transport and sell so we only sell the seed (about 1/30 of the total mass of food). The fruit itself is fist sized and mostly red with a great big fat nut on top (bigger than what we see by about three times due to the large shell). So how does it taste?
It’s really hard to say…and I’ve eaten two. The fruit is quite juicy but somehow manages to dry your mouth out. The only thing I know which is similar in this way, is deodorant….I know, I know most of you aren’t stupid enough to put your finger in your mouth after spraying your pits, but personally I’m up to about 37 incidents so am familiar with the situation, so I guess you’ll just have to take my word that they are similar.
Anywho after bringing all the cashew fruit and numerous other fruits home, I then had to get my housemate to tell me what I had purchased and then how to eat it. As I had, unsurprisingly, bought all the fruit that required some form of preparation, most was left to rot in the fruit bowl. My housemate (Adriana) found my stupidity to be quite hilarious and also watched in awe as I quartered oranges (footie game style) and proceeded to eat. “What you doing, this not how you eat and orange!”.
Eventually we turned in and Adriana wandered off to her room shaking her head, wondering how someone so large could no so little.
In wasn’t until about 4 am that my unfamiliarity with this place would hit again. Waking in the middle of the night, I smelt what I thought was gas. So wandered over to our hot water system (a small box covered in burn marks and needs to be lit every time you have a shower),situated just outside the kitchen. I smelled the air again and could smell something that might be gas, slightly concerned I spent half and hour putting my nose into every part of the box to try and find the source. No positive identification was made. Not wanting to wake my house mate at 4am, in my sleepy haze I picked up a box of matches and considered lighting one to identify the leek, after a short time considering this option I decided that I had read enough “Darwin Awards” to know that this was what is called a “shit idea” and quickly put the matches down.
So with my nose still picking up some odour but unable to identify the source I decided to listen to the gas unit. Pressing my ear against it I could hear a hissing sound. Unfortunately the unit was connected directly to the water pipes and the sound was not definitively gas hissing.
By 4:45am and I was getting a little jumpy. I turned the mains gas off (still a hissing sound was present) and I closed the door. I also went to my room closed the door and piled clothes against the crack at the base to stop the gas seeping in. Having watched Myth Busters blow up a using gas, I figured this would probably suffice. I opened my window up to maximum (despite knowing this would make me the number 1 mosquito target in Rio) and turned the air conditioner fan on full. Considering the other possibility, asphyxiation, I slept with my head at the foot of the bed so that the outside air blew directly into my mouth. I thought I would be kinda ok.
Waking late the next morning my house mate was in…lets say a “not so good mood”. She was not angry but disappointed here gas system was broken and she couldn’t have a shower.
“Ummmm…”
Before my explanation could spill forth, there was a knock at the door and the gas man arrived.
“Bugger!”. Knowing the cost of trades men I could see this might cost me.
The gas man quickly got to the job at hand and determined the failure was due to the fact that the mains were switched off (surprising!). It was at this stage the stupid gringo got the chance to explain the situation to his housemate.
Adriana became mildly concerned and asked him to check for gas leaks just in case there was a problem. As you may be aware, in Australia this is done with one of the gas probey thinga majigs. A safe and reliable way to find a leak. Not the case in Rio. They light a match and waggle it around seeing if things go boom (Genius! I could have done that last night). Despite the odd smell and the presence of a large white man hightailing it out of the kitchen at triple speed nothing went boom and the whole situation was put down to me “being an idiot”.
…oh and as an aside I did find the source of the gassy smell. It seems that cashew fruit along with drying your mouth out are quite smelly….I expect them to deport me in 8 days!!!
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