Perhaps it was a good thing our heads were a bit foggy the morning after Lapa so Simon, Tristan and I didn’t have full grasp of our faculties to think about what we were doing. Had we been able to think straight I’m not sure I would have been able to run off the edge of a mountain and throw myself into the sky.
Paragliding is a new concept for me. It’s a pursuit requiring patience as we stood at the top of the jump-off for several minutes with wisps of misty cloud silently caressing us as it moved like a snake between the mountains below and above us. Max, my veteran instructor and I waited until the perfect breeze before running down about 15 metres of let’s-call-it-a-runway-because-you-run-on-it until it ran out and prayed it was enough to open the chute and catch us before we tumbled down the side to say goodnight. I’m still here, so it worked 😉
I noticed the silence first of all, high above the traffic and humankind, swaying side to side and spiraling around to see Corcovado Mountain, drinking in the cooler rainforest air and watching the ocean stretch forever to wrap itself around the horizon. I definitely want to try sky diving now! As a ground-dwelling species it’s a compulsion to try and fly and I think I want to come back as a bird. To rise above a single plane of view, dip and sway, turn any way you choose, is a liberating feeling. Freedom.
Like a good theme park ride, it’s over so fast. The ground focused sharply in an instant we were skidding to a stop on our behinds in a park by the beach. The photos and videos safely copied to DVD we headed back to the hotel.
The rest of the crew assembled ahead of their city tour and we had just enough time to present a signed Lapa street party hat from everyone to Tomás with his tips and say our tearful goodbyes. It’s genuinely hard to think back to the early few days of the tour before we were all friends to here and now when we’ve been through so many great experiences and share so much in common. Tomás named us his second top tour group and got a real kick out of the hat. Money comes and goes, it’s the personal gestures that have the biggest impact for him, he said. Mieke, Tomás and I grabbed a coffee and snack before I left to get to my hotel, Casa Mosquito.
Rua Saint Roman is a cobblestone street that joins Copacabana and Ipanema and runs past the Cantagalo favela, a safe neighbourhood with visible police presence. My taxi driver wasn’t interested in driving up it and dumped me at the bottom before ripping me off (I didn’t want to go to a hostel he kept recommending). I hauled my bag all the way and never once felt threatened and nobody took any notice of me. In hindsight I can see I took the long way around coming from the Copacabana side, other taxi drivers all dropped me at the door of the hotel and these are the times a good grasp on the local language can make all the difference. In the end I got to see the local residents in their element and arriving at the hotel a beautiful porter took my bag for me up the long set of stairs to reception. And then he brought me a cold orange juice. I really wish I could have taken him home with me.
Benjamin of Casa Mosquito gave me the low down and then showed me to my den for the next few days with balcony, open bathroom, wonderful bed, gold-skull decorated coffee mugs and iPod dock with speakers. I promptly put music on, had a luxurious shower and then swanned about in the toweling robe. You know you do it too. A cup of tea and decent tilt at the free wifi before a snooze, I tried everything to not feel lonely being so suddenly and totally alone.
Around 10pm I got the taxi to do several laps of middle-Copacabana before arriving back at our original hotel to join the group for the favela party. Now, I gather our expectations or misconceptions on what a favela party can be were a little off the mark. For our particular itinerary we got in a minibus, drove for miles to a petrol station. Picked up a few starters and drank them in the car park while waiting for all the other minibuses to turn up and get our wristbands. I abstained from alcohol, as it turns out I was about to get quite sick and I didn’t have the taste for it. I should have seen that as a sign perhaps.
Wristbands donned we continued on into the favela and pulled up outside a vibrating warehouse surrounded by throngs of wild-eyed party-hard locals. We stepped inside the club for the obligatory pat down looking for drugs and weapons and the went upstairs to our VIP area to buy overpriced beer, vodka or water, swelter in the heat, view the crowd below and do our best to not go deaf from the loud doof doof noise the DJ would have us believe is “music”. It’s not my scene at home, even less so when we had to endure 3-4 hours of it before the tour bus would take us home.
Hannah, Hayley and I ran out of gusto and after getting it through the skull of the tour “leader” that we had to go sooner than scheduled we made it onto a local bus who then found us a taxi in Leblon to take us to our hotels. The bus trip was the kind that at the time you either laugh or cry and know that you’ll laugh about later…someone in the back seat had partied too hard and proceeded to make a mess of himself and the back of the bus. The funny part was the double-take of the conductor when he realised what was happening. After kicking party-dude out at the next stop, they stopped by a petrol station and hosed out the bus. The smell slightly improved, we continued.
Getting back to the hotel that night was blissful and I had one of those showers that make me realise how grateful I am to have access to clean, warm running water.
The next day I was out for the count. A resurgence of glandular fever due to my best efforts to live the style of the tour – YOLO. Exhausted, fevered, achey and moaney, I hunkered down for the day and night to sleep through a glorious Rio day.
I made it to Ipanema beach by lunch time the following day, renting an umbrella and chair and perching myself on the hot white sand. My book couldn’t hold my attention quite as well as watching people. The crowds built slowly over the day, umbrellas springing up all along the brilliant bright stretch.
The hawkers almost outnumbered the customers, selling suncream, sarongs, sunglasses, beer, drinks, açai, jewelry, hats, souvenirs, shirts and the classic Brazilian bikini – the kind that doesn’t fit anyone because they’re apparently not meant to cover much beyond what a 2-bit rag mag would slap a couple of stars and the words “too rude!” over. I splurged on drinks, açai, a sarong, bikini top and some sunnies after my pair mysteriously disappeared while I went swimming.
The water was divine, clear and refreshing. The view back to the sand, fast disappearing under thousands of umbrellas, the hotels and upwards to the mountains and favelas cemented for me that I couldn’t be anywhere but Rio.
Back up the cobblestone hill to my hotel to pack and shower and I saw the extent of my new tan…I am now a brown, pink and lily white patchwork of tan lines. Just don’t call me Neapolitan.