Tiny hitch: no films. This is an unbelievable oversight in a journey of this magnitude. In Argentina we would have been quickly sedated with an continuous drip of poorly scripted action movies and thus stupefied for travel, like when you have to fly a panda to Edinburgh. I am pretty sure they show films to cows on trucks going to the abbatoir. But not for us. Fortunately the view was monotonous, the air conditioning was temperamental, the seats were too small and no one gave us any biscuits so when the bus turned up four hours late (28 hour journey!) in Rio and we eventually reached the hostel we had booked to be told that we hadnt booked it, I was as you may gather a trifle upset. Fortunately Chris managed to defuse the situation by promising me a beer if I didnt explode. So I didnt explode, although it was a close call.
Rio did not improve upon waking up the next morning. I dont know who runs the marketing campaigns for the city, but I would simultaneously like to shake him by the hand and the scruff of the neck. Any brand managers, sleazy politicians or genocidal dictators reading this: find this guy (it will be a guy) and sign him up at once. This guy is really good. How do I know? Because I have now been to the Marvellous City and I tell you this for free- it blows.
Now I know what you are thinking: she´s tired and a bit homesick, she´s angsty because she cant speak Portugese, she just got off a movie-less 28 hour bus ride, she clearly didnt stop at one beer and has a thumping great hangover thats playing havoc with her judgement- and some of that might be true. I am even prepared to admit that other people may find some charm in Rio that has hitherto passed me by; people with no interest in aesthetically pleasing cities, who dont mind that everything is covered in shit, who are happy to wander around with a permanent unease of being mugged under a lowering grey sky in oppressively humid temperatures. I grant you that some people- lunatics, perhaps, or recently escaped convicts, may be happy to discover that the hostels are charmless and devoid of soul, the people are unfriendly, and everything is heartbreakingly expensive. Some people may not want to hunt down the person who wrote ´Girl from Ipanema´, shakes him until his teeth rattles and shout ´Look at this beach! No one is tall OR tan OR anything even approximating lovely!´ And these people, whoever they may be, can keep Rio. But they will not be getting any Christmas cards from me.
Perhaps I have been a trifle unfair. The beaches are quite nice in themselves. I saw a couple of nice arses and my inner lesbian is prepared to concede a couple of decent pairs but hardly enough to justify all the fuss, I thought. I cross referenced these findings with Chris who confirmed that I was definitely right although obviously he hadnt seen any breasts anywhere at all. The one plus for Rio was that we discovered a new street snack made of chicken and something unknown, in a ball shape. So we named it ´ball´ and enjoyed an afternoon of childish humour about chewing balls. It is the sort of place that puts you in that mood.
So we gave up and went down the coast to Paraty- cobbled streets, lovely beaches, peace and quiet, excellent caipirinhas and all you can eat barbecue. The sun came out, we swam in the sea. Everything was perfect except that all the sand in the ocean ended up somehow in the lining of my swimsuit, and coagulated into a giant mass. It was like growing a pair of street snacks, or turning into one of those baboons with the pink bottoms. However, changing gender and species is a small price to pay for not spending the whole week in Rio.
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