Carnival: The Party to End All Parties

  As I checked out of 021 hostel at 8:30am on Wednesday, I was momentarily frozen in a parallel universe. I was digging my pockets for some cash to pay for my bar tab, constructed by empty cans of local beer, and pulled out an assortment of items. The first thing I pulled out was a pirate's eye patch. The next was a strip of street-given unused sex protection covered with colourful warnings of AIDS. The third was a small tube of golden glitter. As I handed over a sparkly few notes to the hostel receptionist, a third-person realisation slapped me in the face. I'd just risen from the depths of the world famous Carnival in Rio de Janeiro, and it was un-bloody-believable.

Representing my country of birth...
Brazil.

  The Carnival dream started in a snoozy Portuguese class last year. Our teacher was showing us more 'culture' and I wanted to commit a self-crime. That was until an array of videos popped up and we were greeted to a montage of a colourful, vibrant party. Our teacher, a Brazilian, was visibly animated by the images of his homeland and his excitement transferred straight over to me. I was immensely impressed by the footage, and an instant need to transport myself into the physical experience of the party overcame me. It felt like a drug. When I got home that day I started looking online for jobs in Brazil, I got lucky to be hired by a translation firm in São Paulo and the rest is... to be told in the rest of this blog (you lucky devils).

  So there I was on Wednesday, on a 6 hour bus from the financial capital of Brazil to the party capital. Everything went smoothly and there was a nice buzz in the air. Even the 2 hour traffic jam didn't bring me down (no thanks to Football Manager after I was sacked by Eastleigh FC, the b******s) and, on arrival, the terminal was a buzzing honeypot of wide eyed tourists and experienced natives who were on a Serengeti-like migration from normal life to Carnival. I hopped in an Uber and ended up spending 40 minutes directing the driver who couldn't read the map on my phone (his died). Somehow he thought Google Maps was as useful as a scribble on a page, but you know what? I still gave him 5 stars. CARNIVAL.

My Favela Experience

  So my time in Rio de Janeiro has temporarily come to an end. My 6 weeks in the Cidade Maravilhosa were memorable for a number of reasons. The heat averaging out at 35C+, the iconic beaches stretching along the coast and the postcard perfect Christ the Redeemer peering down and observing his city. There were some more edgy memories that also stick in the mind; not least seeing a 20 on 1 fight on Copacabana beach that left the victim with a new face, and the regular tirades of gunshots that I could hear from my bedroom. It's certainly safe to say I've never visited a place quite like it, with its obvious natural beauty being chipped away relentlessly by its ugly, bludgeoning acts of crime.

  One of the most interesting elements of Rio de Janeiro's identity is the favela communities that are scattered both in the centre and the outskirts of the city. The favelas house an estimated 22% of the city's population (approx. 6.3 million) and, rightly or wrongly, present a strong stereotype for tourists coming over here from abroad. Films such as City of God have painted an incredibly strong vision of what a favela is and have attached a number of leeching toxicants to the word. I asked a few of my English friends and family about words that come to mind when they hear the word favela:

"Poor. Dangerous. Drugs."

"Slum. Poverty. Crowded."

"Drugs. Slum. Community"

"Crime. Poverty. Colour."  

"Brazil. Cardboard. Football." (You know who you are...) 

"Crime. Colourful. Disco." (Interesting last choice Louise...)  

  So you get the point, not the place you'd want to settle down and have kids. Since arriving in Rio, something about these favela communities has fascinated me. Their raw, jagged appearance makes for aesthetic gold (in my opinion) and something about them made it very hard for me to take my eyes off them. In my second week in the city I visited the Donna Marta favela, which was made famous by Michael Jackson in his video for They Don't Care About Us. It was an intriguing, passing visit for me and my mates, with a tourist-less experience sucking us into the true nature of the community's homecoming rush-hour. Whilst valuable, it was more of an immersion experience than an informing one. So when the opportunity arose to continue my education by visiting a favela with a local guide, there was no way I was turning it down.

Livin' La Vida Carioca

  From doing this blog I've realised that it's impossible to do everything in the same style. Before starting it, I thought it would be like a simple equation: I do something or visit somewhere, I write about it, I post it. A very review-orientated travel blog. Yet then came South America and it's numerous imperfections, sparks and quirks. Not a day goes by here where I don't see or hear something bizarre or experience something that just wouldn't happen at home. These things don't merit their own article like an Iguazu Falls or Boca Juniors match (the show-offs), yet they combine to offer their own unique kinks to this Year Abroad armour.

What a nice weekend this looks so far...

  Occasionally enough of these weird or amusing things occur in a short period of time and I just can't help myself. This weekend was exactly one of these honeypots of material. There were highs and lows (more of the latter) and it was a bit of a rollercoaster. Come the end of Sunday, I stopped and had a little think to myself. I was still broken from a monster hangover, slightly embarrassed from some goings-on and, inevitably, tipsy once more. The Brazilians are re-knowned for their natural gravitation towards chaos - and this weekend I got a taste of the action.

  It all started on Thursday, where every good weekend starts right? I'd finished my classes for the day and I was feeling daring. Well, not daring enough for where I was going to be a thing of impulse, but daring enough to take the plunge. I got myself onto the metro and headed from Copacabana to Ipanema. I got off the metro to scorching 37+C heat, and set off en-route to my destination. Like every single damn time I've gone in search of a place in South America, it took longer than anticipated due to awkward street organisation, but finally I found King 7 Tattoos tucked away at the back of a building. I paused, contemplated my imminent life decision, and walked in.

Football Unites For Chapecoense

  I remember watching the Joga Bonito Nike adverts as a kid. Roberto Carlos, Ronaldo, Adriano and headliner Ronaldinho toying with a ball in a dressing room like a group of mates on a street corner. They oozed something we didn't have - and still don't - in England. A playful, cheeky and very likeable arrogance. The ball was their toy and they were only interested in entertaining. The Harlem Globetrotters of football. This Brazilian culture has always acted on the cherry on top of the football cake, as they paint the beautiful game with their own attitude to life. We're here to enjoy life so let's have fun and do it with a smile.

  Any true football fan has a soft spot for the Brazilians. Whether we grew up with Pelé, Zico, Romario, Ronaldo, Ronaldinho, Kaka or Neymar, they winked at us as we mesmerised at their creative flair. It's always been a dream to see the Seleção play in their home country. I remember seeing them play a friendly against Scotland at the Emirates Stadium in 2011, and the vibrant yellow and green support was a joy to behold. The bellowing, passionate support throughout both the World Cup (until their 7-1 spanking) and the Olympics strengthened this respect further. I wanted to be a part of it.

  With this in mind, I was hot on the case when I saw tickets still available for a friendly between Brazil v Colombia. The match was a tribute match for those that tragically lost their lives a matter of weeks ago in the Chapecoense disaster in Colombia. 71 people died in the crash, including all-but-3 of the playing squad. It's not something thats magnitude will decline over time, and is one of the saddest incidents that the sporting world has ever seen. It brought football together as one, united body and the nature of this friendly highlighted that with all proceeds going to the families of those that lost their lives. My ticket only cost £11, but it was an honour to be part of the supporting fund.

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.

Bem Vindo Ao Brasil

  I'm currently sitting in a room that must be just under 3 metres long by 1.5 metres wide. It's about 30 degrees celcius and the time has just passed 10pm. I have a lovely layer of perspiration surrounding my body, squeezed out of me by the bullying heat. The open window is a speaker to the natural sounds of the local area - shouts, cars, the occasional bang. The location is Copacabana, Rio de Janeiro, and I am 11 days into the second half of my year abroad adventure. Guess who's back to join the fun? Oh yes. Everyone's favourite social-media spamming, shoved down your throat a million times, over-rated travel blog.

  Time to Make Some Mates is BACK people.

    Firstly I have a few apologies to make. Number one, to the country and people of Argentina. I left your wonderful land without writing a tribute post. I could've written a book gushing about the country and experiences it gave me, and an even bigger one of the people that put up with me for 6 months. You're all fantastic and I'm honoured to call Argentina my 'latino home'. The truth of the matter was that my planned time to write that piece was at the airport whilst awaiting for my departure. Unfortunately, in that exact moment, I was fighting the effects of a 30 hour all-nighter that was still very much ongoing (what a legend, I know), and therefore no writing was physically possible. But i love you all and I'll be back soon don't you worry. 

  Secondly, I apologise to all of those that I told I probably wouldn't be doing this for Brazil. I really didn't plan to... but at the end of the day when you're in a place like this too much weird s**t happens to ignore and my impulses to put it into words was prodded too many times by this new, Brazilian stick. I've also kinda realised that I should go back to pursuing my dream job, as a journalist. So if I ditched the blog now, it would look really very terrible to any future inquirers of my passion for the field. After many years, I'm finally thinking of my future - look at me go Mum & Dad (shoutout alert).

The Interview

  As my time here comes to a close, I saw it fit to attempt (key word) to try and initiate some sort of cultural exchange. I wanted to try and share some of what I've experienced with the Argentinean people here with people back at home. Now I could've put some serious effort into this and initially ideas were booming...

•  Organising and link with my old secondary school and the school I'm currently working at. 

•   Doing a spread of interviews with a range of different people that I've met here of all ages and sizes. 

•   Getting in touch with local English press. 

  Stardom was on the horizon...

  But, in reality, I just got tired listing those things let alone putting them into place; so subsequently it was traded for a Facebook post and getting five teenagers at school come and talk to me for 20 minutes in a break time. An equal substitution if you ask me. Also I thought putting something on Facebook would get a quality, sophisticated response. After all, I'd seen everyone's opinions and political analysis on Brexit and Donald Trump. Well...

 Looked like we were going for more of a James Franco to Kim Jong-Un approach to this 'cutting edge' interview. Either way, you've got to give the people what they want so I wrote up a list of questions including a mix of my own and my friends' inquisitions. Inevitably, on the day, I left the list at home so I pressed record with a blank page and just my own mind to carry me by. Always dangerous. 

  Luckily I was joined by some great kids, and their enthusiasm fused the interview and made it somewhat publishable! My guests for the day were (left to right) Diana, Ana, Mile Camila and Facundo - five of the school's 3rd grade of secondary (Year 10 equivalent I think). I allowed them to do the interview to be done in Spanish (semi-bribery on my part) and subsequently everything you're about to read has been translated and para-phrased (like my very own dictatorship...) but I've made sure to keep it as close to the original answers as possible. So here we go, enjoy!