Nationalities

For the next couple of weeks after the big football match, I counted down the remaining days of work at the hostel. Time was nearly up and the family were coming for a holiday. I spent my time working the bar and talking to the guests, but my friends had gone and I was becoming a little bored repeating the same conversations over and over again "Where are you from? How long are you out here for? Where are you going next?". I'd had enough of the hostel life, though Rio still did it for me, and was anxious to see the family again. I started thinking back over all the people I'd encountered and the different nationalities I'd met.

The most common nationality we'd had as guests was undoubtedly the Israelis. They had all completed their mandatory 3 years military service and, with the money they'd saved, come travelling. It's easy to stereotype nationalities in a place like the hostel, but it's even easier when the group in question almost entirely lives up to it. The majority of Israelis I met were travelling in groups of 5, 6 or more and largely kept to themselves. Some took this to be a rather elitist, position on their part and avoided them. Others took it to be just plain rude and did the same. As the barman, I was in a position where I came into contact with all guests, whether they wanted to speak to me or not. Speaking to one Israeli girl I discovered that their feeling towards the other nationalities was perhaps a mixture of ignorance and cautious curiosity.
"Why doen't anyone like Isrealis?" she asked, "nobody wants to speak to us".
"Maybe it's because you guys never speak to anyone else" I suggested.
"But they don't understand us. They just believe their media and think we're the bad guys. We don't want to kill people, we just want peace. What would you do if someone was bombing London everyday?". I hadn't even mentioned politics. This was one of many similar conversations I'd had with Israelis, who seemed to have, for want of a better phrase, a kind of quick-fire defense system of repeatable one-liners, when it came their dubious global image.

The second biggest group of travellers, for the obvious reason of proximity, is Argentines, though they come and go at particular times of the year. Unlike the Israelis, who appear in Rio all at the same time, as dictated by the one government travel advice website that most of them use, the Argentine travel season coincides, more logically, with their summer holidays. As the universities break up for 2 months, students from the other South American countries descend on Rio, but financially it's far easier for Argentines and Chileans to come to visit, hence their large numbers and the conspicuous absence of Bolivians, Peruvians and Equadorians. The young Argentines reminded me of British youths on booze-up trips to Ibiza or Faliraki. Loud, in-your-face and always demanding the dreaded Reggaeton (a monotonous, pop-dance genre, the most popular music of Argentina), they propped up my bar from open till close. Every night. I couldn't really hold it against them. They were just making the most of their time off and at least they were friendly. The Chileans were far more reserved in their drinking habits, but no less friendly and they became one of my favourite travelling nationalities.

After these, come the British and Australians. At least I knew what to expect from them and some of the best friends I made at the hostel were Brits and Aussies. The only other big nationality travelling were Canadians. Fun, easily approachable and culturally familiar, they came consistantly throughout the year, usually in groups of 2 or 3. Me and an American friend Luke noticed that most Canadanadians, as we called them, wore the Maple Leaf on their backpacks,
"It's so people don't think they're American" explained Luke with a smile. With this in mind, whenever a flag-bearing Canadanadian checked in, we'd break the ice by asking, "So, which part of America are you from?" which always provoked the same mock-shocked look and over- exagerated offence "Oh God no, we're Canadian!!" "Oh terribly sorry. Where abouts in Canadia?". This routine never got boring.

After re-living my days in Rio for 2 weeks, my friends Ben, Tom and Robin returned from Argentina for a couple of weeks which coincided with my family visiting. I caught up with everyone, showed Mum, Dad and Rosie around the city and savoured my last days in Brazil. Next stop: Argentina.

Flamengo v Vasco da Gama

All week before Sunday 22nd Rio had been buzzing in anticipation of the biggest football game of the year. The city's two most supported and successfull clubs, and also most hated rivals, Flamengo and Vasco da Gama were playing at the Maracana stadium (98,000 capacity). The two sides hadn't played for over 8 months in the Brazilian League, but this latest encounter would be for the Rio State Championship, a short tournament that takes place between National seasons and is taken equally as serious. Traditionally Vasco are the Potruguese colonial team and carry the red cross of the Portuguese Navy on their badge. Flamengo are known as 'the people's team' and have wide support in the favelas of Rio as well as all of Brazil. They are unofficially the most popular football club in the world with an estimated 50 million supporters (twice the population of Australia and about the same as England).

At the hostel, the receptionist, Rafa is a big Vasco fan and as I walk down to breakfast in my Flamengo shirt he whips of his jumper to reveal his white and black Vasco shirt and stares me down. "Filha da Puda" (son-of-a-bitch) he shouts, half joking and then grins, "we're going to kill you today, but really, be carefull with that shirt on. Don't hang around outside the stadium. Take care". Despite the rivalry, Rafa knows I'm not a real Flamengista and is keen to advise me on safety for the big game. If I'm not yet worried about the danger of enraged, booze-filled Vasco hooligans, I probably should be by the sounds eminating from the street outside. 'rat-tat-tat-tat'. "What was that Raf?"

"There's a gun-fight going on outside. The cops just called and told us not to let anyone out of the hostel"

"Shit! How long has it been going on?"

"About twenty minutes. They're targeting traficantes from the favela near-by".

After about half an hour of sitting it out and talking to Rafa about his predictions for the game, I decided to look out of the door and check out the situation. The gun-fire had stopped and I needed to walk the two blocks to the other hostel to meet the guys I was going to the game with. I could see people walking around outside and went for it. At the other hostel I met with my group of fellow 'Flamengistas' - really a camera clad crew of Americans, Aussies and English. New rules in Brazil, in preparation for the prospective 2018 World Cup they hope to stage, mean that drinking is now forbidden outside the stadium, so we hit the local bar for a few before heading to the metro. Our train station is only the second on the line and the train was relatively quite as we boarded, but at each station we were met by newcomers, both in red-and-black and in white, all going to the game in good spirits and with nothing more than a few glares at each other. Flamengistas were required by police to disembark at Sao Cristavo station, one before Maracana, so that they didn't cross paths with Vasco fans on the way to the ground. We did this and walked the several hundred metres among the hoards of fans, singing and beating their drums. Occasionally we saw the odd fan sprinting in a random direction or police on horseback gallopping after them. At one point, a huge roar went up from the walking mob and shouts and songs sprang up. On the other side of the huge, police lined highway, several thousand Vasco fans had turned a corner and were walking parallel to us. Both sides traded insults and strange hand gestures before they were forced to turn another corner and continue out of sight. The atmosphere was already brewing up nicely and there were far more people than at the other games I'd seen here. I couldn't wait to get into the stadium. Despite the large crowds, we got in through the big, efficient gates quite quickly and soon we were walking up the ramp towards an opening into the seats. This has always been the most magical moment of attending football matches for me. As you slowly approach the opening, the noise level rises and rises until you are hit, suddenly by the sounds and sight of the stadium at its glorious best - filled with passionate fans. Whether its an English 5th division game or a cup-final, this short, 5 second rush of sensations always takes my breath away as I try to savour the moment. Now, for the first time a new sensation greeted me as I walked out into the arena. The stands shook beneath me with the bouncing of 50,000 flag waving Flamengistas. On the opposite side of the ground, tightly packed into a smaller space than ours, were about 30,000 Vasco fans, a huge banner draped over half of them and screaming at the top of their voices "VASCO! VASCO! VASCO!" We took our seats and tried to appreciate the most intense atmosphere any of us had ever felt, as best we could and the game kicked off. Within 5 minutes the Flamengo left back had picked up two yellow cards and was sent off, sparking wild celebrations from the Vasco end. 10 minutes later, as if making up for his rash decision earlier, the referee sent of a Vasco player for and equally soft challenge the Mengo fans were happy again - for now. Half-time came 0-0 with few chances for either team and the rain now falling heavily. We scrambled for cover with the rest of the stadium, but with so many people there it was impossible for everyone to stay dry and soon people gave up and began dancing in the rain. The drums continued, even when Vasco went one-nil up shortly into the second half through a dodgy deflected rebound from an even dodgier free-kick. The roar from Vasco was probably the loadest noise I've ever heard in a football stadium. Soon after this, a Flamengo player sythed down an opponent and was shown a straight red card, much to the anger and disbelief of the Flamengistas and the joy of the Vasco fans. 5 minutes later it was two-nil to Vasco. A neat interchange of passes, hit Flamengo on the counter attack and a great finish sealed the win. There was no way back for Mengo now. The ref, determined to leave his mark on the game, proceeded to send of two more Vasco players (5 in total) and, though Flamengo created chances late on, there was never any hope of a comback. Dejected fans began to stream out of the stadium to the geers of the Vasco fans "MENGO, MENGO, ADEUS!!". The beaten Flamengistas responded by holding up big cardboard 2's, a reminder that come April, Vasco would be playing in the National Second Division following last season's relegation, and at full-time, half the stadium was empty. One half though was still packed and more noisy than ever, bouncing and waving flags, singing and taunting. For Vasco right then, relegation to the second division was a distant memory. They were experiencing the greatest feeling any football fan can - triumphing over your hated rivals and out-singing them. I've never seen fans celebrate a derby win like Vasco.

So we headed back to Copacabana and drank the night away with Vasco and Flamengo fans alike, talked about the controvesies of the match and all shook hands, but inside there were two very contrasting emotions that night. Those in the bar wearing white, also wore wide, genuine smiles. Those who now wore casual clothes, too ashamed to be still sport the red-and-black, wore noticably put-on, embarrassed smiles from the corners of their mouths. Its a bitter pill to swallow, but that's what make these games so special, the fact that you have to meet your enemies in the pub or at work or school the next day. Today as I'm writing this, 24 hours after the game, Rafa is standing at reception somwhere behind me, still shaking with excitement, whitling the Vasco anthem and grinning like a kid on Christmas day.


ps: We now know that the gun-battle that took place on the Sunday morning was one of a number of skirmishes between police and traficantes as part of increasing raids on the near-by favelas. Yesterday, Monday 23rd while I was at work, we heard sirens from all directions and for about 5 minutes there were machine gun exchanges at the top of our street. 30 or 40 police armed with assault rifles ran past the hostel yelling at us to get down and fired a few shots right in front of us. A couple of mates of mine had just popped out for food and about 5 minutes after the shooting stopped, they returned to tell us they had seen 3 dead bodies up the street. It turned out that the police killed 5 men, 3 of them under 18 years old.

Carnival

We've just had Carnival here in Rio. You may have an idea about what it is already, but I'll just fill you in quickly on where it comes from and how it takes place.
Carnival means 'raising of meat' and is a Roman Catholic tradition in many countries to mark the start of lent and to give the people an opportunity to get rid of all their sins before the period of abstinence. The Portuguese colonials originally imported a French form of the festival in the early 17th century, but in Brazil, the influence of African and Native culture brought in such additions as feathered costumes and drum music to the parades. Today, Rio de Janeiro is the centre of Brazilian Carnival and hosts the very seriously taken competitive parades at Sambodromo (Sambadrome), the 100,000 capacity stadium, a street lined with grandstands. Though this is the grandest, most famous part of Rio's Carnival and its greatest tradition, most Cariocas will tell you that the real fun is to be had at the dozens of Bloccos (block parties) that take place in almost every neighbourhood in the city. Having now experienced this, I can agree. On Carnival Saturday, everyone from the hostel went to Sambodromo for the big parade. Though the show was grand and flash, the floats ornate and the dancers skilled and colourful, after an hour it quickly became tiresome. The ceaseless beat of the samba became tiresome and the spectators were silent in observation as they watched for details and hoped the opposing samba schools would make mistakes or lack flair. The atmosphere was too rarely as electric as I had imagined and hoped and so after and hour and a half we decided to leave and head to a Blocco in Ipanema.

The Bloccos are fantastic. People come from the surrounding areas and crowd the streets, joining onto parades. Spontaneous musical erruptions catch you pleasantly by surprise and everybody walks together, beers in hand, costumes donned, ready for fun. The Bloccos happen at any time of day, from 8am to 11pm and on. The biggest we saw was in Lapa, the party district where several hundred thousand people crammed the streets, eating, drinking, kissing, fighting, pissing and endulging in all the most hedonistic, natural human pleasures immaginable. The buzz around the place was tremendous as we sat on the green hill listening to the music of the free AffroReggae concert behind us. This was the real Carnival, not the dour and serious tourist show we had watched from the stands of Sambodromo. Here, thousands of people were free to enjoy the night - the police were given no respect that night. At one point, they attempted to arrest a man with a drinks cooler, presumably on suspicion of drug possession. The advanced on him, battons in hand, but before they could get within metres of him, the mob surrounded them and began to counter attack. Random locals and friends of the man alike joined in to quickly drive the cops back, throwing anything at hand - bottles, chairs, stones. Then the man made a dash from the safety of the crowd and fled, giving the police the chance to persue him. Soon the Policia Militar had arrived and were forcing back the mob with tear gas and loaded guns. The tention rose and the crowds dispersed, clearing the way for the police to capture their man and his wife, who they dragged by her hair along the floor to their van and then drove off. More missiles followed them on the escape, but they had won. All looked angry and dissapointed for at least 2 minutes and then the fun continued as if nothing had happened.

Now Carnival is over and my friends at the hostel are leaving. I've decided to dedicate my remaining time here to reading, writing and walking around town by myself. I'm looking forward to having some time alone and travelling down to Argentina. The two books I'm reading right now, Jack Kerouac's 'The Dharma Bums' and Paul Theroux's 'The Old Patagonian Express' should prepare me well for the next chapter of my adventure and not too long from now I'll be back in England, eating curries and roasts with pints of bitter.

Since my last blog, lots has happened. We came back to Rio from Ilha Grande for New Year and I moved back into my flat. The New Year celebrations were unlike any I have ever seen - 2 million people on Copacabana beach, all dressed in white, watching a 20 minute firework display. The party was amazing, but I won't bore you with details - partly because I don't remember a whole lot and partly because my writing skills are inadequate to describe it. After new year I soon realised that the teaching work was not going to become regular as schools were relluctant to recruit teachers with less that a few years experience. This meant that I could no longer afford my rent and at around the same time, Che Lagarto Hostel, where I had stayed, offered me a job, working on the bar in return for free accomodation, drinks and meals. So for the last 6 weeks I've been working here, making Caipirinhas and other exotic drinks and having a great time. The bar is small and easily run and never gets too busy, but there are certain frustrations about working in Brazil. Brazilians have an infuriatingly laid-back attitude towards work and common sense seems to be a foreign concept sometimes. The staff at Che Lagarto are all really nice, including the manager Nat, but when it comes to getting a job done, they either take temporary leave of their senses and throw logic out the window, or simply don't bother at all. An example: the bar is supposed to be stocked up at all times with enough beer, ice, spirits, plastic cups and straws as well as change in the till. Almost every day, I or another bartender has to run to the supermarket 5 minutes before the bar opens to buy booze. This isn't a problem for me, but when it means a delay to opening times and less money for the bar, the hostel suffers. We are constantly reminded that we need to make more money for the bar, but given very little room to improve by the people above us. The other day I arrived at the bar and opened up, only to be told that, beacause of room fumigations, all guests would receive free Caipirinhas for one hour. Fair enough I thought. Hard work, but only for one hour. Then I checked the fridge - no ice. I had asked earlier that it be ordered, but the boss hadn't done it and now had 30 disgruntled guests demanding their free drinks. This is just one example of the daily frustrations of working here and I can't help thinking it would never happen back home. The Brazilian flag flying from the building accross the street, reads 'Ordem e Progresso' (Order and Progress). Sitting at an empty bar, with no ice, little beer and dwindling rum supplies, I couldn't help but laugh - never has a national moto been less deserved!

Anyway, rant over. I've been having a great time in the last couple of months. My Portuguese is improving and I can have simple conversations with people. Some of the staff at the hostel have agreed to only speal to me in Portuguese - within reason of course, and I practice whenever I can. I've also been trying to see more of the city. In the last couple of weeks I've taken a boat trip around the bay, visited a nice little art collection in a mansion in Santa Teresa, the hill-top colonial settlement and been to the Zoo and Botanical Gardens. We also have bikes at the hostel, so I've been getting around the city quite a bit and of course, I still get down to the beach whenever its nice for a swim and a bit of footy with the locals.

The other barmen who have worked with me for the last 7 weeks all now have plans to move on. Patrick, an Englishman who has been here the longest, leaves on Monday and the Swedes, Tom and Robin will go off travelling in a week. Ben, who I came with, is going with them down to Argentina, so I'll be the only one left. This isn't such a problem for me. Of course its nice to have friends here, but I've become used to seeing people leave. When you work in a hostel, staying put in the same place while travellers pass through, you are constantly saying goodbyes. You form relationships, some stronger than others. You swap email addresses and add each other on facebook, promise to catch up some time, some day. "If you ever come my way, drop me an email and we'll hook up" is the standard parting line. Then they go. I expect to stay here for another 5 weeks until the family visit and after they leave, I'll go to Argentina for a couple of weeks and then home.