River of January (Rio de Janeiro)

Post date: Feb 7, 2011 4:39:22 PM

1-31-10

5 days in my couchsurfer host’s home, during which time I watched I every English-audio movie he owns. I’m glad he likes action movies. I twice watched “Behind Enemy Lines III: Colombia” which basically shows some Navy Seals going head to head with both FARC, the drug trafficking guerilla organization, and the Colombian military. After having lived there 4.5 months, it had special relevance to me, and I look forward to researching the history and problem of FARC upon my return to “normal living.”

But for now it’s back to the hostel. I first checked in for a couple days in a quiet, clean, expensive hostel here in Ipanema because I thought that would be a good transition to traveler’s living. There I met a hilarious couple of Norwegian girls who have been educating me on how to become a Viking. It turns out that there is a point system one must follow to complete the initiation, and the most advantageous point earners are raping and killing. Their sarcasm exceeds anyone’s I’ve met before. Maybe that’s the Viking blood in them. And, apparently it’s an accomplishment for me to be able to keep up with the sarcasm. So, they have been entertaining me for the last 5 days or so.

Tourism-wise, I visited Lapa’s Friday night street party. Talk about decadence. It makes Fort Wayne’s 3 Rivers Festival look like a baby in a baby crib. The dimly lit streets were packed with old and young alike, but the atmosphere was purely adult. Samba filled the air. Samba is Brazil’s music that evolved from the rhythms carried over from Africa, and now it beats in these people’s veins like it’s blood, medicine, food, and love all in one. Even the youngsters kick their feet around in blurry precision. People were making out all over. A pair of girls approached me and the first thing the one said was, “She wants to kiss you.” I politely turned her down. There were transsexuals and cross-dressers aplenty, and I had one grab my butt, another, my chest. Yeah, not the environment for the timid, close-minded, or conservative. I saw 3 boys of 8-10 years of age running away with the item they’d just pickpocketed. One kid got caught. I don’t know if it was the kid that was thrown into me or what, but I got thwacked hard by something from behind. When I turned around, there was a man hovering over a petrified boy, and it looked like the boy was about to be bludgeoned to death. The man picked the kid up by the throat, under the jaw, and it looked like he was about to be hit, but then surrounding party-goers intervened and pulled him away. The boy ran off so fast his feet barely held him up. The other two boys I saw got away.

Another boy came to my group as we were dancing to the band of drummers drumming hypnotic samba rhythms, but the girls ended up chatting with him. It was 2am. They all ended up playing this hand clapping game/contest. The boy’s miserable expression was soon changed to pure glee. 30 minutes later, he was part of our little group, and then an older boy, a teenager, walked by, gave him a look, a tap, and a few words. I think I saw the boy’s shoulders shrink. The teenager continued by and then I saw him get tapped a bit harder by the police. He made the expression that said, “Hey, I’m not doing anything wrong!” When I turned around, the boy was gone. I now think that the teen was the young boy’s boss and that the police were letting him know that they were keeping an eye on him.

To finish off the night we sat on the famous Lapa steps that are a tiled, muraled documentation of Rio culture and progress. The orange light shined on the shirtless bodies cooling from the dances in the shade of night. It was all a very romantic setting. At the base of the stairs young guys jammed on guitars. People sat around smoking marijuana- not exactly an additive to the romance, but there as another expression of the life in Lapa, where “anything and everything is available.”

I have to say that in spite of the festivity, the robberies and fights were a bit unnerving. Did I mention that as I was losing myself in the trance of samba that I felt the zipper to my pocket containing my camera was unzipped? I noticed a too-alert guy acting like he was watching the band, and beside him was a man pretending to look for cans to add to his recycling bag. A team. I said out loud, not expecting anyone to hear, as I looked at the guy and said, “Better watch your sh**.” He surprisingly nodded. So, he was paying attention to me… Later, in a packed alley we stopped against my protests, and I spotted the same guy scanning one by one every single person walking past him as he stood “idly” by. That same alley, as we stood, gave me a strange sense that I can only compare to what Spiderman must feel- my consciousness peaked inexplicably and I immediately looked around, but I saw nothing. A heartbeat later a fight broke out. I used that as a reason to get moving along. In those situations I feel all this adrenaline running through me, and I feel this intense need to watch over and protect my group. It is a taxing activity. Lapa is fun, but being on high alert so often saps what could be a truly incredible atmosphere of freedom of expression. People just need to learn some manners.

The Norwegians and I caught the sunrise as it rose over the rock separating Ipanema from Copacabana. It was a gentle, cool morning- the perfect way to decompress after the debauchery of Lapa.

The next thing to jog my memory over the last few days was the street parade, identical to what you find during Carnaval, and I’m not clear as to why they have such events going on now. I think people just get excited that Carnaval is coming. It’s like having a Christmas to celebrate the coming of Christmas. In many places around the world, I am finding, celebrations last much longer than those in the U.S. In the U.S. it’s like, “Woohoo! Party! I love my family! Life is wonderful!” And the next day they are back in the office, complaining of hand cramps as they push a button on a gear cutting machine or a pen across a piece of paper, lost in the monotony of industrious living. In Cuiaba, high school graduation celebrations last a week or more. In Norway, the same celebration lasts a month. The Jews have 8 nights to celebrate their religion. Work is such a high priority in the U.S. of A. The world clearly successfully operates with far less productivity. I’m curious about how the incidence rates and types of illnesses compare between countries, for health is surely related to stress and recreational activity.

So what is a samba street parade? It’s a big truck with a deck raised up from the bed to support giant, booming speakers and a dozen people who are playing and singing samba for the massive throng of people crowded around it. The mass rolls up the street, stopping periodically for incredible percussion solos from the band, at a snail’s pace. Everyone is smiling. Everyone is pouring sweat from the pounding sun. The mood is contagious. You bounce and shake along with the rest. Old wrinkled women who will be dancing samba after death are there shaking it better than any of the teenagers there to catch the eyes of an amor.

The Norwegian girls are fully open to the world around them. As we were dancing down Ipanema beach, a gang of boys around 10 years old came up to us to ask for money. They were insistent. They asked for food also. My response was, “Where are your parents? Do they feed you? Is there food at home?” I got very little response. They just looked away but confirmed that they had parents. I wonder if they get locked out of their houses the way my dad was when he was a child. My dad could have used some Norwegian love, I think. These girls turned the boys around and in minutes they were all wrestling each other and writing their names in the sand. I showed some of the boys some hapkido. The boys were insistent with me though. They said for 10 reals ($5) I could jump into the drainage channel that led from the city to the ocean. It was clearly public and people were already swimming there. Looking in, I saw floating wrappers and suds. I said to the boy, “It’s dirty, isn’t it?” He replied, “More or less,” and he reduced the price to 5 reals!

That night we all went to the “Favela Funk Party.” Up in Rocinha, the largest favela in South America, they have weekly dance parties that spin this original fusion of hip hop, electronic, and samba music. I’ve never seen such incredible dancing. Some local men performed a choreographed line dance to rhythms that my feet twisted every which way like a headless chicken looking for its head. Too bad Lapa scared me from taking my camera there. I’d have loved to record that. We (the hostel travelers) danced our butts off. I ended up wringing probably literally 3/4 cup of sweat from my t-shirt. The word, I believe, is “cathartic.” I was disappointed though by the seeming insecurity of the local attendees. It was as if we were at a teenage high school dance and everyone was too insecure to get out and really shake it. I think my friends andI tore it up second to only the line dancing men.

2-6-10

Enter It’s A Secret. I had noticed around Sao Paulo that there was intermittent drag in the power at low speeds, and by Rio the dragging was surely more than my imagination. Thus began the research. Internet, internet, internet, a little asking people around me, and more and more internet. Carburetors, fuel lines, vacuum hoses, canisters, separators… dah dah dah. Man, I was trained in psychology and social sciences, not mechanics! But there I was learning the importance of vacuum in a motor. I took apart the carburetor after a night with just a couple hours sleep, thinking it just needed a good cleaning to unstuck the gripping component. In my stupor and having been desensitized in more than one way to life on the road for 9 months, I found in my search around the hostel one thing that would suffice as a container for my carburetor during the cleaning. I thought the kitchen pot was perfect, but the staff had a different opinion, for some reason. I had two come up and shout that “this isn’t the favela!” and “I’ve never seen a man and wife use garage equipment in the kitchen!” The owner said I’d have to pay $25 for a new pot, which confused the heck out of me considering it was likely 10 years old, dented, and plain iron. Turned that “the cost was lower than expected,” so I didn’t have to repay them. Perhaps I was made a little more inconsiderate by his seeming apathy that morning when I informed him that I’d just killed three bed bugs in my bed.

First came the fleas and killer gnats in Colombia. Then it was mosquitoes and vicious flies in Leticia, Colombia. Throughout Brazil I’ve been assaulted by every variety of mosquito, and landing here on the coast, I find bed bugs infesting the walls of my hostel. Since that day I’ve counted maybe 10 bites. Not bad, but disgusting. I never thought I’d see the day when I’d live with a bed bug. Funny enough, many travelers knew about them but weren’t complaining that bad. I was angry with the owner that he never warns any of the customers that bed bugs party there. He is costing them over $1000 if one of them has to treat their homes upon return.

The cleaning went fine. What I didn’t like was that hoses were routed all wrong, and my repair manual didn’t show the correct routing. If it weren’t for Mr. Wyman on KLR650.net, I’d probably still be stumped and thumping my head on a wall. But, the cleaning and reassembly failed to correct the problem. My inspection revealed a small tear in the diaphragm of the carb, but I thought it was too small to bother a thing. Wrong. Every resource said, “Fix it NOW.” And, of course, Kawasaki doesn’t carry a replacement diaphragm. No, I had to research, which, long story short, put me in Harley Davidson, of all places, since some of their bikes use the same carb as I. I bought it there for a stabbing $135 and installed it right there. Problem gone.

Now it’s just the clutch cable worrying me. How long until she busts? Can I make Buenos Aires? Bolivia? Do I wait for the replacement to arrive in Sao Paulo? Will it even arrive?

With a repaired bike I returned to beach walks, another night of dancing in a rock and roll bar, and cruising around the city on my bike. ‘

I met a Turkish man whom I can’t help but respect. This guy, around 40, sells metal detectors in his homeland, and he is currently on vacation to find buried treasure in Latin America. I kindly chatted with him one morning, thinking he was an Israeli military man (based on his camo trousers, “wifebeater” and serious expression) and could teach me some Krav Ma Ga, but he is just this guy with a serious passion for finding old stuff in the ground. He showed me a pic of the 2200-2800 year old statue of Apollo that he found and sold to a museum. Here in Rio the best he’d found was a 20 year old phone coin. My interest got me an invitation to join him for an evening of hunting. He smiled as he said it’s also a decent way to meet women. I never knew…

I learned more about what makes a good metal detector and how to differentiate between different metals than I’ll ever need. We scanned the beach at a snail’s pace, utilizing various detection programs and techniques for sifting through the sand. We found pop tabs, beer tabs, aluminum foil and more and more tabs. He pocketed one little Brazilian coin, but besides that, 2 hours of hunting was fruitless. Fun, nonetheless. I was pleased to hear that he loves all women, regardless of appearance. He asked me to join him as he approached three very big black ladies. He was all smiles.

I awoke early one morning to practice hapkido on the beach as the sun was just coming up. One of the Vikings, Sylia practiced with me as Live photographed. Then we dove into the frigid ocean and got pounded by the waves. Excellent start to a day.

I met an Austrian here at the hostel who runs this mind-body consciousness business. He is always smiling with the softest expression, and yet he laughs as he says he is a very depressed, frustrated person. His specialty is in training one’s awareness to one’s bodily sensations and movements, and his work applies to everything from general managers’ leadership skills to rehabilitative therapy to martial arts. I’ve met a few people along my journey who have given me invaluable, lifelong wisdom, the wisest of which seems to have been Vicky the Guru, and it seems that these people arrive in my life at just the right time to help point me in the right direction, which is always the road of balance. They appear at such crucial moments it requires effort to not superstitiously call them angels. The Austrian reminded me of my center in this world of sensory overload.

After our long, hilarious walk along the night shrouded beach, we headed to the favela for a funk party- the same I’d attended the previous Sunday. This time it just wasn’t as fun, however, so I left and strolled the favela alone. I bought a X-Tudo, my favorite sandwich (hamburger, ham, egg, bacon, cheese, lettuce, tomato) for a mere $1 and dodged the motorcycles zipping up and down the 2 am street. I stumbled upon a street party thumping from 50 speakers on full tilt. The music was this tribal electronic that tickled my bones and got me jumping. In minutes I, the sole gringo amid a crowd of Cariocas in the favela, was bouncing and stomping to the pounding rhythms. Give me such music and sufficient space, and I will look like Tigger just receiving good news about an exciting new adventure. It used to take a bit of contraband to induce such musical expression in me. Now, with the right music and setting, I can make a true fool of myself with a rock’s sobriety. The fun lasted until the club I’d left finished and all the people came to stand all stupid and wanna-be-cool-like in front of the speakers.

My last day here was well spent. I ripped up some highway with the bike, and it looks like my re-routing of the hoses may have gave her a power boost. Yeehaw. I went to "Casa Das Canoas," the famous former residence of the most reknowned Brazilian architect, Oscar Niemeyer. No parking available, no tourism sign. An aquaintance in Bogota referred me to this place. Was she wrong? I buzzed the intercom and was instructed to return for my visit in one hour.

So up the hill I went. Lots of jungly-shrouded rich homes along the quiet mountain road. I pulled over at this one lookout to pass some time. I was the only tourist. The lookout was less than shabby, but I loved it for the moss growing over the forgotten blocks of stone. And... AND THEN... MONKEYS!

The Monkeys and I chatted for about 30 minutes. I was surrounded by 7 or 8 tree hugging monkeys. They hopped around and were easily noticable, except for one that was laying on a limb like it was sleeping or dead. It eventually moved, stared right at me, and slowly, confidently, made his way through the thick canopy down and around the tourist's clearing. One by one the other monkeys followed him on the same route down the mountain and out of site. I was thrilled. These were the second monkeys of my trip.

After that I zipped down to Grumari Beach, another recommendation from someone I'd met. It sits at the end of a road and is occupied by surfers and families. The entire feel, complete with the embrace of the green mountains, was snug and homelike. I took a dip and surprisingly treated myself to the stereotypical chilled coconut on the beach. And of course I needed an X Tudo to go with that. Very relaxed. I finished the meal, mosied into some shaded sand, pulled together a mound of sand for a pillow, and took a beach nap.

I realized here in Rio that knowledge comes to you when you are ready for it and when the time is right. To force the issue will dissolve your resolve and love of life. I will know what to do after Ushuaia after I reach Ushuaia.

Now if only I could apply such logic to the more immediate issue at hand- where next? I’m growing weary of Rio in spite of its endless excitements, perhaps BECAUSE of the endless excitements, so it is time to go.

The incentive to mosy around southern Brazil is that I can pick up my clutch cable as soon as it arrives. But, I’m not going to sit around in Sao Paolo all this time, and driving there is just as expensive, or more, than just shipping it again to wherever I am. Plus, the cost of waiting around is too high, especially since there is a chance it won’t arrive. So, if Sao Paulo is out of the question, where? It’s either south to Iguacu Falls and Buenos Aires enroute to Ushuaia, or west to Bolivia for the Oruru Carnival, Uni Salt Flats, and some catfishing before heading south through the very scenic western side of Argentina. I had originally thought to end in Ushuaia, but then I thought I’d return north to Bolivia for the Uni Salt Flats and then to Peru to see Macchu Picchu, then figure out where to sell it from there. The word is that Bolivia and Paraguay are the easiest places to sell. Question is, do I want to sell or ship it? From which coast is it best to fly home?

Even thinking about the end distances one’s heart from one’s environment. Maybe it’s a coping mechanism- preliminary detachment to reduce the upcoming vivisection.

I’m reminded by friends, friends I am so grateful for and love with all my heart, that I must remember to just have fun while it lasts. The anguish of my youth never exorcised, I think, but it is apparent to me now that that anguish is only a sign that I am trying to hard to control the outcome of my journey. I must remember to GO WILD.