Sun, Samba and that lonely girl on the beach

As part of a five-week odyssey through south-eastern Brazil (the first part of which in Sao Paulo was covered in an article in Travel in February), my fellow traveller and I went to Rio de Janeiro.

The journey from the coach station to our hostel in a hilly part of town called Lapa allows me to  present to you an excellent piece of consumer advice: at transport terminals, do not get in taxis that are parked right outside the exit. Luggage in boot and bums on backseats, there was nothing we could do when the burly driver indicated the price by squiggling on a piece of paper the number 80 and then the Brazilian currency ‘real’ (pronounced he-ow) sign. We thought it seemed steep, and subsequently found out that we had paid double the going rate. However, being the polite ambassadors for Great Britain, we decided that we would say nothing, get thoroughly ripped off then  bitch about him once we were at the hostel. The driver had to stop and ask for directions several times, so it wasn’t even as if we had overpaid for an excellent service. When we eventually arrived he asked us for 100R$ (£32) because the journey had been ‘muito longe’, this saw the end to our British politeness and we told him where to go. Afterwards we felt guilty about it though.

The hostel was well worth the dodgy taxi though, with excellent views over the city. Our short walk down into Rio took us down the famous Escadaria Selarón, the colourful steps made up of old tiles from all over the world. It was a beautiful sight to behold, and this awe lasted well into the first five minutes of our first ascent of it later that day. Sugarloaf Mountain (Pão de Açúcar) and the Christ the Redeemer mountain must be ascended by any tourist who happens to find themselves in Rio. We visited the main beaches, Copacabana, Ipanema, and Botafogo, but realised we had better things to do than remain prostrate all day.

Thanks to our Brazilian friends, we managed to go to a samba party which was taking place in a large, semi-open-roofed building in one of the oldest shanty towns in Rio, Mangueira. This was a great spectacle, with lots of posterior jiggling, but I just couldn’t bring myself to follow suit, so I left the posterior jiggling to the cariocas. I was pleased to hear from one of my Brazilian friends that Mangueira is an example of a few favelas which are fast developing (like many parts of Brazil) into ‘legitimate’ parts of town, with proper power, water, and sewage facilities, as well as healthcare, jobs and education.

Our next stop on our trip was Paraty (unfortunately pronounced Pa-ra-chee rather than ‘Party’), a very historic town, being one of the first settlements of the Portuguese. There was little to do apart from traipsing around town, visiting the odd bar, and shopping. However, if you go to Paraty you will forge a relationship with somebody that you will never forget. For me and my fellow traveller, this somebody was a black labrador-type dog.

After a bit of the afore-mentioned traipsing around town, we realised that we were being followed by this sad animal. It became apparent that she was not with us for our money, refined English manners, or even our boyish good looks, because she would just keep following us, no matter where we went. We even looked around a shop for a good ten minutes, only for her to wait for us outside and start following us again when we left. I remember I spent the rest of my time in Paraty with my girl on the beach. It was a time in my life when I was happy, safe in the knowledge that I was loved by someone truly wonderful. I tried to show her that I loved her too, in my own way, and I think she understood this when I would throw a stick out into the sea for her to retrieve. She didn’t really understand that she had to go and get it, but then she had never been shown any love, not even as a young girl. I tried to teach her what it was like to be loved, even if it was with my awkward English sensibilities, but I had to leave her: I’m scared of committing myself to an animal, a foreign one at that. I didn’t even know her name.