Keepin it Rio

vocabulaRIO

2011-07-03T10:27:00.000-07:00

Just a little cry.

Everyone's been in this situation:

You're at a restaurant or cafe and you order a juice, smoothie, frappuccino, etc. While you're waiting for your icy beverage, you watch the employee turn off the blender and pour its contents into a cup. The cup fills up to the top, leaving a smooth curl of blended beauty. The employee puts the blender down and...that's when you notice it...the 2 or 3 ounces of extra drink. You paid for a glass, but are you still entitled to that little bit? If not, what's its fate? Will someone else drink it? Will it get dumped out? Should you ask for it?

Rio's beverage culture is so rich that even the little extra has a word: the chorinho.
Literally, chorinho is translated as the "little cry". A more likely scenario in which this term is used would be at a bar. I was having a draft beer with a friend the other day and he noticed the price had just gone up for a pint. "Man", he groaned. "At this price, I'd better be getting a chorinho." Immediately after ordering the drinks, he took a big sip and asked the waitress for the little cry. She smiled and returned a moment later with another glass containing a sip's worth of beer. My mind: blown.

In a city that's getting more expensive by the hour, a funny little slang like this isn't only amusing, it's essential. If you don't figure out how you make your Real go a little further, you're gonna be the one having a little cry.

Produce on Wheels

2011-07-01T09:21:00.000-07:00

It's Thursday. Time to stock up on fruit and veggies.

And this is a bus you can't miss.

Sacolão na Comunidade (Shopping Bag in the Community) is a city project that brings cheap local produce to the pacified favelas. Every Thursday morning, a large bus filled with everything from apples to zucchini pulls up to the square. You simply grab a big blue bag or two and fill them up with whatever you want. Papaya, peppers, peas, potatoes, pears, plantains, etc. And the best part: everything is the same price. R$1.99/kilo.

This service for developing communities is only one of many. Last month, the city showed up with a truck full of new refrigerators. Anybody who brought their old ones could swap them for free.

Sometimes I imagine the fruitbus getting in a horrible crash on its way to the hill. And then dozens of people on the street sprinting over to the wreck with tiny straws, sticking them through the broken windows to get a taste of the world's most amazing smoothie.

A few names I've given my market on wheels:

The Veggie Vehicle

Fruit 66

Legumes with Leg Room

Asparabus

V8 (give that one time)

Yeah, we got talking cats

2011-06-10T10:47:00.000-07:00

Battle of Rio's Bars

2011-06-10T09:20:00.000-07:00

The Metro, Rio's free newspaper, had it's annual "Best Bar Food In Rio" featured in this week's issue. For the first time in the contest's history, a bar from a pacified favela was among the winners. Which favela, you ask? The one and only Chapéu Mangueira, of course.

Bar do David got third place with the "Tropeiro Carioca". Made of sweet potatoes, dried beef and a some kind of sweet, herby sauce, the dish represents traditional Rio cuisine with a hillside twist.

Even though the bar is located in the middle of the neighborhood's main square, I've never stopped by. Something about having 3 other bars within ten steps from the house makes it a little difficult to branch out. But since our community has an award-winning bar, I went and checked it out.

I gathered Celine and the funny Finnish dude that lives downstairs and walked over to David's Bar for lunch. The typical plastic beer-sponsored tables were set up outside with matching chairs. We ordered immediately. Finland got fish. Celine, the carne seca. And I got the Tropeiro Carioca.

Although the Tropeiro was delish and smothered in its thick sauce, Celine's carne seca won over my heart and my stomach. Each plate for a mere R$10, it makes sense why I don't eat anything down on the asphalt. (NOTE: the asphalt is what locals call the parts of the city not on the hill; i.e. not the favelas.)

This award is especially meaningful, considering the first and second place bars aren't even located in the south zone (where the tourists are). The runner-up bar is in Jacarepaguá, in Rio's west zone. And the winner is in Tijuca, in the north zone. So I guess you could say that Chapéu is holding it down for the whole zone.

In a city filled with $100 sushi spots and $10 beer busts, there's something refreshing about eating the city's best bar meal for a ten-spot. Congratulations, Chapéu. Now clean up the dog shit in front of my door.

Jungle Windows

2011-06-03T10:29:00.000-07:00

Behind the cement boxes and tangled electrical wires of Chapéu Mangueira lie the backwoods--an untampered forest whose trails are known only by the locals...and the occasional curious gringo.

Celine, a fond new friend, and I decided to make an adventure out of a sunny, classless weekday. On the way to the top of the favela we bumped into Melke. Melke was born in Chapéu Mangueira and makes a living hauling miscellaneous items up and down the stairs for other residents--a task which few can do more than twice a day. Melke offered to show us the trails as well as some hidden views. Just another glimpse of local hospitality in the community.

Melke

Backtrails

Sometimes Rio de Janeiro makes me wonder if God is financially benefiting from postcard companies. The picturesque views and geographic wonders are beyond suspicious. Christ Redeemer. Sugarloaf. Pedra da Gavea. The list goes on. For an urban city, the natural beauty is unparalleled. After 10 months, landmarks such as Botafogo Bay and Copacabana Beach are things that I've seen a million times...they're things that a million people have seen a million times. But once Melke led us to the top of the hill, above all the stairs and through the trees, there was something different about these all-too-familiar views. I found myself gazing down at the city through small clearings of trees, hidden windows in the brush.

Imagine a person getting hired as the new docent at the Louvre in Paris. The job allows this person to see some of the world's best pieces of art every day. But after some time, the job would lose some of its glamor and the docent would start to take much the beauty for granted. Now imagine a maintenance worker at the museum offering a tour of the secret corridors inside the museum walls--intricate and known only by other maintenance workers. Through tiny holes in the wall, the docent peers at the Mona Lisa. At the Coronation of Napoleon. At Egyptian artifacts. The next week at work is refreshing. The art's beauty is renewed.

The backwoods and jungle holes were truly a behind-the-scenes experience, abounding with spiders and all.

May, doodled away.

2011-06-01T11:22:00.000-07:00

I am an irresponsible blogger. And for that I am sorry.

It's just that May hasn't provided me with much motivation. May. It doesn't sound inspirational at all. I may write something today. I may not. June, however...well, June is for blogging. June's posts will make up for May's lackthereof. I promise.

Most of my creative surges nowadays are wasted on doodles anyway:

Doodle #6 "Dhalsim Martini" (click to enlarge)

Doodle #8 "The Skeptic" (click to enlarge)

I know nobody reads this blog (does anybody read this blog?) to see blue ink of disastrous proportion, but that's all I have to offer.

At any rate, tonight is the Brazilian Cup final: Vasco vs. Coritiba. Things are looking up for my team. The last few years haven't been the most cheerful, but a win today will heal all those wounds. Vamos Vasco!

Vasco Marches On

2011-05-16T13:08:00.000-07:00

Last week was the quarterfinals of the Copa do Brasil.

It was a nail-biter.

Vasco da Gama's two away goals in the first-leg stalemate meant Atlético Paranaense and their "fanáticos" needed a win to advance. Vasco only needed another tie.

Kalle, my funny Finnish friend, and I got to São Januário stadium too late (like a couple of idiots). Tickets were sold out. Instead, we joined the hundreds of Vascainos in the streets outside the "Caldeirão". Spending the ticket money on beer was our new goal.

Early into the second half, Atlético capitalized on their first and only chance of the game. A typical Vasco breakdown of defense allowed a black and red uniform to sneak a breakaway touch past a diving goalie. Silence in the street. More beer.

70 minutes later, Vasco decides to make a change in their formation, substituting in veteran attacker Elton. This proved to be touch of managerial genius. A 75th minute cross finds the super-sub's head around the penalty spot. Golasso!

Vasco fends off the opposing attack and finishes the game in fine form.

The street's reaction:

Vasco will play Avaí on Wednesday, a Cinderella team who knocked out São Paulo last week. Tickets have already sold out, but I don't mind celebrating in the street again with these dudes.

Tour de Chapéu

2011-05-09T16:07:00.000-07:00

After nearly one month of living in the concrete labyrinth known as Chapéu Mangueira, I've finally recorded a video of my daily ascent. Note the long narrow passageway between the street and the stairs. It's such a segue, literally and metaphorically, into my magical neighborhood. Every day I feel like I'm walking through some kind of teleporting machine--like the CS Lewis wardrobe, spitting me into a land of snow witches and talking beavers.

Um Dia na História

2011-05-02T18:24:00.000-07:00

It was long, ugly and ended in a shootout

This sentence can describe either one of the events that shook Rio de Janeiro yesterday--each elbowing the other for Globo's front page.

Flamengo beat Vasco and Obama beat Osama.

Being anti-Fla (South America's most popular football team), I was on the losing side of the former. In defeat, I accepted the insults hurled at me, clutched proudly the logo of my Vasco jersey, and walked home with an emotional limp. With the latter, however, I can consider myself part of the victory…right?

So why do I feel like I've lost both?

One Tuesday, at the beginning of my junior year of high school, I walked into my 7am class to a group huddled around a TV. The camera was fixed on two skyscrapers, one spewing smoke into the blue sky. A few moments later I watched, live, as a dark object flew into the undamaged building. The rest of the broadcast, like Manhattan's streets that day, is a dusty cloud in my mind.

Roughly 35% of my life has happened since that day. Over one-third of my life has been spent hearing about the war on terror, about Afghanistan, about Al-Qaeda, and about Osama bin Laden (all sometimes used interchangeably).

The second I heard about bin Laden's death, I was struck with a sense of justice, of resolution. I felt triumphant. Like I've been watching a Disney movie for 10 years and finally witnessed the bad guy fall off the cliff into the fog and the crashing of waves. Fade out to end credits and a Phil Collins song.

I knew immediately, before seeing any live videos at the nation's capital and NYC's ground zero, what the reaction would be in the United States. Masses gathered. Flags waved. Signs. Banners. Smiles. Cheers. Whistles. High-fives.

Perhaps I could imagine the celebration because I had just witnessed one hours earlier. Flamengo chants echoing throughout Rio's streets. Fireworks. Hugs. Spilled beer. Dogs barking. Funk music blasting. Even that guy that sits by the pool table and says nothing...even he was screaming.

Something is unsettling about this.

Why do we celebrate the death of a human being the same way we celebrate our favorite team winning the championship? Should these two incredibly different aspects of life invoke the same emotions? Is it because competition is built into our DNA, or maybe that government is more successful with its country at war?

Maybe we can learn from our celebrations instead of spiral into another endless reciprocity of death. Although, judging by our history, I can't think of a more appropriate fate.

It is in this blogger's humble opinion that the human species should focus on a more dangerous enemy than ourselves--one that used to be on our side--our planet.

The New Face of Keepin It Rio

2011-04-29T12:14:00.000-07:00

The first picture I took in Rio de Janeiro was of Alex's forehead. He woke up the very first morning with a giant bump that resembled a fat baby hiding under a rosy-pink blanket. The second picture was a dead rat in a deserted downtown street. That rat picture has been the face of Keepin it Rio for over 2 years. It is now time to bury the dead and move on to a fresh, more lively personality.

Meet Lingüinha:

Lingüinha lives in Ilha Grande--the turkey sandwich-island (for those who actually read this blog.) Lingua means tongue in Portuguese, so it's no mystery where this wacky creature gets his name.

Anyone that knows me knows that I'm not a big dog fan, nor any animal for that matter. Nevertheless, I was captivated. He's got these facial expressions that reveal so much more than just a hungry dog. One glance at his wide-eye, puffy-cheek face and it's like you've had a deep conversation with him, like you know what he's been through and what he wants out of life.

Thiago threw some pork on the ground for the dog. He had some trouble chewing it...I think maybe because he never managed to pull his lingua in. Once he eventually consumed the meat, he looked up and, with his eyes, said something like, "Thank you sir. I hope you live a full life. And remember, you can always anticipate the difficult by managing the easy."

Welcome to the blog, Lingüinha.

Favela Fight

2011-04-28T16:33:00.000-07:00

The other day, a violent fight broke out directly outside our apartment. My roommate, Pablo, caught the whole thing from our kitchen window.

I still haven't left my room.

Bem-vindo ao Chapéu

2011-04-19T10:56:00.000-07:00

Welcome to Chapéu Mangueira.

Or in English, The Mango Tree's Hat.

After months of hostelling, couchsurfing and living with a crazy witch-lady who makes cakes all day I've finally found a house in Rio.

Pablo, my Chilean friend, and I decided to look for a place to split between the two of us. We stumbled upon an online post. A man named Sergio had several rooms available in a house he just bought near Copacabana.

The southernmost part of Copacabana is Leme--a quiet nook extending only two or three streets from the beach. It consists entirely of 10-story apartment buildings, hotels and restaurants. Walking away from the beach, you reach the bottom of the hill. Then you reach steps. These steps make the Santa Monica 4th Street stairs look like...well, they make them look like fewer steps...or maybe the same amount of steps, but it makes them seem fewer...I'm bad at things.

Anyway, here are a few of them:

It suffices to say that my legs and arms will be even more disproportionate after living here.

Chapéu Mangueira is a morro, or favela. During the 80's and 90's, this area had a history of drug violence that has burnt a negative image in the minds of many Cariocas today. Tropa de Elite, one of the most popular Brazilian movies, took place in Chapéu Mangueira's next-door favela, Babilônia.

In 2008 it became one of the first pacified favelas in Rio. That means it is now reincorporated into the city and is patrolled by the UPP (Unidades de Polícia Pacificadora). The pacification police just hang out around entrances and pretty much do nothing. Every now and then they'll return a "good morning" or an occasional "hey". But that's about it. Drug trafficking in the community is now nonexistent and it's a safe place to live for a gringo like me.

Everyone in the neighborhood is welcoming and warm-hearted. I've started helping out at the community's main office whenever they need computer help. The first day I walked in, Michelle (the lady that does everything) asked me how to make a new folder on the desktop and add files to it. It's amazing how much simple knowledge I take for granted. Tomorrow morning, I'll be transferring all the community's files to a new computer. I'm the new I.T. guy, I guess. Well, it is the family business.

Here's the three-six from our balcony

Stay tuned for updates. Until then, keep that ish rio!

vocabulaRIO

2011-04-17T10:25:00.000-07:00

VOCABULARY
Você está queimando meu filme!

CONTEXT

Last night I was having a few drinks with some Brazilian guys. One dude was checking out a server. His buddies kept laughing at him, mentioning something about a past encounter with a less-than-extraordinary young woman. His response: Você está queimando meu filme!

TRANSLATION

You are burning my film.

EXPLANATION

Film is a transparent strip of material used to record photographic images. When it is placed in contact with fire, the images are irreparably destroyed. (SEE photo a.)

photo a.

In the aforementioned situation at the bar, the person was using the analogy of film to refer to his reputation. By "burning" his image, his friends are hindering his chances of successfully achieving his romantic goals with the employee of the establishment.

As demonstrated in Inglorious Basterds, film is heavily flammable.

This phrase could be used in a multitude of situations.

A boy is getting picked up from his mom at the mall. She is honking at waving at him from the car to get his attention. His friends laugh and he melts. She's burning his film.

Lyricist Bun B from the Underground Kings perhaps puts it best:

So when I raise up, you can keep on layin down

I hate to clown, but that's life as I see it

You're lookin for a full-time man, I can't be it

You're cramping my style

-UGK, "Cramping My Style"

Kickin it at the Coqueirão

2011-04-12T15:02:00.000-07:00

Took this today. Just another beautiful Tuesday in April at Ipanema beach.

Couldn't ask for much more than this.

vocabulaRIO

2011-04-09T10:23:00.000-07:00

There are few things that can smooth out my ruffled feathers better than a good foreign idiom. Ice cream. Ice cream’s one of those things. I'd have to think about the others.

Since my arrival in Rio, my friend Micheline had been talking about taking a trip to Ilha Grande—an island the shape of half of a turkey sandwich after you take little bites all the way around its perimeter. Those nibbles are the endless coves and beaches, each having serious postcard potential.

Initially, the excursion would consist of myself, Micheline, Thiago, and Ellen. A few friends had expressed interest as well.

As the departure date drew nearer, Ellen was having doubts—and justifiably so. She had just gotten back from São Paulo and would be going to Salvador in a few weeks. No one else was able to get off work. It looked like it was going to be the couple and me.

“Você vai segurar a vela,” Leo tells me chuckling to himself as he twirls is curly curls. I’m going to hold the candle? What the hell does that mean? My Portuguese isn’t amazing, but I’m certain I heard him correctly. He explains. He was referring to the Brazilian expression that describes the person hanging out with a couple.

It’s the third wheel. To them, holding a candle is being the third wheel.

But it has the complete opposite connotation. A third wheel on a bicycle is a completely useless object. A bike only needs two to function properly. I suppose the third could come in handy if the rider had a flat tire. Or it can trail behind.

Holding a candle, on the other hand, is actually a noble thing. Just imagine: a flame, burning bright. Two people in love, together as one. And then there’s the hand that holds that candle. I think it’s a much nicer way to explain the situation.

So I held that candle. I held it all the way to Ilha Grande and back.

I even held it underwater.

Valeu a pena.

April: Explained

2011-04-03T10:16:00.000-07:00

A Brazilian Virus

2011-03-21T22:11:00.000-07:00

Something has been spreading around Brazil, and over 3.5 million people have been affected. I thought I'd write about it before it's gone.

It's a virus...a video virus.

Viral videos aren't limited to the English-speaking world. Oh no. This one was made in one of the northeastern cities of Brazil. I think Recife.

I've official heard this song played in passing cars, blocos, and clubs. While the lyrics are hilariously innocent, the dance is what gets me.

LYRICS

Hey, do you wanna drink?

I don't wanna.

Why not?

I just don't.

Do you wanna smoke?

Uh-uh.

Why not?

I'm not going

I don't wanna

I can't

My wife won't let me

I'm not going

I don't wanna

Okay, so the English translation doesn't quite have the same ring to it.

Obama

2011-03-19T08:38:00.000-07:00

Brahma is a Brazilian beer. And this is a bar. Get it? God I love a good pun.

This banner, among many signs (including the ones flapping behind planes at the beach) are all over town. The Brazilian people have all eyes on the US president.

I have a obscure connection when it comes to Barack Obama and Brazil.

On November 4th, 2008 I was with my cousin Alex on a rainy night in Rio. Between the TV's static screen and the Internet going in and out of connection, our hearts were pounding waiting for the election results.

I remember creating hypothetical situations in my mind of a country run by John McCain. How the world would react. What the Globo headlines would say the next morning. It was a tense evening.

Finally our minds were at peace. Barack Obama was announced the winner of the 2008 popular vote of the United States of America.

I saved the newspaper the next day, simple titled: OBAMA!!!

Two and a half years later he is making his first visit to South America, starting in the very same city. He arrives today.

But things have been complicated.

He is to meet with the Brazilian President Dilma Rousseff today. Then tomorrow, he was scheduled to tour the City of God (one of the favelas enduring pacificifation) and eventually give a speech to the Rio public at the Cinelândia plaza downtown.

I was surprised to hear he would be making an appearance at Cinelândia--a very public square surrounded on each side by main roads and skyscrapers. Nonetheless, I was excited and I began planning how early I would arrive.

A few days ago, the Brazilian government announced the cancellation of this speech. They gave no explanation and reported how he would instead speak inside the Municipal Theater. Who will be in attendance is still unclear.

The disappointment traveled through Rio almost as fast as the news of his arrival.

Although many Brazilians have mixed sentiments about the US and Obama's politics, the hope and cultural equality that he symbolizes is at the core of Brazilian hearts.

The cancelled speech and unclear plans are not a good start to his first South American visit, but we all know what Obama's good at: talking. I'm anxious to see what he says and how it is received.

In the mean time, I'm gonna go get an Obrahma and enjoy the sun.

Cabelo Horizonte

2011-03-13T11:07:00.000-07:00

The minifro gets old--real old.

It was time for a cut.

Normally, the metro station escalator transports people onto the hot asphault like a Krispy Kreme conveyor belt. But after weeks of ceaseless rain, it's a careful, tedious transition. It's more like walking around Soviet Russia after the Cold War. Only instead of landmines, you have to tiptoe around muddy pee-puddles. Post-drizzle downtown is a repulsive realm.

I'm not more than 2 streets from my class when I get the text. "Luis would liked to cancel class." Ignoring the conjugation error, I go to my contingency plan--haircut!

Hopping over a blueish-grey pond and what looks like a rat's tail, I arrive at a salon.

In Portuguese, the word for hair is cabelo. Mysteriously, the word for hairdresser is cabeleireiro. That's 2 eiros! Why does it get 2 eiros?

I find the perfect cabeleireireireiro--an unassuming little spot run by two grey-haired men in their 60's.

After sitting in silence for the trim, I reach to sneak a picture of my stylist when he pulls out a straight razor. I've never had anyone put a blade against my skin, so I decide not to risk it and I slide the camera back in my teaching bag.

For some reason, I had always thought straight razors wouldn't work on me. Like my skin was somehow more fragile than everyone else's and the barber would pop it like a tomato sauce-filled balloon. I was wrong.

The man moved with enough precision and skill to sculpt a porcelain doll. By the end, my head felt like it had been in the hands of a hair God. Haircules. Okay, a hair demigod.

Okay, Rio. Enough rain. My scalp is ready for some sun.

vocabulaRIO

2011-03-11T12:31:00.000-08:00

MWAH!

Flower love. Well...just a kiss.

In Portuguese, the hummingbird is known as a Beija-Flor.

beija - kiss

flor - flower

Too bad we'll never know what hummingbirds are actually doing so close to flowers. One of science's mysteries. I like to think they're whispering little axioms.

"Fortune has a fickle heart and a slow memory." flapflapflapflapflap

Beija-Flor is also the name of a Samba school in Nilópolis--a neighborhood tucked far away in Rio's north zone. The Hummingbird school won this year's Carnaval at the Sambodromo.

The final decision was in on Wednesday. This is no doubt the most coveted award throughout all competitions in Rio, including the Carioca Cup of futebol (sorry Ronaldinho and Flamengo friends).

Guess which Samba school rehearsal I attended before Carnaval this year. That's right, Beija-Flor. My friends and I took the hour bus ride over to their quadra and spent all night partying and dancing to their samba.

Congratulations, Hummingbird.

Carnaval Dia Um

2011-03-06T06:36:00.000-08:00

Carmelitas. The first of many blocos.

Gettin off the bus up the hill. Party's already in full swing.

Endless amounts of sweet views.

In Santa Teresa one side of the street is lined with a giant stone wall and the other's got a steep incline. Getting there early is the only way to get a spot along the railing--a must for the best view.

Ellen can't avoid these dudes, even up here.

That big doll-woman is Carmelitas. She's responsible for this madness.

And we walk back down.

Onto the next...

360 Botafogo Beach

2011-02-25T10:03:00.001-08:00

OK, so the view's really only 180°.

The address is 360.

360 Praia de Botafogo #1204.

(don't send me anything)

I found a place for the next month. And because Carnaval has basically already started, I had to settle for sharing a room with a lady name Monica.

She is a self-help author and a Dynamic Holotherapist (I still have yet to figure out what that is). I think it has something to do with stalking people online, because she spends most her day on Facebook--or as Brazilians pronounce it, "Facey-Bookey". She's probably reading my blog right now. Too bad she can't read English. Sucker.

The room's good enough for now. It consists of a big mattress, a fragile shelving thingy, and all my shit in the corner. Perfect for stumbling home after a day full of beer, parades and beaches.

At the end of the month, the apartment search is back on. All the tourist's should be gone by then, so it shouldn't be a problem.

But now it's time to party. And my friend, Briana's comin on Wednesday. YEEEEE!

Frio de Janeiro

2011-02-21T11:22:00.000-08:00

It's cold waking up on a rock 2,755 feet above sea level.

I'll start from the beginning.

It's Saturday afternoon. Macela and I are leaving a bloco in Ipanema.

Macela: "Do you want to go on a midnight hike with me and some friends?"

Bob: "Do we have time to meet up with Luiz after?" It's Luiz's birthday and he's going to Lapa.

Macela: "Well...not really. it's gonna have to be one or the other."

Bob: "Alright, well let me call Luiz to say happy birthday."

That was the only information I was given about this hike. Granted, my Portuguese is still pretty bad and Macela could very well have given me a lot more details...but still. I still blame my ill-preparedness on her.

We meet up with Ellen, Priscilla, and about 5 other people around midnight and head over to the other meeting spot. (I should explain that in Rio, a lot of time is spent on meeting up.)

While we wait, it is only natural for one of the dudes to go buy a bottle of vodka and a bottle of coke for us to kill by the time the rest of the group shows up.

Just as the last drop of Smirnoff is gulped down, the others show up. I call them the others because they are just that. A seriously athletic group equipped with ropes, hiking boots, sleeping bags (that's when I found out we were sleeping up there), headlamps and other camping gadgets. Wow, I thought, these Brazilians really go all out.

Little did I know (and again, I blame Macela) the others would be the only prepared ones.

Here's the crew:

The trek begins. The path gets narrower and narrower, steeper and steeper. At first, little branches in the trail are the only obstacles. Then come the unseeable boulders, bridges, ridges, holes in the ground...and it just keeps going.

About an hour in, I'm dripping with sweat. Ellen's shouting and singing devolves into sporadic comments and eventually silence. The others are kind enough to spread themselves out so the almost-sober half have some light. The moon is now barely visible through the forest trees. We're nearing the top...so it seems.

2 hours go by as we finally reach a scenic view. I catch my breath, have some water and look out over Barra de Tijuca. It's a stunning coastline, though not as beautiful as the other side of the hill. I scope out the area, almost certain that our sleeping spot is somewhere near. That's when someone points up. That's right, up. Not at a 45 degree angle...but straight up. It's a huge rock face. The peak of Rio. I wasn't ready for this.

A few moments later we reach the Carrasqueira--a 50 foot rock wall. In the moonlight, it looks like the side of an apartment building. The guy with the rope goes up first with his headlight and throws down the line. The rest of the others space themselves as the first person goes up. Ellen is convinced that the fun level has bottomed out, and is content with not going up. "C'mon Elle, just do it," I say. It's funny how you can convince someone else and yourself at the same time.

One by one everyone goes up. Some slower than others. We're told not to use the rope. Apparently, it's only a safety tool. It's my turn. In high school, my friend Matt and I used to go climbing all the time in Malibu canyon. Sure we had climbing shoes and a crash pad, but I felt confident. It only took one glance down to scare me shitless. Without the others and their flashlights on their heads I would've fallen to my death. No doubt about it. But I survive. And the trail becomes a trail again.

At about 3:30 we reach the top. The temperature drops about 10 degrees. 20 to 30 other people are already on the giant flat rock. Sleeping bags sprawled out. Music blaring from an ipod or something. I walk to the other side of the rock to see the real view. It's amazing. It might be 4 in the morning, but Rio is not asleep. The mountains, beaches, clouds, streets, cars, lakes. It's like God made this place so that people could see the world from his eyes for a day.

After an hour of admiring the peak, everyone gets a few hours of sleep before the morning descent. Macela redeems herself by packing an extra blanket and some sandwiches.

I wake up to this.

And this.

Absolutely a beauty. If I had known I would be waking up in the most beautiful spot on earth I would've brought something to leave there...you know so if I ever had a bad day I would know that something of mine was at that place. I brought nothing, but I'll always have the memory.

Going back down is a pleasure cruise:

The daytime version of the Carrasqueira is a fun adrenaline rush. Not a death climb of blackness.

Can you imagine climbing that shit at night?

We get to the bottom around 10AM. My legs, scraped and sore, will forever be jealous of my eyes. But that's just the life of a leg, isn't it? Doing all the work and getting none of the spoils. Let's take this moment to thank legs, all legs, for taking it all in strides.

The Rock...

...and the crew that conquered it.

I'd say the adventure was a team effort. After all, there's no I in Bras l.

Back to work on Monday. Life it good.

Uma Aula de Vocabulário

2011-02-21T08:09:00.000-08:00

Vocabulary Lesson 1: The Butt Crack

O Cofrinho

That's what they say. You know, like when the girl in front of you bends over and your friend nudges you, points and says "Olha, esse cofrinho."

While this is indeed a hilarious word, the translation is even better.

A cofro is a safe, like in a bank. -inho is the Portuguese diminutive. Therefore, a cofrinho is a little safe. This is also what Brazilians call piggy banks, cofrinhos. So there's your translation.

Cofrinho - Piggy Bank/Butt Crack

Make cents?

A Terra de Marlboro

2011-02-15T04:36:00.001-08:00

Had my first class today. A lawyer named Marcus. He doesn't like the beach and is one day gonna travel Route 66 on a motorcycle.

I forgot how much I loved "teaching". (Quotation marks? Yes, quotation marks) It's not really teaching. It's more like spending a few minutes on a curriculum that somebody spent a lot of time making, and 45 minutes of chatting. Oh, don't look at me like I'm lazy. I asked the guy what he wants to focus on and he said conversation. Is it a crime to pick the topics based on what I'm interested in? Well, if it is then I've got a lawyer now who can defend me in two languages. So there.

My classes are one-on-one. They're all scheduled around the working hours of the students, so it's rare that I have even two consecutive classes. Today's was at 8:30, before work. I met at his office downtown. A really nice, modern building with the most glorious AC ever. We sat in a conference room. The company's maid brought us coffee and water. It was the first coffee I've had since I got here--which explains the headaches. I'm trying to quit anyway. I was becoming a Caffiend. (Damn, someone already beat me to it)

We talked about Wikileaks for a while and I asked him about Brazilian law. His exact words: "Brasil é a terra de Marlboro." Translation: Brazil is the land of Marlboro. What the hell does that mean? He asked if I remembered the old Marlboro cigarette commercials, the ones with the cowboys in the desert. I soon realized that the Brazilian equivolent for the Wild West is Marlboro Land.

A Terra de Marlboro

I personally love this phrase. First of all, because it shows how much Rio is influenced by American television. Second, because it's true. Brazil is the Land of Marlboro. It's a modern day Wild West over here. Sure Rio and São Paulo have established themselves as successful metropolises (metropoli?), but nothing here surprises me anymore. "In Brasil, you see thing that you never believe before," Marcus tells me. We need to work on his verb conjugations.

We have our next class tomorrow and then another on Thursday. I think that will be our schedule: Tuesday through Thursday. I'll have more students as things start to settle down after Carnaval. Until then, I'm gonna take advantage of the 100 degree beach days.

Oh yea, and one of the best strikers in the history of soccer retired yesterday: Ronaldo

Obrigado, Fenômeno

Airline Fracture

2011-02-09T08:54:00.000-08:00

The check-in clerk lady cracked.

So I show up to my flight the same way I show up to all my flights--without any information regarding my flight.

I handed her my passport and said, "I have a flight to Rio de Janeiro around one." She was stunned that someone didn't have a printed itinerary and 10 backup copies. (I guess I could have at least jotted down the 3 digit flight number).

"Well do you have your Visa?"

I'm not an idiot.

After punching her keys as if they were a mini whack-a-mole game, she walks away in a fluster only to return a few moments later with boarding passes for both flights.

"Young man, you should always have you itinerary. Especially in a multiple-stop international flight. It just makes things easier." I nodded.

In her lapse of confusion and hysteria, she forgot to charge me $30 for my checked bag. I'm no psychologist, but aren't we as human beings conditioned by a system of rewards and punishments? Telling someone they did something wrong, and then immediately rewarding them is a bit contradictory to me. You can't scold a dog for shitting on the couch, and then give him a treat. It would keep shitting on the couch. I still don't believe in itineraries.

Oh and by the way, Rio is really hot. Like chicken-pot-pie hot.

Obamapalooza

2011-02-01T19:04:00.000-08:00

What starts with a B-O-B and will be in Brazil next month?

If you guessed me, then...um...then, I guess you're right.

But besides me, there's another correct answer.

B. Obama.

I saved a Brazilian newspaper from November 6th, 2008.

*Carnaval would have been canceled if McCain got elected.*

Earlier this week, it was announced that our chief of state will begin his first South American trip. Starting in Chile. Then Brazil. And eventually finishing things up in El Salvador. Seems like the 2 most populated countries in the western hemisphere are trying to strengthen their ties. Yay! Why is this important? Well, a buncha reasons. Mostly because I'm interested in it. Also, because Brazilian ex-president Lula (known as the most popular politician on earth) pissed off the Obama administration when he dabbled in peace negotiations with the Middle East. He ultimately favored diplomacy over sanctions in regards to Iran's nuclear security. We don't like diplomacy, Lula. It's an ugly word. Why talk things out when you can just slap a law on it? That explains all the j-walking in Rio. Lawless hooligans.

Dilma Rousseff is Lula's successor (one-upping our first black president as the first female president). She and Obama will discuss the future of our countries. No doubt followed by a quick bodysurfing session and a few caipirinhas.

On a notsosimilar note, I bumped into Stephen Perkins, the drummer of Jane's Addition, this weekend. After ordering his usual, 2 lattes and a blueberry muffin, he informed me that Lollapalooza will also be making debut stops in Chile and Brazil this summer. It seems that the Windy City is blowing south this year.

(For you slower folks, Barack Obama and Lollapalooza are both from Chicago. Chicago is known as the Windy City...and wind blows).

me at Lollapalooza in 2006

Stephen gave me his number and said to get a hold of him when he's down there. He'd get me passes and "set me up". I don't know why, but for a brief second I felt known by a huge rock star. I quickly realized that wasn't true. In part because sometimes people just say nice things. Mostly, though, because the number he jotted down was 310-555-YOUREANIDIOT.

So I have 6 days and 7 nights left in the United States. That means I have 6 days and 7 nights left of different kinds of food. After that it's rice, beans, meat and the occasional sheesh (loyal keepinitrio followers know what a sheesh is). So if anyone in LA wants to grab some Curry, Pho, Burritos, or pretty much just any meal, let me know.

Big things are happening in Rio, man. Big things. It's the OBAMAPALOOZA. It's blowing up like a Russian airport. Too soon?

Well, I'm sure there will be one or two more posts before my grand departure. Until then, keep that shit Rio.

Rio Starts the New Year Hollywood Style

2011-01-04T18:30:00.000-08:00

It is January 4, 2011. May the Golden Decade begin.

Just call me Bob, the prophet, because my prediction is already coming true. Over the next 10 years, Rio will be the most watched city in the world.

And it's Year 1.

Two movies are scheduled to be released in 2011--two movies set in the Cidade Maravilhosa.

Rio

It's only natural for the Carioca director of Ice Age to make his next animated blockbuster about a macaw in Rio de Janeiro. And this film is not short of A-listers: Jesse Eisenberg, Anne Hathaway, George Lopez, Jamie Foxx, will.i.am, and (my personal favorite) Flight of the Concord's own Jemain Clement.

"Jemain?"

"Present."

Know that reference. Know it!

Don't be surprised when Rio ends up in every family's DVD collection, somewhere between the Harry Potters and Babe. Unless its alphabetical. Then it's next to Ratatouille and...R...Rat...Rat Race? Is that a movie? Rat Race? Rat Trap? Well it'll be right there.

Rio, Eu Te Amo

No movie has ever made me so enchanted by a European city than Paris, Je T'aime. There's no reason why Eu Te Amo doesn't have the same effect for South America.

The details aren't out quite yet. Just keep checking IMDB.

Consider this the first phase of the Decada de Ouro. Operation: Filme*

*NOTE* Filme is Portuguese for film. Well, it's their adaptation of it. When something American is popularized in Brazil, they sometimes just throw an e on the end. Language is fun.

I don't know about you, but I can't wait to see Rio's little quirks captured on the big screen. And, unlike City of God and Troupa de Elite these movies don't feature the city's drug violence or gang problems. You could almost call it wholesome.

Everyone, keep your olhos open for these flicks. And when strangers are talkin about em on the streets, you just think to yourself, "Wow, Bob was right. It's silly how smart he is."

It is.

Réveillon Heaven

2010-12-29T15:26:00.000-08:00

Me, in the arms of a stranger. Copacabana Beach, 1/1/09

New Year's Eve doesn't get any wilder than in Rio de Janeiro.

2,000,000 people, 11 boat-launched firework displays, 2.5 miles of hot summer sand, and all the Skol you can drink.

Thinking about taking a dip? I don't recommend it. With the entire shore lined with the posteriors of men, the Atlantic is more of a giant urinal than a sea. Pretty gross, really.

This year, New Year's Eve in Rio is particularly special. The city will be announcing the official 2016 Olympic Games logo.

I think it will look something like this:

But Bob, do you really think they will choose such an obvious city landmark as their logo? Yes. Yes I do. Don't believe me?

You tell me:

Yes those are actual logos from businesses in Rio. Notice any lack of originality? Marketing 101 at the Universidade Federal must be the easiest class imaginable. I'll bet that if the official 2016 Olympics logo doesn't contain a silhouette of the Sugar Loaf, I will cancel my flight and stay in LA.

*makes hand-shaking gesture*

The city of Rio de Janeiro has already named the next ten years "A Década de Ouro", or The Golden Decade. And golden it will be. The city will host the Olympics and the World Cup Finals in that time. Rio will be the most watched city in the world in the next decade...and I don't plan on watching it anywhere else but there.

And it all starts this Friday.

Feliz Réveillon

Natal Natal Natal

2010-12-21T10:56:00.000-08:00

It amazes me how certain Christmas traditions are assimilated into Brazil. The bundled-up bearded man. The reindeer. The sleigh bells. The snowmen. December is the start of summer in Brazil. I remember laying on a beach in 100 degree heat drinking a coconut in December. In Southern California, people say that there isn't that Christmas feel. Well go to Rio next Christmas. That shit'll make LA feel like the North Pole. Plus, with the exception of a state or two in the south, it doesn't even SNOW in Brazil! If you ask me, it's time for them to come up with their own Christmas imagery.

But one thing you can be sure of--Rio goes big for Christmas.

Rio is home to the world's biggest Jesus.

The world's largest Christmas tree. (That shit floats!)

This is my friend Thiago. He is a children's event and party planner. I don't know who Blue Santa is, but if he ever comes to Los Angeles he should make a list of "nice" neighborhoods...and check it twice. We don't want him strolling onto Red Santa's turf.

Feliz Natal

The Apartment Search Begins

2010-12-14T11:32:00.000-08:00

Rio de Janeiro isn’t unlike Los Angeles.

Each city's got its dualism.

LA has the Eastside and the Westside while Rio’s got Zona Norte and Zona Sul. The south zone boasts the tourist-filled beach communities of Copacabana and Ipanema, reminiscent of the Santa Monica/Marina del Rey scene. On the other side of town, the middle class, endless and invisible at the same time, dwells in the north zone—the humble, working-class side of life. Before I pick a place to rest my head, I gotta choose a Zona.

Walk up the Escada de Azulejos da Lapa (Tiled Stairs of Lapa) and you’ll find yourself passing the art galleries and coffee shops of Santa Teresa. With a view of both Zonas, Santa Teresa somehow manages to resemble neither. It proudly claims Rio’s bohemian quarter. The countless dreadlocks along Rua Almirante Alexandrino make me feel like I’m in Venice Beach. But once that sun sets you’d better have a good game plan. Things can get a bit sketchy.

Then there’s Niterói—the municipality across the bay. I’ve met some cool peeps from here. Though inconveniently located, Niterói seems to be a smidge more comfortable and spacious than the city proper. I’ve never actually been, but it seems a bit South Bayish. You know the whitewashed, culture-void masses of Redondo and Manhattan Beach? Sure I partake in the occasional surf session at Porto and happy hour beer at Sharkeez, but if I’m going somewhere to live, I need to be in the mix.

The first phase of my apartment search consists of scouring Rio’s version of craigslist—www.easyquarto.com.br

If my Poor-tuguese doesn’t make things hard enough, the record high Rio-estate will.

http://riotimesonline.com/brazil-news/rio-real-estate/rio-rental-market-up-for-high-season/

I guess it’s just gonna come down to some good old fashion luck—for which I’m due after the last Vegas trip.

Two Months Notice

2010-12-07T15:47:00.000-08:00

As the first decade of the millennium comes to a close, I’ve made the decision to gather up all of what’s left of my youth and head once more into the ever intoxicating city of Rio de Janeiro. Consider this my two-month notice. February 8^th marks my departure from LA’s frazzled freeways into the dead mouse ridden streets of Rio. Alone I will attempt to make a living among the cachaça-guzzling, samba-swaying Cariocas. Am I running away from reality? You can say that. You can say a lot of things, Mr. Question-Asker. My reality is that I have some unfinished business with that town. She and I split up two years ago under some complicated circumstances and I’m willing to give it another shot. I just hope she welcomes me with as open arms as O Cristo Redentor.

Friends have asked me why it’s so easy for me to just pick up and leave. My response: It isn’t. It’s never EASY to leave something after you’ve invested so much of yourself into it. In truth, the older I get, the more difficult it is to leave. LA has grown on me. It has grown on my like a cancerous tumor. I don’t think I’ve ever owned so many nice things in my life. I mean look at my bed. Just look at it! You think it’s easy to leave that thing? How many pillows do I have? Five? Five pillows. I have five pillows! I’m not sure if I even had a pillow last time I was in Rio. Half the time I woke up in the middle of the night on the ground because the horizontal boards weren’t actually attached to the bed frame and they separated beneath me. This is surely not easy. I do however, take comfort in the fact that it only gets harder with age. Two years from now, who knows? Maybe I won’t want to sacrifice my five pillows. Maybe I’ll want to get serious with that cool chick I’ll have been hanging out with. Maybe I’ll commit to a career. All I know is that, as of right now, I can give this a real shot. I can live in Rio for a year by myself. I mean, after all…it’s only life.

Dweezy & Trazzler "City Flavor" & NoH8 : Tastes Like Rio All Over Again

2010-03-02T21:58:00.000-08:00

Oi, Keepin' It Rio faithful. Hope you are guys are all in for another Trazzler treat.

The cidade maravilhosa has yet again inspired a writing contest entry for the twitter-esque travel website, Trazzler. Their February contest,"City Flavor" has five categories, meaning you could enter five separate trips.

I scribbled up a trip about Santa Monica Art Museum for their "Neighborhood Spots" category & recalled a recent SF excursion to Grubstake grubbary for the "Only in SF" category.

For the "LGBT Icons" my mind turned back to Fall 2008, in Rio. Without any further rambling, I give you my latest Rio entry:

If you can find a moment, I would love it if you Wishlisted (Trazzler's form of voting) my "trip". All you need to do is slap that little green button that says "save" & follow the instructions (which include either creating a free Trazzler account or signing in through Facebook).

Merely slap the green button that says "SAVE" beneath the photo to wishlist/vote for my entry.
(Overly explained instructions appear below):

Step 1. Hit the green button "Save" beneath the photo.
- estimated time: .5-2 seconds

Step 2. Either press Sign In (for Facebook or Trazzler users) or Sign Up to create a Trazzler account.
- estimated time: .5-2 seconds

Step 3. Enter your Facebook or Trazzler login (or if you are already logged into Facebook, just proceed)
Estimated time: 5-45 seconds

And yer done!

Don't worry, you aren't going to be spammed (errr) or charged anything.

I have the chance to win 700 bucks, and a trip to SF if I end March atop the "LGBT Icons People's Choice" standings.

If I finish atop the podium I will be donating half of that dough ($350) to the NoH8 campaign:

In other words, it's an art-based effort to end the hate in the state where I reside. Which would make California, and any other place a much more pleasant one.

Thanks a billion, happy Trazzling and much love.

Vasco Para Vida.

San Fransisco Food—> http://ow.ly/1dwZZ Rio Parade —> http://ow.ly/1dx0X Santa Monica Art —> http://ow.ly/1dx1p

Trazzler: Rio, Is What Has Been Kept

2009-12-03T12:15:00.000-08:00

In what has been a serious period of suadade for me, I have managed to mangle a couple of Brazilian Trazzler stories aka mini-travel-poems for your Keepin It Rio Blog obsessed eyes.

Expect more of this sort of writing in the future, thanks to the contract that the Keepin It Rio nation helped me win over at Trazzler with their NYCGO contest.

Below are my quick musings on Rio's greatest two gifts to the world: Baile Funk & Vasco De Gama

For more of Dweezy's Trazzler Tales:

Muito Obrigado, enjoy:

Congrats Cariocas: Olympics Headed to Rio (Yes We Créu)

2009-10-02T17:15:00.000-07:00

I read Michelle Malkin's blog.

Not because I'm looking for any sort of political guidance but because it helps me stay balanced. Too much of the lefty and not any use of the righty makes my forearm muscles too big on one side.

Nasty jokes aside, I want to congratulate Rio for getting their game on with winning the 2016 Olympic bid. Yes, another reason for me to have an excuse to return to the Marv City in addition to the 2014 World cup.

But this recent post by Malkin, only touches on the tip of the sugar loaf.

What's really funny about "Yes We Créu" isn't merely the Obama word-play but the sex at play here.

Admittedly, if there are two things Rio is known for it's probably sex and violence. Which is why I notified the twitterverse of the more known usage of Créu. Soon, my Brazilian homie ReTweeted the message as seen here:

Yes, I am saying that there is a much larger and more plentiful pun going on right beneath the noses of anyone outside of Rio. Créu does literally mean something like "believe" or "can" or "do," however it also means exactly what "do" also means here in the U.S. — to bang.

Not getting the picture?

What about sexify, pork, grind, plug, slam, slide, push or almost all other verbs, any clearer? To "do" someone means to have sex.

So...more vulgarly..."Yes we Créu" can loosely be translated in plain-speak as "Yes we f•ck."

There. Now let's all enjoy Rio's win like we enjoy their insistence on always using the Sugar Loaf at every moment possible — even their winning Olympic logo (see Pelé's pin above)

See you in 2016 (and 2014 and probably sooner than that too).

I leave with MC Créu & accompanying booty, Rio's finest:

Keep In Rio: Southern Utah Press Style

2009-09-21T11:02:00.000-07:00

On this, the day of the Trazzler final judgment, I give you — Keepin It Rio's first appearance in that archaic, rough, dirty-up-ya-fingers, form of media — newspaper.

In true, um, Brazilian-style — this wasn't printed until the day after the contest voting ended (Sept. 15).

Imagine the untapped potential of the dozens of literate Southern Utahans...a few of which, surely have the ability to use a computer.

I hope, within the next few hours, it is THEIR spirit that forces the Trazzler judges hands towards selecting my trip.

Good morning and good luck.

Travel Channel: Keepin It Phony

2009-09-18T01:49:00.000-07:00

Travel Channel — how can you be so bad and so good all at once?

You give the Hunter S. Thompson of Food a platform (Bourdain's No Reservations) and then you barf up this.

Brace yourself folks. Below is the actual description of the shows first episode — taken directly from the press release sent to us:

Riku and Tunna, the two Finns behind the madness, begin their journey in Brazil where they encounter dangers I personally wouldn't dare to face. The episode starts with Riku in a medical chair getting his bicep sliced open with a scalpel. What for? A diamond of course! He gets a diamond sewn under his skin in case he gets robbed and needs cash fast.

This precaution makes more sense once they reach their first destination: a shanty-town (Rocinha Favela) run by gang members. The murder rate in this town is significantly higher than Rio's, which has one of the highest crime rates worldwide. A lot of criminals move to the shanty town to get lost after leaving prison. Riku and Tunna get up-close-and-personal with one of the gang members and his guns.

They have got to be joking...

Unfortunately, prior to this post, the preview of the show has been removed from YouTube.

It was probably because of the dozens of comments pointing out whatever false location the show was calling Rocinha.

I spent around a dozen Funk fueled nights scurrying up and down the morro of the most populated favela in Rio and, no, that certainly doesn't appear familiar. I'm no favela expert but I do also recall every single person (Brasilero or not) being accosted by rifled minions whenever even seeming to take a picture with so-much as a cell phone — much less a video camera.

Aside from Diplo's 'Favela On Blast', which doesn't even show too much visually, you will be hard pressed to find quality favela footage.

In addition to the obvious cultural clusterfuckery this show is about to induce upon the places it visits, I wonder about the legal ramifications of lying about the place you are claiming to be shooting from.

Of course, I refuse to actually tell you what day the show will start. If you really wanna see it you will have to figure it out by means other than those of my words.

Travel Channel stays losing.

Tony may wanna jump ship before it's too late.

Trazzler Halftime: The Push for 1,000 Slothy Wishlists

2009-09-07T22:21:00.000-07:00

Welp.

We are at the midway point in the Trazzler.com #NYCGO writing contest. It has been a lot mo' fun and exciting than people woulda predicted. From the jump, I've been all sorts of active about getting the word out and it seems like a few dozen of the 204 semifinalists did the same. The efforts have livened the experience up for everyone involved.

I don't readily toot my own horn but in this case I'll break for a squeeze.

For one, my idea to donate some of the winnings to charity has caught on almost as rapidly as the wildfires burning my current So-Cal surroundings. Initially, I felt a tad robbed but charity is still charity and I would rather the winner donate a portion of their winnings to positive cause — especially one having to do with their Trazzler trip. After all, the writers owe as much to the places they visited as they do to their writing abilities. It's also true that most of my fellow competitors have only been complimentary instead of malicious.

I've been impressed with my supporters' drive to hustle votes and clicks for my lil' writing tidbit. Some get pretty excited and I have to be wary to warn cats not to flirt with their five-per-IP address limits by allowing votes from their friends and family. Visions of mid-party music halts aimed at convincing everyone in the room to log onto Facebook and send a vote the sloth direction plague my mind.

Still, aside from a few techno-tards who can't seem to follow the simplest of steps (albeit the voting/wishlisting terms take an inkling of explaining) to vote for the trip, all of my efforts have yielded results. The YouTube video should hit 1,000 before the contest is up, my CouchSurfing comrades have represented well, the Twitterverse has been responsive and, of course, the majority of my wishlisters have flooded in from my Facebook contingent.

As the contestants tighten their shoe laces, adjust their shin guards and wait for the second half to begin, a lot could still change. Team SLOTH won't. And to paraphrase Mos Def:

"No Matter How Hard You Sloth, You Can't Stop Us Now."

VOTE NOW BY WISHLISTING THIS TRIP FOLKS!

Let's hit 1,000!

Trazzler Wishlisting Underway: This One's For The Sloths

2009-08-31T19:48:00.000-07:00

The word sloth has zig-zagged in and out of this blog since its inception. Eventually both the physical animal and the metaphoric one penetrated my mind state and my writing. All things sloth intensified on February 7th, when I finally had the chance to not only see a sloth but meet one.

Among the many amazing adventures that I had in Brazil, that day ended up leaving the thickest mark on my memory of the country.

#24514 Slouching in Slow-Travel, Sloth Style in Caraíva, Brazil

Nothing says “take it easy” like a hug from a sloth. No matter how easy you have been taking it, it’s simple to find yourself past the point of relaxation in Brazil’s cultural dream state of Bahia. True, you may have spent the last few hours or days in a gentle zephyr of milky sand, soothing ocean suds, and soul-cleansing moqueca (seafood stew) in the petite village of Caraíva—but a state of zen is only attained via sloth. Kept as pets by the indigenous Pataxó tribe, these smiley, three-toed mammals accentuate wooden handicraft outposts on the path back towards reality. Need a hug for the road?

When I stumbled upon Trazzler and their #NYCGO writing contest, it was my duty to that day and that animal to try to relay that experience. After considering the total amount of money, the idea of giving back to the experience came naturally.

So, yes, if I win I will donate exactly half ($5,000) of the grand prize to the World Wild Life foundation's Brazil focus. Of course this will help the sloths but it will also help preserve the area around Caraíva and beyond. I think that is only fair. After all, I will be helping to increase tourism to that area just by publicizing it this heavily.

It's sort of part of a bigger eco-friendly tourism reality that travelers and trazzlers alike will have to start realizing sooner or later. The ease of travel increases and the likelihood of too many visitors adversely effecting a place becomes inevitable. I just want to get a head start. Most travelers can't afford big donations, so I would hope, if I win that this one would be for the team.

Today voting (wishlisting) has begun for the Trazzler.com NYCGO writing contest and my trip is in fourth place out of 204.

For the sloth's sake, my sake and your sake, fellow traveler, let's hope I win.

Click here to vote/wishlist for my trip.

Check out the YouTube Video: Vote Sloth

Let's do it live!

Trazzler: The Razzmatazz of Travel Blogging

2009-08-26T00:26:00.000-07:00

And by razzmatazz, of course, I mean tiny sweet, tangy strips of gooey bloggy goodness sprinkled with sugary narrative.

But it's the bite-size length of the writing strips that are the site's most delicious feature.

Yes, the twitter of travel writing, Trazzler has its recipe just right. They don't give their writers (although mostly talented) enough room to ramble on and ruin the places they are trying to praise. This rapid fire approach on their mini-blogs (called "trips") forces writers to be concise. This also allows for more writing to be spent on other "trips" in other countries for other readers. It's a double victory.

Maybe, best of all, they don't open the floodgates to any-ole-hack with a keyboard and a passport stamp to write for their site. They have focus, consistency, quality and breadth — and all of these qualities compliment each other to make one hell of a great travel site.

If they play their cards right, maybe I will even lend them my words about my "trips", in Rio and out.

For now, I guess I can just be happy to be a semifinalist in their #NYCGO writing contest with trip #24514 Slouching in Slow-Travel, Sloth Style in Caraíva, Brazil. Sure it was only one of a few hundred Brazilian "trips" I took, but it was one of the fondest — still illuminating the room storing my memories in true saudades-steez.

It's almost been six-months since my six-months in Rio and I'm still writing about it.

Join trazzler and 'wishlist' my trip starting Monday August 31st and maybe, just maybe the site will get the chance to host my trips about the marvelous city.

For all of you loyal Keepin' It Rio readers, still checkin' the site after six months of absence...enjoy the exclusive photos of Caraíva, including bonus Sloth shots. Maybe more to come next week...

Vasco 4 lyfe...I'm out.

Ordem e Preguiça: Rio’s Legacy On A Dweez

2009-03-31T08:28:00.000-07:00

Order.

What is this, my first sloth in 2 months?

Sloth me.
Sloth on over here and help me out.
What the sloth?
Fuck these sloths.

I got slothed over tonight.

Pathetic sloth.
Precious sloth.

Eeking up trees
Life on
E.

Sloth head.

Melon faced sloth.
Burping smiles all bubbled off Skol.

Is that a slotherhouse?

Little bandit sloth stealin’ up all my time.
Robbing urges.

That’s a real sloth slapper.

Crispy fur.
Ya hiding anything under that fur?

Betcha are.
Hope ya are.

I work at a Slothel.
Slothing everyone. All the time.
12 hrs for the price of 6.

There’s no business like Sloth business.

Sloth yourself.
One, hairy, three-toed sloth at a time.

Progress.

Made in Sloth

AS MOST OF YOU

2009-03-24T17:20:00.001-07:00

are probably aware, Alex and I have left the land of juice bars and sand bars to return to the land of milkshakes and handshakes.

I am shocked, culturally.

A few nights ago, I was introduced to a girl at a bar. I went for the double cheek-kiss as her extended hand nearly jabbed my lung. Oh yea, we shake hands. I forgot how cold we are.

I also forgot how cold we are--in the literal sense. I wanted to give my new Havaianas sandals a whirl, but the only whirl was that of freezing wind that instantly incapacitated my feet. So much for all the tank-tops I bought.

Also so much for all the new tank-tops I bought--those being the cannons of miniature model tanks I bought from a Brazilian military enthusiast. No, I'm just kidding. I don't even think you can find those separate from the whole tank.

At any rate, I am readapting to the culture that I once knew exclusively.

Perhaps the most comforting experience thus far has come in the form of an efficient errand. Alex and I returned just one day before our grandmother's 80th birthday. Our gift? A framed collage of pictures we'd taken in Brazil, co-starring other family members that had visited us. So, we decided to devote an afternoon to this project. We started by ordering lunch...online. Sandwiches from Bay Cities Italian Deli on Lincoln. Point. Click. Point. Click. Ready in a half an hour. Next stop: Fed-Ex Kinkos on Wilshire. 15 minutes on the parking meter. We put in the USB flash drive into the Sony picture printer and out falls one $4.99 8"x10" photo, with 9 minutes left on the meter. Next stop: Joann Fabrics (isn't fabric already pluralized?). One frame--also $4.99. We picked up our sandwiches and returned back to the house within an hour.

Kissing, sweating and waiting are only a few of the cultural skins that I've had to shed since I got back. I'm sure more will emerge, in true awkward form. Until then, I guess I will just have to be keepin it Rio--in California.

Brasil, Brasil (a poem)

2009-03-06T10:03:00.000-08:00

Brasil, Brasil. You keep me on my toes
The three o'clock rains and the Glória hos
You stole my heart like you stole my phone
Brasil, Brasil. You keep me on my toes

Tchau Carnaval

2009-03-04T14:39:00.000-08:00

Yes my friends, Carnaval is sadly over; which means summer is over, which means school has begun, which means university initiations have begun, which means paint-covered freshmen have taken to the streets, which means...well, yikes.

If you are wondering why there hasn't been a blog post in over 2 weeks, perhaps this answers your questions:

A 3-week cerveja/bloco binge takes a toll on you. But would I do it all again?

Pneus Envy

2009-02-18T16:47:00.001-08:00

The Portuguese word for tires is pneus. That is all.

LATELY I'VE BEEN BROWSING

2009-02-10T15:34:00.000-08:00

through some blogs about Rio de Janeiro. Written mostly by self-proclaimed ex-patriots, these web logs capture experiences and provide a comprehensive guide for travelers and prospective residents. I have a deep admiration for such selfless bloggers, these literary philanthropists. They provide a service. They help people. They use their efforts and creativity for purposes beyond their mere amusement.

My blog posts help nobody. They are for me. They are medicine for my ailing self-esteem. If anything, they would give travelers a disadvantage.

And yet...I am devoting this blog entry to you, traveler. I want you to be as prepared as possible when you arrive in Rio. I want to pave your road with the smoothest of pavements. I want to personally pack your parachute and be the one to kick you out of that helicopter. I want to be your Jesus, but instead of God’s message, it is Rio’s message—a message of hope, of joy and of where to go to get 3 beers for R$5.

Paper-Passer-Outers
What a better place to start than the Centro? If you find yourself downtown, particularly around the Uruguaiana black market, you will come across one of the most popular professions in Rio—the paper-passer-outer. I would call them flyers or pamphlets, but these disposable sources of information are no bigger than a band-aid. And your normal moves of evasion won’t work against these experts. The I’m-looking-at-the-ground-and-don’t-notice-you won't work. The all-the-sudden-I-have-something-very-important-to-tell-my-friend-next-to-me fails every time. Even the both-my-hands-are-holding-very-heavy-bags won’t save you. These people are smart. They will wave those little cards at your soul. You want to know my advice? Take the paper. Yeah, why not? Take all the papers en route. Hell, even thank them for it. Then when you get to your destination, simply place the wad of juice bar promotions and love motel ads into the nearest receptacle or use it later as free confetti. Sometimes confronting a conflict is the only way to reach urban enlightenment.

Don’t Push It!
In Portuguese, the word for pull is puxe (pronounced pooshie). I know this, yet I always pull a door that opens outward. Learn from my mistake.

Playing Cards
There is a park in Ipanema that, on certain days, converts itself into a card tournament for senior citizens. I have no idea what game they play, but it involves a small table, four players and about twenty spectators. This is, however, not what I want to discuss. The card playing that I’m talking about is that of the Gringo Card.

That’s right, it is okay to play the Gringo Card in Brazil. But don't mistake this for a Master Card or a Visa—it is not accepted everywhere. For example, if you are haggling down the price of speakers at the black market, mispronouncing cinco reais is not going to help your cause. If you are walking through the Praia de Botafogo underpass and are approached by several bottle-huffing runts asking for money, you may not want to say, “now fallo Porchageeze." Basically, if money is involved you should keep your Gringoness safe in your pocket with your wallet.

There are, however, instances in which the G-Card can be helpful. Let’s say, hypothetically, that you and your cousin are at the last Vasco da Gama futebol game of the season and you buy two scalped tickets only to find out they are not for sale nor accepted by the turnstile guard. Stay calm. Don’t be afraid to over-gringify your Portuguese and explain how your other cousin gave you the tickets. With any luck you will only be threatened to go to jail, and the security guy will eventually just let you in. The Gringo Card is also an acceptable form of payment in the area of romance. Although I personally am not a GGG (Gringos Getting Girls/Guys) cardholder, I am very confident in its effectiveness. As exotic as dark-skinned samba-dancing Brazilians are to us Gringles, our bad-rhythmed pasty-white asses are attractive to them. To some Cariocas, there is no sense of sexual accomplishment greater than the Gringo. If shame is not an option, use that card!

Beach Vendors
You may think your trip to Rio will include a leisurely period of relaxation on one of the many picturesque beaches. Think again. First, good luck finding a 5 square-foot area to put your chair. Second, unless your headphones block out a rocket take-off, you will not experience any form serenity. Another one of Rio’s favorite careers is the beach vendor. The cheese-on-a-stick guy. The jjjjjjjjjjornal do Brasil guy. The guy that sells those twisty bikini tops that, when untwisted, look like footwear from Aladdin. My personal favorite is the AAAAHHHHH-bacaxi guy, who finds so much amusement in scaring people with his pineapple kabobs that he never actually asks people if they want to buy anything. If you’re thirsty, I recommend waiting for the guy with two kegs of matte iced tea and lemonade under his arms. Number one, it’s cheap. Number two, shouldn't you support someone who’s been carrying around two kegs in the sun all day? Another tip: If a vendor has passed by and you want to flag him down, use the Carioca hiss. It’s a loud tssssssthiiuuu (kind of like saying ‘tissue’ but with more of a hiss). My hiss can travel hundreds of meters, and it's so accurate that it communicates to the vendor what I want.

My Issue with Scar Tissue
Within a few weeks of being in Rio, you may notice a scar on the right arm of every Carioca. They are small dots no bigger than a frog’s eye. This will baffle you—these little crop circles of flesh. Where did they come from? I discovered, through my own deductive reasoning, that there is a form of initiation in Brazil. On your fourth birthday, you have to go into the rain forest for seven days. In that time you have to find and kill a family of monkeys and turn their hides into Samba drums. When you come back out, the oldest member of the family stabs you in the arm with a smouldering-hot churrasco spear. My friend who lives in Lapa explained to me that Brazilians get their childhood vaccinations injected into the right arm, and the scars are from the needles. We agreed to disagree.

And there, my friend, is your travel guide. I hope my new blogging philosophy will enrich the lives of fellow travelers instead of just obscuring my own personal experience as unsubstantial, lowbrow comedic material that, at the end of the day (and at the beginning of the day), benefits no one.

Boa noite e boa sorte.

Angra Management: A Weekend Getaway

2009-01-26T15:06:00.000-08:00

Friday night. Please God, no more Lapa. I call Luiz.

“Okay. This is what I’m thinking.” He starts most of his conversations this way. “My friend has a beach house in Angra and people are going for the weekend. There should be lots of girls" (there were 3). I wasn’t terribly thrilled about the idea of leaving for the weekend, especially still treading in the wake of my hellish sickness. But hey, we only live once, right? Well, unless you’re Hindu. Also I think Buddhists. How do pro-reincarnation folk justify spontaneous decisions? “Well, I could buy this plane ticket to Norway. Nah, I’ll just catch it next time around.”

“There’s only one thing.” Luiz is so predictable. Of course there’s a catch. “We have 2 cars, but only one person that can drive.” (Un)Fortunately, I have my California driver’s license with me. So, needless to say…

…we arrive at the beach at 4:40am on Saturday. It’s dark. It’s quiet. There’s no house. Pedro, the rich Brazilian with the to-be-inherited-beach-house-that-I-don’t-see-yet, takes out his cell phone and makes a call. Either 4 hours of driving in a 3rd world country had driven me completely insane, or I began hearing a phone ring in the ocean. Turns out, I wasn’t crazy. A man stands up in a tiny boat about 50 yards from shore, glowing phone in hand. He buzzes over to the dock. Seeing as no one else was questioning the peculiarity of this, I join them in transferring our bags and groceries from the cars to the dingy. Sardines in the truest sense, we jet through the bay’s blackness.

Faint lights dotting the base of an island grew larger and brighter. We finally got to our destination. The combination of dawn and delirium sabotaged any thoughts I could’ve formed at the time, but this is what I saw once the sun came out.Screwdrivers on the deck followed by frontflips off the dock—a perfect getaway weekend combo. Dance parties. Jam sessions. Barbeque. Laughter. Portuguese. We even played the hilarious Brazilian drinking game, “consequências ou bebe”, which ended in everybody eating meat by the dock in their underwear.

It wasn’t until Sunday morning when I thought, “where am I?” I was the first one up. I made a chocolate milk and a cheesebread then jumped in the bay for the better part of an hour. Coves and islands covered in jungle trees. Little fishies under me and fishermen in the distance. Where am I?

The crew on this voyage consisted of me, Alex, Luiz the sloth, and 5 Brazilian ex-strangers.
It was a bonding trip, a culturally uniting adventure not to be forgotten for at least a few weeks. But nothing topped seeing the boat guy come over and hearing Alex say, “Are we getting in that?”

We arrived back in Rio exactly 48 hours after we’d left. 2 days I may never understand. That seems to be an ongoing theme here in Brazil. I don’t understand much. Anything from tiny beer cups to having 10 workers at one juice bar. But understanding is overrated. It’s for mathematicians and people that help stabilize ladders for painters.

Cops and Robbers: Okay, Just Robbers

2009-01-18T21:35:00.000-08:00

In Rio, you should expect to be robbed.

Not only because that means when robbed you will be less upset, but this way you never bring around anything of value. Or maybe you just value what you bring less (?) I carry around R$ 50 (lil’ over 20 bucks), a copy of my passport, the apartment key and my very disposable celly (with at most R$15 of credit on it).

Needless to say, the only thing I legitimately worry about being stolen is my glasses. I’m running low on contacts, you see. Still. I have managed to fend off three robbery attempts from various vagrants in this crimed ridden city thus far.

The first came during the gayest moment of my life.

I was skipping beneath a football-field sized rainbow flag at one of the biggest gay parades on the planet. After reemerging, I headed towards Copacabana beach to chill on the sand and watch the spectacle from afar. Right then, I felt a hand dip into my trouser pockets. Admittedly, I was a bit concerned about someone going for my goods but I soon realized it was my monetary goods this wondering hand was after.

I caught the hand, tossed it to the side and continued to the beach unscathed.

Another hand hovered above my pocket entrance in the wretched hive of scum and villainy that is Lapa. Using the popularized (by Bob) arm swing technique, I ran into this intruder the moment he limb was making the diving move.

I turned in time to see an arm coming down on my head. I felt a series of hands beginning to pummel my dome while I scurried towards the safety of a X-Tudo stand. The two run-by-beating-thieves slunk away in the crowd, as ready to get away from me, as I was to get away from them.

Another Rio robbery attempt foiled by my quick hands.

Embarrassingly, the only Carioca who managed to get money outta my pocket was a kid no older than nine. I was shortcutting my way to teach a class at Rio Sul, a massive shopping center close to our pad. This route went through a tunnel that cuts through one of Rio’s trademark steep rock faces that pop up all over the city. Without this shortcut you have to go around the protruding mount, leaving you about 20 minutes stupider. This time, a series of tunnel dwellers roamed on the far side of the road as I entered the tunnel. One ran towards me. He was a runt.

Runts are young (5-13), drugged-out (via huffed chemical compounds in water bottles), beggar kids often from the favelas but who spend their nights sleeping on cardboard (at best) on the sidewalks and streets of Rio’s neighborhoods.

These kids have less than nothing to lose — they’ve never had anything in the first place. They are the last bunch you want to run into on the Rua.

This time, one particular runt began to straggle beside me, asking for money. About five other runts crossed the street, targeting me as well. I started to get nervous entering the tunnel with three more runts lurking above me on a ledge like gargoyles ready to swoop on a gringo. In my increasing discomfort I spoke some broken Portuguese words.

This mistake almost did me in, as the little runt waved his friends forward to the foreign feast in front of him. I started to feed him little coins, hoping to satisfy him. Right when I was ready to break the bills out, an average João was walking the same path and served as my scarecrow to these raven runts.

“Why do you walk through a tunnel? Everyone know don’t walk through the tunnel,” my middle-aged student told me fifteen minutes later, in the safe confines of the 21st floor conference room. It wasn’t the first time that a student tried to give me tips to avoid bandieros (bandits).

I don’t know a Carioca who hasn’t been robbed. Usually, they are more fearful of their city than gringos. This weekend I learned that they also get a little mad if you aren’t as scared and careful as they are. Despite my “expect to be robbed motto,” I’m no fool. If I can, I avoid robby scenarios. But on Friday I walked my friend Ellen right into one.

Once again in Lapa, on an infamous inclined path (where I’ve witnessed no less than 10 other robberies), I led us by some runts. Walking in front, I turned around just in time to see Ellen being dragged by purse that was being strangled off her wrist. After a fruitless chase, I was left with earfuls of “told ya so” from my befriended Lapa-ers. I shouldered some blame and thought that was the end of it.
No less than 12 hours later, at Ipanama Beach’s post 10 on Saturday afternoon some Karma enforcing bandiero got me back. Although it’s another place I’ve repeatidly been told to be wary of, I’ve never felt the least bit threatened by the invisible bag boosting crowd who roam Ipanema’s squeaking sand.

I can’t tell the details, because I wasn’t there. But someone stole my bag from right under the noses of Bob and three other friends, while I was meeting a friend.

I lost R$50, a 2 Euro pair of aviators, a somewhat pornographic Spanish towel, sunscreen (which is like gold here) and a copy of Moby Dick, in which, I was entrenched waist deep in Whale lard.

I won’t bash Bob’s trustabilty as it is officially his birithday, but with the tourist season now in full swing, I will keep my “expect to be robbed” mentality.

Especially in Lapa.

Raw: Not Just War Backwards

2009-01-13T19:44:00.000-08:00

Four months deep and I still struggle finding the right words to describe Rio de Janeiro. My cousin/traveling companion/hip-hop enthusiast/insomniac continually refers to this city as “raw”. I like that word. I’ve stolen it.

The other day I dropped eaves on a conversation between my cousin and his (girl)friend:

“You keep using that word!”
“Because that’s what it is.”
“Yea, but what does it even mean?”
“It means what it means!”

So. What does it mean to be raw? Let me break it down.

Raw like raw meat—flavorful but ultimately dangerous. I like my tri-tip as bloody as possible. “Still beating” is what I tell waiters. Why don’t I just eat it uncooked? Because I wikied it and do you know what those experts say? Raw meat can cause anything from mild discomfort to death. Death! Combining my analogy with their expertise on raw meat, “Consuming [Rio] is not the problem. It is what is in [Rio] that can be a problem.” Those smart bitches.

Raw like raw sugar—unrefined and naturally sweet. I always church up my double espressos with Sugar in the Raw. There’s just something about dissolving those tiny crystals that brings a smile to my foam-stained lips. Like raw sugar, Rio is unstirred by its well-processed neighbor, São Paulo. There is no bleaching process here...okay, maybe a little bleach. But aside from the bourgeoisie Zona Sul, Cariocas are overwhelmingly brown. Did you know that because of the natural presence of molasses, raw sugar is brown in color? Just like these people. And they're beautiful. They’re beautiful glimmering brown crystals, not dull bleachy white specks.

Raw like a raw wound—painfully exposed yet captivating. Have you ever cut yourself deep enough to see the white underskin staring back at you for a few seconds as if to say, “ahhhh, you found me!”...then quickly covering himself with a red flowing blanket of blood. Well Rio’s rawness, too, is hidden under layers and layers of skin. Tourist skin. Catholic skin. Samba skin. Soccer skin. It’s like every Carioca element has an excruciating underbelly. From favela funk to futebol fanáticos, you gotta cut deep to see the good stuff.

So when I say that my experience in Rio de Janeiro has been raw, you now have a slightly larger inkling as to what I mean. I’m not giving you a short answer because I want to get back to soaking in the summer sun on a bikini-filled beach, it’s just because it’s the only word in my vocabulary that accurately illustrates this crazy place. That and I just want to get back to soaking in the summer sun on a bikini-filled beach.

Kombi Nation: Hands Up, Eyes Closed and Fist Clenched

2009-01-11T21:15:00.000-08:00

There are a variety of ways to get to and fro in Rio. All are inefficient.

But only one comes to mind as a steadily wobbling mascot on wheels for the city. That creature of a vessel is known as the Kombi. Kombis appear to be compact Volkswagen buses. Well, actually, that’s what they are — at least from the outside.

Once you get past the two-color braided retro paint job (note: only scene on the up-to-speed Kombi’s) showcasing the Kombi’s two primary destinations, you enter another dimension.

A demented dimension.

Stinky men, with stinkier wives struggle to hang onto even stinkier children as the Kombi parties its way through Rio’s windy-est neighborhoods.

Many times these neighborhoods are favelas or somewhere in Zona Norte (the part of the city where they majority of Carioca’s live and most gringos avoid). However, between the hours of two and six in the morning you can catch a Kombi in most parts of the city, even Zona Sul (The south zone includes the beach cities and the nicer neighborhoods).

At R$2.00 a pop, Kombi’s are a bargain to the inflating 2.20 price of a bus, the 2.60 for an all-too-limited subway ride or the 4.50 starting price of a Cab fare. This drastically low price and the hard-to-reach location of our old Jungle house, had Bob and I coming in and out of Kombi’s like a good sex pun that I would could be used here. We became regulars on the Silvestre-Largo De Machado Kombi.

On one such occasion, I had the privilege of riding in the front of the Kombi. There, wedged between a Brazilian-hairy (another level, I promise you) retired linebacker looking fellow jostling between gears and a make-me-sit-in-the-middle-wanna-be suave favela type, I began to admire the stickers and trinkets that decorate most Kombi dashboards.

Giant sparkly bumper stickers, like the ones you buy at truck stops in the US, sparkled little religious sayings like “God Protect This Kombi” were slapped on every nook of this particular Kombi’s guts. Enjoying the breeze, I looked behind me to see what I wasn’t missing—16 people jammed into a space that only seats 9 comfortably. And this was not irregular. I turned around and enjoyed the breeze as we sped through Laranjeras.

My lucky day would be thwarted by a swerving taxi-cab driver, a complete rarity in Rio…dot dot dot

Another funny component about Kombi’s is that the engine is in the back, so when you are in the front only a couple of inches of plastic and tin separate you from the outer world. So when I realized the Kombi was in for a splash into a sea of yellow taxi paint, I did what the guy next to me did — nothing.

The cab, having been jackknifed, spun onto the patio seating area of a snack stand. Our Kombi, complete with screaming women and children, came to a screeching halt and everyone deboarded.

Besides a few strangling injured saps (bloody lip, fouled-up leg) the rest of the passengers waited as the driver radioed another Kombi. One arrived promptly 15 minutes later and the unfazed passengers (including myself) hopped on as if nothing happened.

Sure the Kombi’s are said to be run by the drug trafficanos in the favelas and squeezing so tightly so many times did a number on my personal between the legs baggage — I have to say I miss the little buggies.

After all, if going anywhere is a chore, wouldn’t you like that chore to cost you the least amount?

Cajus Everything Around Me: When keeping it Rio’ goes Raw-ng

2009-01-07T13:01:00.000-08:00

I always thought Cashews were a nut. And I’m nuts for ‘em.

Apparently, however, they are actually a seed from a fruit — cashew (or Caju) fruit. The delicacy is as popular here as it is in my heart. At all of Rio’s juice stands you can order Caju fruit juice and buy salted cashews from street vendors.
A strange looking item, the Caju fruit is so tender that it cannot be exported. Before coming to South America I had never encountered the source of my beloved “seed.”

Naturally, I was eventually bound to buy a few Caju fruits myself in order to extract and dine on a cashew or two in their purest form.
Many times Keepin’ It Rio is best achieved by Keepin’ It Raw.

Raw is a term as loaded as an Irishman who lost his flock. But for the purposes of our blog it usually means pure, un-tampered with and honest.

And honestly, it is usually a day-to-day goal of mine while roaming Rio to get raw with the city, at most to all costs. This time the cost was my lips.

I had only consumed a fraction of the nut before learning (via recently bill-paid-up-and-running and saving-my-life Wikipedia) that you must NEVER consume a raw cashew seed.

It’s nestled in a cocoon of the same toxin found in poison ivy. Mid-read my mouth started sizzling and popping like pork in a microwave.

I’m ashamed to admit I freaked-out a little bit. I watered, juiced and soaped my mouth while Aria, one of our three holiday Gringo visitors braved the language barrier storm and created a vitamin C paste for my poison ivy-ed mouth.
Liquids tasted strange for a couple of days but I’ve survived.

In other news, its 2009, so Happy New Year and remember, not everything is best raw.

Natal not Nadal: And Out Come The Sloths

2008-12-22T23:25:00.000-08:00

A few hours ago I built a snowman.

Or, a snowman was built by me, a few hours ago.

Either way, it’s Christmas time.

I would like to believe that the cold material I harvested from the sides of our broken, bronze ooze-spewing freezer was real snow.

But it was ice shingles pried and hacked off a broken freezer.

I didn’t began wailing on the ice with the intention of constructing anything, much less a pleasant symbol of the holiday season that I find increasingly impossible to get in the spirit of. I was merely trying to open the door to a frozen-shut freezer.

The build up to my Rio Christmas has been odd.

I’m accustomed to an influx of family, decornaments tossed to and fro, cold temperatures, big trees, mad grub, presenting, purchasing, wrapping, gingerbread stacking, grab bagging, the Grinch/Christmas story on repeat, etc.

Call this tropical Christmas whatever it may be but from the summer-mall-décor onset it’s been strange.

For starters, the hostel we stayed at for our first 3 weeks in the city invited us to participate in something they call “amigo oculto.” Disgusted by the imagined initiation processes of this “friend cult” I was halfway to anywhere-but-there when I found out it was a gift exchange, thing.

So, we drew names and were set to deliver our $R 10-20 gift to our cult pal on the 16th. Among the dozen names, was the adorable 15-year-old, boyfriend of the hostel’s 22-year-old hostel manager (the cult consisted of hostel employees, their significant others and close friends of the hostel).

The boy doesn’t speak English and I hadn’t seen much of him since we moved to the Jungle house in October. His eyebrow raising relationship with our Hostel-manager-friend, also male, put a “Keepin’ It almost too Rio” spin on the gift exchange scouring.

In short, I did what any respectable hip-hop enthusiast would do and I bought him Jay-Z’s “Fade To Black” DVD with Portuguese subtitles.

The gift exchanging went well enough and I wont go into Cheesy details, aside from this Vasco towel I got.

Now, adding to the holidoddity is the trip we are embarking on tomorrow.

We are joining our Brazilian friend, codename Luiz, to his “beach house” in Cabo Frio, a weekend get-a-way spot for upper class Cariocas.

First of all, this “beach house” has 40 beds in 10 rooms and was supposed to be a hostel. Now, it’s just used by three gringos and a three toed sloth looking Brazilian dude.

****Watch video of the aforementioned sloth here. Indeed they are hilarious in their slowness and also a Presidential declared official animal of Brazil.

As curiously as those Sloths dangle, so does my mind at the reasons our overly-nice friend is driving us to such a location on such a family specialized occasion in such a seemingly strong family based country (ain’t no one live out they house until they hitched). Other friends are set to meet up with us during our Dec. 23,24,25,26 stay, pushing my pondering to the brink.

So, Cabo Frio is a quaint community where the rich migrate to in order to talk about how much better life is without street dwelling/pick-pocketing/ public defecating/ beach mobbing/ favelados are. Or at least, that’s what they tell me.

They also tell me the beaches are nice, so as long as the thunderstorms remain as isolated as the weather websites tell me — I might get a Christmas tan.

Weird. What the hell is a Christmas tan? The only skin shade change I’m used to during the holidays comes through loss of feeling in my cheeks, during Utah blizzards.

Maybe that was the feeling I was building towards when I constructed the freezer iceman who I tried to pass off as a snowman.

Either way, to all those enjoying any sort of regular Christmas traditions, I envy you a tad.

Stop reading the Rio blog and chug a few glasses of eggnog for the both of us.

Feliz Natal

IF ENGLISH WORDS WERE BABIES

2008-12-16T14:09:00.000-08:00

in Africa, Rio de Janeiro would be Angelina Jolie. Cariocas (Rio locals) love adopting our vocabulary.

Shopping, surfing, happy hour, old school, self serve, Big Mac. These are all part of the everyday speech of a Carioca.

Here’s my favorite: Cheeseburger. Let me explain.

They keep the English cheeseburger, but pronounce it with a Carioca accent--Sheesh-burger. Coincidentally, the letter X is pronounced sheesh as well. So, naturally, they write X-burger on their menus.

My usual is a X-Tudo (a sheeshburger with everything). Two buns, meat, lettuce, bacon, an egg, tomato, onion, and potato flakes. Mmmmm. Sheesh.

Sometimes before I get a X-Tudo, I say, “I’ve got some sheesh to do.” Well, no one’s usually around so I just think it. It gets me through the day.

It’s normal to pay around R$2 for a sheesh. That’s roughly 80 US cents.

The best place to have your sheesh done is a podrão. Podrão is slang that literally means “The Big Rotten”—mainly because of their dodgy ingredients. Bascially, a Podrão consists of any person grilling meat on the street. It can be a trailer. It can be a kiosk. It can be some dude with hot coals and tin foil. They all speak the sheesh-language. so either way there will be meat in your buns. (that's what sheesh said)

Vasco: The Futebol Post

2008-12-13T10:53:00.000-08:00

In December of 2006, I hugged a chubby, unimpressed Englishman in London.

I squeezed him as hard as I would an old friend or an I-thought-you-were-dead-and-just-found-out-you’re-not relative. I didn’t do it on purpose. It was impulse. The second I saw Thierry Henry’s free kick brush the top of net, I was embracing this confused man.

I don’t even remember thinking about what I was doing. I was in bliss. After standing outside for three hours trying to swindle swindlers for tickets, after they repeatedly call you a Yank-cunt, the whole reason thing kind of flies out the top of the stadium.

The man, looked at me, then looked at his fellow Britons occupying the nosebleeds in Arsenal’s brand spanking new Emirates Stadium and merely adjusted his glasses. They seemed to have managed to shift during the shaking and debauchery of my, seemingly out-of-order, celebration.

The goal, after all, only tied the match 1-1.

While this is the saddest example, I’ve stumbled upon other disappointing levels of enthusiasm during my pinballing between Europe’s biggest soccer stadiums over the past four years. I’m certain, that if that same pompous character found his way into a Rio De Janeiro stadium his glasses would explode — along with his head.

After what I saw Sunday afternoon, I’m convinced that not a single fan in Rio would be impressed by the passion of their European rivals.
You know how, sometimes there is one person during any given American sports finals (Baseball, Basketball, Football) who is just taking it way too seriously and getting way more into it than everyone else. Usually this is the person that comes to mind when you think of fanatic.

This same person actually has the grapes to brand the team’s logo somewhere on their body. This guy (or girl) breaks shit when the team loses, gambles and may or may not hit people they love during the team’s hard times.

Now. Imagine that someone cloned this crazy bastard 30,000 times and allowed all of them to unite, at once. Then, in true Clockwork Orange fashion, let them watch something that would make them more upset than anything in the world.

Me and Bob’s experience last Sunday afternoon was double that.

As someone who, for better or worse, becomes entirely, illogically obsessed with soccer, I felt some emotional involvement in the result. Yet my two-month loyalty to the Vasco crest put me more out of place than in place among the weeping and enraged distortion of a mob.

What exactly was at stake to make this day especially demonic?

When a team does poorly in American sports, they finish at the bottom of the standings and are told, “better luck next year.” You know, win or go home (until next season starts).

In contrast when a team does poorly in the world soccer leagues (not including the MLS) one year, they are relegated (or demoted) to the division below them. In other words, win or you don’t earn the right to even compete against the best next year.

It’s like if the Los Angeles Dodgers finished in last place, the entire team would have to play in the AAA league the next season. The top teams in the second division go up and the bottom finishers in the first league go down.

And the cycle can continue. Most leagues around the world have around 7 divisions. A team could be relegated from 1st to second Division one year and from 2nd to 3rd the next year. Emotionally, the toll this could take on a fan could be fatal.

Imagine that the Lakers did so badly that they had to play in some semi-pro league for an entire year the next season. Their games would be off major channels, attendance and advertising dollars fall. Then imagine that the Lakers were one of only two teams in the NBA to never have been relegated, in their 110-year history. And imagine that the only other team that hasn’t been relegated are the Celtics, your biggest rival.

This is was at stake for Vasco on Sunday. To make matters worse, their fate was out of their hands. In the U.S. we would say, Vasco needed to win and have help, to save their season. They needed a victory and a few other teams needed to lose in games that were being played simultaneously throughout Brazil.

For this reason, radios were wedged into the ears of nail nibbling fans. They listened intently for the results of other matches, as they watched Vasco slowly dying right before their eyes.

Roars and moans boomed from the crowd in reaction to the action in front of them, but they also spread infectiously when information about another relevant match filtered through the stands.

Outside the stadium, people were already on edge. The scalped tickets we bought angered the turnstile soldiers so much, that I had to play the stupid gringo card on them.

“Umm, No falar porch-ugese.”
“English?”
“Yeah.”
“Who gave you these tickets? These are illegal, you could go to jail!”

I proceeded to make up a story about a Brazilian cousin who gave us the tickets earlier that day. Bob followed along. The Vasco guard, stern finger pointing and all, let us pass.

Things were blatantly optimistic before the match. Like all good (albeit disillusioned) fans, even in the face of certain doom, hope was the buoy that kept the crowd afloat. Along with the radios, fans kept lucky herbs wedged behind their ears.

The kind of dumb joy that comes with watching sport for most laymen was gone before the game even began. People were bellowing the clubs anthems, but I don’t think anyone, including myself would describe the atmosphere as fun. Clouds were sagging above the stadium.

Vasco seemingly went ahead early in the match. The stands erupted. I noticed, a chubby, shirtless fan tackle his friend down the cement stairs, flopping onto the ground in euphoria. Unfortunately the goal was scored from an offside position and was called back. This mirage was the closest Vasco got to being on the scoreboard.

When Vitoria, Vasco’s final nemesis, knocked in a goal about midway through the first half — most optimism was vanquished.

Halftime was eerie. About half of the fanatics sat, head in hands, silently. The other half, either shouted insults at an empty field or ate away their worries at the Habib (middle eastern McDonalds and Vasco sponsor) snack-stands. But it wasn’t until the second goal trickled into the net, piercing what was left of the crowd’s nearly empty hope-balloon.
No more than a minute had passed when the first police baton came cracking down on the noggins of fans. The section immediately to our right was the first victim. A good dozen riot police burst up the steps, swinging wildly at fans. Not sure if anyone knew why.

Maybe a fan yelled something or socked another fan, but the origin didn’t seem too important. Instead the level of fear and anger skyrocketed. People stopped watching the game completely.

Scared fans and families began flooding the exits away from the war zone. I figured we were safe as long as our section didn’t erupt in fury. Plus, I pride myself in never leaving games before the final whistle.

About the same time I was musing my priorities, I began fingering my camera in my pocket with front line footage in mind. Right then a flare was thrown near a field cameraman and another battalion of police, after marching immediately in front of us, scaled the stairs of the section immediately to our left.

In baseball, they call it a pickle. You have to get to the bases (exits), before the opponent (in our situation the mob or the police) tags you (tramples or batons us). So, it was on.

Most of the crowd began taking to the exit tunnel that is the buffer between the outside and inside of the stadium. We followed but hadn’t made it through the tunnel when a few dozen people began sprinting and screaming back towards us. Running away from something.

When you watch movies and see water or fire cascading down hallways, there is always some tiny nook on the side to jump into for safety. In our case, it was the women’s bathroom. Women and children were screaming, panting and holding each other. One chubby teenager was throwing up in the sink, between wiping his tears.

I realized then, how people die at soccer games — they are scared to death. And by that, of course I mean trampled. This was no place to be.

So we picked a point, like you do jaywalking, and dashed towards the nearest exit. On the way up the exit ramp, a group of stone-faced 20-30 year olds were marching back into the stadium. A woman shouted “elles vaim voltar,” or “they’re coming back.”

Outside the stadium, tension was still sky high and sporadic waves of riot police were scanning the crowd from horses, clutching batons and large wooden staffs. Pockets of the crowd outside were arguing with each other and with the police.

We walked through the 110 years of flat lined tradition and passion. Making it onto a bus a few blocks away.

On the bus, the despair drew on. Some of the more subtle reactions ranged from smashing used watermelon wedges on benches to jerseys being turned inside out in shame. Even futebol neutrals seemed down about the whole thing. It’s rare, in Rio, to see literally everyone on a bus frowning.

A day later, every newspaper on every newsstand and every coffee drinker in every snack stand in Rio reacted to Vasco’s bloody Sunday. I imagined it was a sort-of unique riot because the brawl wasn’t between two sets of rival fans. It was a manifestation of the temporary end of the lives of thousands of sports fans.

Whether the police were trying to straightjacket the crowd, to protect them from themselves, is up in the air. A lot of times, looking at the cops faces, its hard not to see a hint or two of enjoyment in beating the rowdy fans.

Vascainos (fans of Vasco), now have to endure an entire summer of torture and taunting from their rivals as they wait for their second division campaign to begin. Which might even turn out to be a more stressful season, because if they don’t finish in the top four next year, they will be stuck in the second division.

I think this is the most difficult part for the fans.

One fan, after we left the stadium, actually tried to kill himself. News stations repeatedly displayed the sight of this Vascaino, dangling his body from the top of the team’s stadium. Vasco’s motto “Força Jovem” written on his shirt faced news cameras.
Right when he was letting go, a few police officers caught his hands.

Needless to say, when I arrived in Brazil, the only direct experience I had with the domestic leagues was what I read about on occasion. Of course, what sticks out in my mind about the South American leagues (Brazil and Argentina in particular) is the unparalleled passion of their fans. More often than is reported, I’m sure, the passion does erupt into violence. Every year, these two leagues lead the recorded fan death tallies in the world. Most of these deaths come from trampling.

This is the first time a team I support has ever been relegated. I gotta say — it’s an ugly sight.

Shape Shifting: We Have Emerged

2008-12-09T03:23:00.000-08:00

Posts have been scarce of late.

This is because, we've been saved...

Last Monday we were gifted with the news that our Trinidad and Tabagian homie was bouncing to her native islands for 3 months right when we needed a place for 3 months.

It just so happens, she lives in the middle-class/centrally located place where we “work” — the neighbor-wood of Botafogo.

With the majority of short-term, furnished, rentable places in Rio being in only the most expensive tourist areas, with only the most expensive tourist price tags — our find was a godsend.

Sadly, this may mean significantly less jokes about life above a Favela and below a jungle. Fortunately, it means absolutely every other aspect of our lives will now be improved.

All this change, for the same price we’ve been paying — a combined R$800.

We have yet to swindle a way to snag wireless web waves from our new neighbors but the mall next door has a couple of hot spots. In fact, we pretty much have everything we could ever need in a two-block radius from our building.

This is a sharp contrast from the, can’t walk no where for nuthin’ or no one, status of our old place.

Me n Bob got the Jungle bungalow until Friday but have most of our junk in our new, “kitchenette”/studio/one-room apartment. In fact, we already held a funeral/party/BBQ/Caiparinha fest with anyone willing to make the long, dangerous trek up to our the crib to give it a send-off.

Now, for your entertainment, here are two walk-through videos of the The Jungle and The Fogo residences. These visuals should give you some sense of the wide range of living conditions you can encounter living in Rio.

The Jungle:

The Fogo:

*In other news, Sunday was a fateful afternoon in our sporting lives.

We visited the São Januario stadium in the Northern part of the city, to witness our beloved Vasco De Gama Futebol Club fall into the second division for the first time in their 110-year history.

Shit got grimy.

A post on that later this week, once the wounds began to heal.

BEING AN ENGLISH TEACHER

2008-12-02T09:02:00.000-08:00

in Rio is like the inside of an ostrich egg—one big yoke.

Let me crack the shell for you.

The vast vast vast majority of TEFL (Teaching English as a Foreign Language) jobs in Rio de Janeiro are one-to-one business English classes. My students are engineers and systems analysts for oil companies. Their international bloodsucking employers need them to speak English like the rest of the office, so they pay a language company to send a native English speaker (me) to teach 2 or 3 days a week.

So what’s the problem? Doesn’t this system benefit everyone? Ideally, yes. But this is what actually happens:

Fernando Fernandez is Alex’s English student. Fernando Fernandez works long days. Days filled with deadlines and reports. Days filled with angry managers. Days filled with stress. Does Fernando Fernandez want to spend an hour-and-a-half beating his brain into a pulp over which modal auxiliary to use or how the present perfect progressive tense is formed? Probably not. Would Fernando Fernandez rather spend that time yoking around with an American? You bet your bottom Real.

Don’t the companies monitor what’s being taught?

The extent of accountability in my class is a sign-in sheet. Aside from that scribble of an initial, what happens in that classroom is between that student and me. But first there needs to be an unspoken agreement. Some signal saying, “Neither of us wants to be here, so let’s take advantage of this time and just hang out.” This is even the case with my more serious students. Once this pact is mutually understood, nobody really does all that much of anything.

Everybody wins. Okay, except maybe the oil companies. But they’re used to winning. Plus, by not providing proper English lessons to these companies, I’m being patriotic. I’m hindering the progression of foreign energy. So I guess I’m doing my part. Go USA!

Chur-ass-care-ia : Eat your chicken heart out

2008-12-01T07:40:00.000-08:00

Call it a meat-lovers wet dream, call it a vegetarians worst nightmare — I call it a glut feeling.

Gluttony is Rio's thing anyway.

So, why wouldn't we go to a Churrascaria for thanksgiving?

There is no better place to let it all hang out than at an all-you-can-eat meatery, on the day where you eat-all-you-can.

En-route to meet the other meatheads (Americans) at the meathouse, I had to turned down a weed offering from my bus driver.
Yeah — dude was working too. Stopped the bus once he was shielded by one of the many thickets of vines, trees and swinging monkeys that line the lonely Almirante Alexandrino road that leads to our above-favela-wood-face crib.

He stopped the bus. Went outside, got high as balls and re-assumed his position behind his red/yellow/green decorated wheel, whining Bob Marley tunes all the way down the windy, dangerous road to Rio's Centro.

Needless to say, more than a few potential passengers were ignored by the now-in-the-zone driver. Santa Teresans' attempts to hail the bus served only as my enterainment, as I watched them 1. run 2. yell and 3. huff/puff while cursing after the smoked-out vessel.

Now, I don't smoke but honestly, the stuff seemed powerful enough, to have really given me the edge against the blades at the Churrascaria.

I starved myself. But you gotta take all the help you can get at these joints. Even joints.

It ain't a sprint. It's a marathon. And I didn't train.

Nonsense like rice, fried bananans, farofa (dust for meat), french fries, cheese bread, pico-de-gallo-ish stuff and absolutely everything at the absurdly equipped salad bar will only slow you down (a collection of average sushi slabs in particular, got the much-better of me).

I learned this the hard, not-in-time, way.

Unlike most thanksgivings where there are some clear endpoints in sight for a number of tasty items — there is no bottom, no empty containers. You don't even have to move, you're serviced. Your only limits are time and stomach space.

Little militant-meat-spike-yielding servants are constantly swirling about with different shades of brown/red/tan carnivour feed, eager to slice slices until you say when. At first these troops are welcome in the battle to make the 32 Reais meal (15 U.s. dollaz) count, but they quickly become enemies.

When you have spent weeks starving yourself, eating beans, rice, lentils, acai, and the occasional salgado (another post) — your not ready to keep up. Your not ready to taste the threads of the meat, tickling your throat all the way down to your shrunken stomach. You pile everything you see in your gizzard as soon as possible. And you know what? You fail.

Next time, we might have to pre-meat with the bus driver, among other precautions.

Slouching São Paulo Steez

2008-11-25T11:04:00.000-08:00

The latest in Brazilian
hilarity = incredibly
spacious buses for short trips between cities.

I mean, Bob puts up that chair divider and he’s cuddling with the poor lass. Who knew coach travel could be this comfy, while simultaneously managing to break age barriers.

We marked our two-months in Rio's trenches, with a trek to the state beneath us geographically and in terms of grime —São Paulo. Notorious for makin’ ish and shippin’ ish, it’s not a business state, it’s a business…state.
That was a Jay-Z reference.
I didn’t find Jay-Z down São-th, because he’s touring with Coldplay and prepin’ to perform at the presidential innaguration.

But this wasn't about Jay-Z or the new Kanye jawn that I tried to repeatedly worked to wrap my head around during the two 6-hour maximum-recline rides — it was about seeing things that we would never see while Keepin It so damn Rio.

Drunk buildings.
Every structure has a mercedez-bend to it in the port-city of Santos. I imagine there is an entire well-established industry that specializes in constructing and installing specific furniture leveling equipment. Rio takes pride in it's crooked archetecture (see: favelas), but just blames it on poverty instead of something as trait as shaky soil. Which is a curious scapegoat considering the sand felt more like concrete.

Concretesand.
Far from the soft squeeking of the Copacabana sand. Yeah — it's really hard. But it's also difficult to really get any of it on you. Good for games, undesirable for frolicking. Kids kicked the futi around without dune interference. Yet, the usually leisurely afternoon activity of Sand Castling, suddenly turns chore when you have to dig for every grain. São givith and it takith. But it also selleth.

Buttselling. — the nice (?) way to call the prosts.
Ya see, in Rio, them shits is just out there. Like bang. Ready to go, be 'em men, women, or transformers. But the busy state to the São-th, keeps things legit and transparent. Better for biz. This includes card slangin'.

Card Slangin'.
I mean, Jesus. Kids in São Paulo actually have the nerve, to be out in the streets doing something other than begging/looting/huffing chemicals. Instead, these little bastards spend their hours trading absurdly priced pre-printed epileptic seisures back and forth — taking it seriously no less. The little tots pictured above are scene "trading" hologramic hufflepuffs and peekamen in Sao Paulo's Japanese district of Liberdade. Complete with ill graffiti.

Ill Graffiti.
Although Rio has some deceeee murals and jumbles, it's S to the P got that craze spray. When you paint a guy who's paintin next to another guy, who's not even phased by the painting of the first guy— shheeeshh, that's some ill graff.
Peep the green knit sweater. Diamond pattern. Who needs real diamonds when you got the diamond pattern? Who needs small avocados when you got big avocados?

Big & Small Avocados.
It might seem like a blessing to have avocados this big at your disposal. Unfortunately these aren't those kind of avocados — they are sweet. So sweet that some people order avocado and orange juice mixtures at juice bars in Rio. Even if that order was on accident, the fact that they didn't look at me strange when I fumbled my pronunciation, indicates the regularity of the order. In short—the small ones are more near to normal. Unattainable in Rio.

This Dog

Cariocas would give this pup the boot.
Rio's pet population is more well kept than 90% of the population.
They are dressed to for an ideal.
Never to reflect the actual streets they prance on.
Down São-th them shits got Mohawks!

IF WE WERE ANY DEEPER IN THE RAIN FOREST

2008-11-19T07:13:00.000-08:00

we’d be dancing along the riverbank with Mowgli and Baloo. Or was The Jungle Book about India? Whatever. You know what I mean. Shit’s wild.

You think I’m over exaggerating, don’t you? Well, Doubting Thomas, I would like to introduce you to our neighbor Jesus. Oh, you two have already met? Seriously, though. The famous Christ Redeemer statue is a stone’s throw from our house. And I’d gladly cast that first stone to prove it. I realize this might be difficult to understand, so here’s a diagram that I’ve drawn to help illustrate the whereabouts of our abode.

There aren’t any giant tomatoes or cheese wedges (those are just our magnets) but this is an exact 1:198 scale drawing of our house in relation to Rio de Janeiro. You be the judge.

Also, I’ve recently discovered why they call it the “rain forest”—it rains. In America we say, “when it rains, it pours.” In Brazil they say, “when it rains, it rains.” I like their expression better. When it rains, it rains. It means they weren’t kidding when they said that it rains in the first place. And what happens when it pours in America? When it pours, it pours? So then when it rains or pours, it pours. I don’t understand. Watch this:

After every storm, it is calm again. Some call it “The Calm After the Storm.” I call it “The 2nd Night Out After the Hangover.” The rain forest is no exception. The monkeys come out. The toucans squawk their squawks. The bugs continue biting me. The geckos seek refuge in our house, dodging projectile Tupperware.

Everything goes back to normal—but just a little more beautiful than before.

What the funk?

2008-11-17T11:44:00.000-08:00

I bet your thinking, “This music, uploaded for me and now streaming on this blog, doesn’t sound like the funk that I know.”

You’re right. It doesn’t

But this funk is what Rio sounds like. Not everyone likes it, not everyone thinks it's going in the right direction, but it shore is sexy. As sexy as Rio's shores.

Sure the lyrics of this particular song might be “Tonight you can call me a bitch.” But they could also be “Tonight, I am going to do my part to respect myself. I hope that you, in-turn, treat me with respect and we both enjoy ourselves.”

Don’t worry. When you can’t understand a language, the meanings of the lyrics kind of become D.I.Y.

There will certainly be more about funk to come.

Enjoy.

I hate travel writing

2008-11-17T10:26:00.000-08:00

Sure it might seem ironic. I mean, by most definitions I’m a traveler and by the important definitions, I’m a writer. But travel writing (whether I’m doing the writing or the reading) is superiorly lame.

Most people think they can write, but somehow, even more people think they can travel write. They assume that the moment the ink dries on a fresh passport stamp, they have been transformed into a wordsmith. What’s worse is that these literary mutants heap the heavy, cringe-worthy burden of reading the narcissistic, over-generalized, uninteresting, lengthy garbage on top of their closest allies — friends and family.

Some people still have the decency to use the limited space provided on a postcard. This is advantageous to both the giver and receiver of an out-of-country dispatch. Yet, today much of these feces footnotes fly instantly across the globe, via the borderless medium of e-mail. Even more unfortunately, like everything else known to man, this growing steaming pile has toppled over onto the blog-eh-sphere.

We got how-to-travel-like-me blogs, I-promise-I’m-really-unique travel blogs, aren’t-you-wondering-why-I-have-this-much-time-on-my-hands-being-abroad travel blogs, hurry-look-at-me-I-need-attention-and-ironically-that’s-what-I-left-my-own-country-in-the-first-place travel blogs, and more.

My alphabet-soup vomit contains better writing than travel blogs.

That said, I ain’t here to recommend a damn thang to do in Rio, to paint any pictures of beautiful sunsets, or to make any top-ten lists about what I like about Brazil.

For now though, I am here. Along with Bob, on what will likely prove to be a fruitless attempt to translate our laughter into web noise.

I refuse, to call what I am doing travel writing or travel blogging or any variation of those terms. Instead, I consider this a blog about what goes down in Rio. I could, as easily, write it about what happens to me in traffic.

It just wouldn’t be as hilarious.

Ya dig?

EVERYBODY GOES

2008-11-15T13:39:00.000-08:00

to Lapa on Friday nights. Sure, you can try not to. But you'll end up there

"I can't handle one more night in Lapa."
"Yea, me neither. Let's go to Copacabana. It's supposed to have the best clubs anyway."
"Sounds good. I just need to meet up with this girl first."
"OK. Where?"
"Lapa."

I've learned to just accept Lapa as the inevitable destination on a Friday. It's like a period at the end of a statement: you just expect it. (see, there it is) I suppose the party town has a few drawbacks. Every curb has a constantly flowing stream of human urine, quickly followed by its accompanying stench. Each scan of the crowd is marred by a transvestite prost, somehow looking more naked wearing clothes than if they were actually naked. Dirt. Crime. Sex. Beggars. Fear. Filth. Puke. What's not to love?

What is to love is Noberto. Noberto is the "Caipirinha Guy". He makes the best Caipirinha in Rio. One Lime. Two scoops of sugar. Ice. And a lot of cachaça (Brazilian liquor). A short man. Dark, with a bit of a jerry curl going on. Always smiling and he loves his thumbs-up. I think cutting limes all night helps block out the Amazon River of pee ten feet from his stand. Fortunately, you can hear that one before stepping in it.

If somebody really hates Lapa, I think he or she expects too much from the world. The world is dirty. The world has pee rivers. The world smells like coagulated hooker sweat. But if you take the time, you'll find a lime.

I HAD NO INTENTION

2008-11-15T09:43:00.000-08:00

of keeping a written account of my experience in Brazil. I mean I've been here for nearly two months of my six-month fiasco. Why start now? Well, that's a handsome question. I think there are so many things happening that I'm starting to forget some of them (or at least remembering them in hilariously cartoony ways). And hey, why not share some stories with my favorite people at the same time? So yes, I will blog. I will blog my thoughts. I will blog my observations. I will blog blog blog. But wait. This all sounds very unBob. Is it, though? What is Bob anyway? Maybe that's what I'm trying to find out. Or maybe that's what I'm finding to try out. If you are one of the fortunate few that end up reading this: 1. I'm sorry, 2. Why?, 3. Did you vote for Obama?, and 4. I hope my adventures provide some source of entertainment for you. If I could priority ship my love to you, I would. I'd first ask how much. But I'd pay. I would. But then what's the point of even asking the price? I guess it is important to know how much I'm sending my love for. Oop, coffee's ready.