Post Carnivale was really more interesting to me than Carnivale itself, since I could not afford the highly inflated ticket prices for the really good tickets to the two Samba Parades (ends up the one I got pix of was only the lesser of the two, and the major was on Monday night, again 10 PM to 6 AM !). It is already announced I was completely disinterested in the numerous block parties. Many started to leave town. Folks had to get over alcohol suffusion and stay indoors. Room on the streets grew exponentially. The rain diminished, though did not stop entirely. Most importantly, price of the Caipirinhas -- the intoxicating local drink made from sugar cane alcohol that distinguishes Brazil in the same way a lava flow or Maui Wowie distinguishes Hawaii -- have gone down in price somewhat and added grace to my days.
The following observations are made on the streets: a whole lot more people dining, and lingering in the proper manner as they do so well into the night, instead of insipidly following a music truck around like lemmings to the sea. Old-timers now feel safe to come out again. Many of them, both oars not necessarily in the water, have a paddle extended a bit too far and play bumper cars with other pedestrians on the walkways. They seem oblivious as to who they collide with as they zig zag on the sidewalks and interrupt the flow of foot traffic. Faded Samba Queens wander past. You can tell, at one point they were the sexiest dancers in Rio. Eventually they are superseded, and by their demure and stately approach on the sidewalks, tacitly admit they would look foolish trying to compete with the barely clad teenagers and 20 somethings who reign today. But their smiles indicate, at one time they really had it going on, and want you to know it. My return smile or nod adds just a bit of acknowledgment to this implied request. Their smiles take on a more knowing lift … and we walk past each other. Neither of us looks back. Clusters of American girls swirl here and there on the sidewalks. Many are finding themselves ignored or underutilized, not quite as popular in Rio as they had imagined previously. And no wonder. The local talent is for the most part beautiful and hard to compete with for looks or raw sensuality. The home favorites keep the Brazilian lads very well occupied. So the Stars and Stripes brigade create a new imperative for themselves with frequent and lengthy cell phone calls, or circle gossip, or complaints about the hotels and staff. Then they chase after the Aussie and British male visitors. Of which there are many.
Wake up today, and there is sun for the first time in a week. Get my breakfast and morning computer chores out of the way, and race up to Corcovado Mountain. Highest point in the city. Yet another geological “Sugarloaf” that dominates the skyline here in plenty and gives Rio so much of its natural beauty. Also the repository of the commanding “Christ The Redeemer Statue.” I didn’t start early enough. By the time I have taken two bus rides just to the base, then a van ride halfway up, then an official government vehicle to finish (at a price of about 50 riales total, or close to $30), the rest of the city has caught up to me. I am not the only one who has awakened to the fact the sun is visible. Now, instead of block party congestion, we have a race to the summit of Corcovado. Thought I had a temporary advantage. Coming off the city bus, I meet Lenir Drake, a pretty Brazilian expatriate approaching retirement age and now living in New York. She speaks fluent Portugese. She and her younger friend Vivian Russell from Colorado, guide and direct me up the mountain. We make all the right choices (there are many getting up), including whether to pay more and take a taxi, take the van and pay less, take the cable car -- who will arrive first and at what price? First choice is easy. Cable car is so overbooked, at 120 passengers at a time, that the next available one isn’t running until 5:30. That will be an hour before dark. We tube that option. Sadly neglect to get a taxi, as for that possibility you pay for the trip, and not per person. Forgot that little detail. So we pay per person for the van ride, which gets us halfway up the twisting cobbled roads on the lower half of the mountain. And lose about 40 riales in the process. Halfway up, we are forced to transfer to the government run vans. Which more than doubles the transport fee. By the time we arrive at the base of the statue, the mists have swirled in, and visibility becomes a chimera. It is much like waiting for that elusive clear view of Machu Picchu above from Wayna Picchu. When visibility does come in, it is not complete. It lasts for two seconds at most. I have never seen fog and mist, advance so rapidly (other than from the window of an airliner). Manage a couple of photos before departing. The Statue is otherwise very impressive. What I saw of it at least.
Process is now reversed. Stand in line for government van. Transfer to private van. At bottom of hills leading to Corcovado, take two buses over to Botafogo and the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. I’d hiked up days before, when it was overcast and rainy and I’d been misled as to the real price for the cable car. Now it is clear. And the rest of the city has the same idea. They are all hoofing it to Sugarload as well. We just call it “The Daily Double.” Get up the tramway to my previous high point, the midway station, and immediately take the secondary car to the Summit or Upper Level Station. Timing is perfect. Arrive just before dusk, so I get good before and after pictures. Beautiful ! from the upper station, there is a 360 degree view of now fully revealed Copacobana Beach, the Private Boat Harbor, and every lit up point in between and around (except for Corcovado Mountain and the Christ The Redeemer Statue. It remains fully socked in). And this with weather that is really not fully cooperating yet. No wonder two international committees have awarded Brazil not only the 2016 Olympics after 2012 in London, but also the next World Cup in 2014.
Finally, we come to my next objective. Getting out of Rio. Remember I am traveling freestyle, without reservations at this point, and there are 500,000 people ahead of me who did get reserved seats and set flights. Computer jockeying during the day further reveals “you can’t get there from here.” My original plan was to go to Natal (easternmost bulge of Brazil, point closest to Africa) and to Belem (mouth of the Amazon). Money and time shortages have eliminated both. Now, I am trying to get straight to French Guiana. But a web based search of flights reveals in four hours of searching, only a single flight into the capital -- Cayenne -- and from Washington D.C., and for $1400 ! The price is too high, backtracking is against my personal ethos, and I am stubborn enough to figure there MUST be alternatives. I search more. One flight, from Belem to Cayenne. Two days from now. Less than two hours. At a cost of $444. Nevermind the cost of getting from Rio to Belem just to set that up. I ask for advice from a number of advisors. My brother Locke, in Las Vegas, insinuates I am nuts to want to visit French Guiana, Suriname, and Guyana. I remind him my original objective is to visit all 13 countries in South America on this trip, plus Antarctica. And I’m stickin’ to it. So, for now, in the morning, I am flying out to Caracas, Venezuela. That gets me about as far north in South America as I am likely to go. Will wing it from there. You will probably read about something else happening in contradiction to that plan later though. That is “the way of all flesh” when you travel freestyle.
Next: Venezuela, or … ???
The following observations are made on the streets: a whole lot more people dining, and lingering in the proper manner as they do so well into the night, instead of insipidly following a music truck around like lemmings to the sea. Old-timers now feel safe to come out again. Many of them, both oars not necessarily in the water, have a paddle extended a bit too far and play bumper cars with other pedestrians on the walkways. They seem oblivious as to who they collide with as they zig zag on the sidewalks and interrupt the flow of foot traffic. Faded Samba Queens wander past. You can tell, at one point they were the sexiest dancers in Rio. Eventually they are superseded, and by their demure and stately approach on the sidewalks, tacitly admit they would look foolish trying to compete with the barely clad teenagers and 20 somethings who reign today. But their smiles indicate, at one time they really had it going on, and want you to know it. My return smile or nod adds just a bit of acknowledgment to this implied request. Their smiles take on a more knowing lift … and we walk past each other. Neither of us looks back. Clusters of American girls swirl here and there on the sidewalks. Many are finding themselves ignored or underutilized, not quite as popular in Rio as they had imagined previously. And no wonder. The local talent is for the most part beautiful and hard to compete with for looks or raw sensuality. The home favorites keep the Brazilian lads very well occupied. So the Stars and Stripes brigade create a new imperative for themselves with frequent and lengthy cell phone calls, or circle gossip, or complaints about the hotels and staff. Then they chase after the Aussie and British male visitors. Of which there are many.
Wake up today, and there is sun for the first time in a week. Get my breakfast and morning computer chores out of the way, and race up to Corcovado Mountain. Highest point in the city. Yet another geological “Sugarloaf” that dominates the skyline here in plenty and gives Rio so much of its natural beauty. Also the repository of the commanding “Christ The Redeemer Statue.” I didn’t start early enough. By the time I have taken two bus rides just to the base, then a van ride halfway up, then an official government vehicle to finish (at a price of about 50 riales total, or close to $30), the rest of the city has caught up to me. I am not the only one who has awakened to the fact the sun is visible. Now, instead of block party congestion, we have a race to the summit of Corcovado. Thought I had a temporary advantage. Coming off the city bus, I meet Lenir Drake, a pretty Brazilian expatriate approaching retirement age and now living in New York. She speaks fluent Portugese. She and her younger friend Vivian Russell from Colorado, guide and direct me up the mountain. We make all the right choices (there are many getting up), including whether to pay more and take a taxi, take the van and pay less, take the cable car -- who will arrive first and at what price? First choice is easy. Cable car is so overbooked, at 120 passengers at a time, that the next available one isn’t running until 5:30. That will be an hour before dark. We tube that option. Sadly neglect to get a taxi, as for that possibility you pay for the trip, and not per person. Forgot that little detail. So we pay per person for the van ride, which gets us halfway up the twisting cobbled roads on the lower half of the mountain. And lose about 40 riales in the process. Halfway up, we are forced to transfer to the government run vans. Which more than doubles the transport fee. By the time we arrive at the base of the statue, the mists have swirled in, and visibility becomes a chimera. It is much like waiting for that elusive clear view of Machu Picchu above from Wayna Picchu. When visibility does come in, it is not complete. It lasts for two seconds at most. I have never seen fog and mist, advance so rapidly (other than from the window of an airliner). Manage a couple of photos before departing. The Statue is otherwise very impressive. What I saw of it at least.
Process is now reversed. Stand in line for government van. Transfer to private van. At bottom of hills leading to Corcovado, take two buses over to Botafogo and the base of Sugarloaf Mountain. I’d hiked up days before, when it was overcast and rainy and I’d been misled as to the real price for the cable car. Now it is clear. And the rest of the city has the same idea. They are all hoofing it to Sugarload as well. We just call it “The Daily Double.” Get up the tramway to my previous high point, the midway station, and immediately take the secondary car to the Summit or Upper Level Station. Timing is perfect. Arrive just before dusk, so I get good before and after pictures. Beautiful ! from the upper station, there is a 360 degree view of now fully revealed Copacobana Beach, the Private Boat Harbor, and every lit up point in between and around (except for Corcovado Mountain and the Christ The Redeemer Statue. It remains fully socked in). And this with weather that is really not fully cooperating yet. No wonder two international committees have awarded Brazil not only the 2016 Olympics after 2012 in London, but also the next World Cup in 2014.
Finally, we come to my next objective. Getting out of Rio. Remember I am traveling freestyle, without reservations at this point, and there are 500,000 people ahead of me who did get reserved seats and set flights. Computer jockeying during the day further reveals “you can’t get there from here.” My original plan was to go to Natal (easternmost bulge of Brazil, point closest to Africa) and to Belem (mouth of the Amazon). Money and time shortages have eliminated both. Now, I am trying to get straight to French Guiana. But a web based search of flights reveals in four hours of searching, only a single flight into the capital -- Cayenne -- and from Washington D.C., and for $1400 ! The price is too high, backtracking is against my personal ethos, and I am stubborn enough to figure there MUST be alternatives. I search more. One flight, from Belem to Cayenne. Two days from now. Less than two hours. At a cost of $444. Nevermind the cost of getting from Rio to Belem just to set that up. I ask for advice from a number of advisors. My brother Locke, in Las Vegas, insinuates I am nuts to want to visit French Guiana, Suriname, and Guyana. I remind him my original objective is to visit all 13 countries in South America on this trip, plus Antarctica. And I’m stickin’ to it. So, for now, in the morning, I am flying out to Caracas, Venezuela. That gets me about as far north in South America as I am likely to go. Will wing it from there. You will probably read about something else happening in contradiction to that plan later though. That is “the way of all flesh” when you travel freestyle.
Next: Venezuela, or … ???
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