A Cidade Maravilhosa

  I promise not all of my titles will be in Portuguese. Although keeping a travel blog on my Year Abroad might seem pretentious, I'm not that bad. Yet sometimes the natural linguistic form is the only viable path of description, and this is very much the case for the city of Rio de Janeiro. Translating to 'The Marvellous City', the native pet-name for Rio, certainly builds up a level of expectation, and crafts a paradisiacal mirage in your head of what awaits once that plane door opens*. Just the thought of that name infused me with a positive buzz when I was feeling slightly more sombre, having said goodbye to everyone at home again for another 6 months. Brazil awaited with open arms, with its biggest gem ready to welcome me to my new home.

Couldn't help myself...

  Also awaiting me were two of my best mates, Adam and Dan, who I previously explained had admirably flown out to Brazil in the midst of busy exam and work periods. Not a bad place to get away from it all, I'm sure they'd reassure you. We were staying in a lively hostel in Copacabana and, from the moment I saw the road signs, Barry Manilow's classic took a permanent residence in my head. There was no Lola and no showgirl though, unfortunately.

  We decided to hit the big dog on day three of the trip and went in search of the real JC. That's right, that guy in all the pictures. The attention seeker with his arms out all wide. There's two ways to reach Christ the Redeemer: bus or walk. Who would be stupid enough to walk in 40C heat? Three English blokes on a budget, that's who.

  We arrived at the entrance to the trail full of spirits. Two hours walk sounded easy enough. We had a bottle of water each and went in search of the start. I found a janitor to ask for advice and he laughed at us for only having one bottle apiece. He proceeded to ramble on for ages about how hard it is and how we needed more stuff. I think that's what he was on about; I didn't understand about 90% of it. Either way he seemed like the Don of the mountain and he was inevitably right.

  The trek up started with some time-wasting walking games (ABC of football players kinda vibe) but quickly descended into a pit of sweaty silence, as the true nature of this task hit us face-on. The path was largely uphill, with every step sapping more energy and hydration from us and the intense heat lapping it up. We regularly took pit-stops to catch our breath and bitch about how hard it was. The mood was low and Jesus was high. Tops came off, bottles emptied. As we were looking more and more of a mess, that golden Christ the Redeemer photo was looking less and less likely.

The Real JC and Christ the Redeemer...

  Two and a bit hours passed and finally we hit the final ascent. We chirped up and decided to back ourselves constantly for deciding to do the trek, lamenting the tourists in the AC-equipped minibuses that were rushing past us. From rock bottom we finally were looking up (via about a million jungle steps). We joined the swarm of pristine-looking visitors (bus w*****s) looking like three guys out of Rambo. Jesus stared at us, arms wide. He was either welcoming us or mocking us. Whichever it was, he was a majestic JC (if i do say so myself) and another World Wonder was ticked off my list.

  We celebrated that night by going to the renowned 'Lapa Street Party' with some new-found Brazilian friends. We didn't really know what to expect. By street party were they talking about the ones we had in the UK when Kate and Wills tied the knot? Oh hell no. They're talking the kind of street party that would occur if England won the World Cup - but as their average Friday night. Whilst we party from 10pm-3am and Argentineans party from 3am-7am, the Brazilians go from 10pm-7am. We were in for a long one...

  Hoards of people from all backgrounds congregated in the streets of the Lapa area and embraced music, food and alcohol in one big nest of vibrancy. It was impossible not to be engulfed by it all. A strip of bars, swollen with joyful locals, formed the spine of the party and we soon dived into one of the black holes of latino music. We experienced dancing that would be encouraged in a modern hip-hop music video and country music of the bass-slamming drops that sends latinos stir-crazy. It was a wild demonstration of how the locals party, and the standards were high. Luckily I have some time to learn before the Mecca of partying arrives, in the form of Carnaval at the end or February.

Ipanema beach - dominated by 'Açaí', 'Agua', 'Cerveja' and 'Coca'
(of both assortments)

  The next few days were spent on the beach. Brazilian beaches are an interesting entity. There's no doubting their beauty. White sand, crystal blue sea, humans with model-esque appearance at every turn. The dream. Yet this paradise comes with it's own soundtrack, and it's no Bon Iver. The caws of the venders that make a living on the local sands. 'Agua! Cerveja! Coca!' is the popular chant, rivalled by 'Açaaaííííí' and undercut by the occasional whispers of 'Marijuana? Cocaína?' They weren't individually persistent, but as a collective conveyer-belt of sellers it could get too much. So we spent most of our time in the hot-tub like Atlantic Ocean, pruning and burning away like British tourists do best.

Me, Dan, Adam and hostel owner
Chris after an eventful attempt
at surfing. 

  We moved to the more sophisticated Ipanema neighbourhood halfway through, and took residence in a chilled little hostel owned by some of the coolest people around. Free time was spent chatting football with the half-Anglo half-American owner who had a passion for the sport unlike anything we'd ever seen - let alone from someone who grew up in USA. He loved having three British guys around to share his religious attitude to the game, and eventually took us out to try some surfing. This ended in us floating around on the boards like seals and with a shining black-eye for Dan. It's always him.

  The last few days of my time with the guys was unfortunately quite wet and grey. The humidity of the city had reached breaking point and climaxed in a mahooosive storm one afternoon. It was flash flood worthy stuff and even impressed rain-regulars such as ourselves. We didn't let it get us down though and persevered to visit the old Fluimenense stadium - in search of a Brazilian football club to adopt - and eventually into a favela.

Views from the Favela

  The Santa Marta favela is famed for hosting part of Michael Jackson's music video to They Don't Care About Us (check it out HERE) and for its views over the city. We entered pre-cautiously and immediately lost all touristic company. We were surrounded by locals returning after a long day at work, proving that favelas aren't just inhabited by the publicised drug cartels, but normal, working people as well!

  We boarded a tram that creaked up a practically vertical incline to the top of the favela - looking as gringo as we had all trip. We were quickly joined on our walk at the top by three opportunistic 8 year olds who wanted to show us around. They insisted on leading us to the viewpoint, despite it being on a straight path, whilst meanwhile asking me if I fancied Kate Middleton (?!). As the others didn't speak Portuguese it was up to me to translate and entertain our new 'mates'. They did show us a wild sloth climbing around in a tree - which is a life goal achieved for the inner Attenborough in me - but that was about it. The presence of heavy police quickly deterred them before they could properly squeeze some Reais out of us...

  Soon the 11 days of Three Musketeering around Rio de Janeiro were over, and Adam and Dan left to return to the UK and to normal life. My last string of human contact from home was cut and I was on my own once more. The holiday took the term 'lads holiday' and pumped it with steroids and acid. It stamped on the head of Malia and Magaluf. Any trip that takes you from a world wonder to the beach to a favela must be pretty special. I'm lucky enough to still have over a month in this incredible city, and 6 months in the country which is already taking me to heart.

  They'll soon realise who 'The Real JC' is... but now to learn some Portuguese!

  Thanks for reading!

Rio de Janeiro has seduced me into a smooch

*Past the epic trek to passports and customs, and after the epic wait for your luggage which is tastefully topped off with a painfully expensive taxi drive into the city from the airport which lies unpractically far away from the glory that it portrays in its photographic welcome boards. Okay, I'm done now.