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The Boy from Ipanema

Gávea, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
27-29 December 2008

Outside the main gate of Rio’s Jardim Botanico is a large one-way multi-lane road (the Rua Jardim Botanico.) I’m standing here, waiting for my bus after spending a relaxing couple of hours in the botanical garden located near the city center, just a few kilometers from the famous beach of Ipanema.

…LINHA 511 - URCA…

It’s been a cloudy and rainy few days since I arrived. Sometimes hot, sometimes not, occasionally sunny, but mostly cloudy and foggy. The Jardim Botanico lies below and near the famous Cristo Redentor, the giant 1100 ton concrete statue/sculpture of an open-armed Christ at the top of Corcovado. Corcovado is the dramatic peak rising inside the city of Rio de Janeiro, though there are dramatic peaks and rocks everywhere. Redentor can be seen from almost anywhere in Rio, watching over the city, serving as a famously unmistakable symbol and landmark. But I haven’t seen him yet. Clouds, rain, fog, buildings, siestas... all have conspired to prevent any personal benediction I might receive from the Redeemer.

…LINHA 176 - CENTRAL - SAO CONRADO…
……LINHA 438 - VILA ISABEL - LEBLON……

The gardens have all kinds of Brazilian plants, but other kinds of plants too. There is a kind of palm here that has enormous spines in the branches. I didn’t know palm trees had thorns. I see some lily pads a meter across. And bamboo of a diameter as big as my thigh. It’s a European-style garden, with criss-crossing footpaths not intended to look naturalistic at all. I lunch at the café here, which requires me to get in fighting spirit to get my order in, with tourists crunching towards the overwhelmed lunch staff. No matter, once ordered, all is mellow – Brazilian style again.

I came to the botanical garden because I had abandoned the attempt to take the little “cog” train up to the top of Corcovado. I had thought coming today, Monday, would avoid the crowds. Getting off the first bus I rode today, I saw tourists everywhere and two long snaking lines, and overheard angry complaints in English even before I join the queue. The 30 minute ride up the mountain in the antique rail cars is supposed to be charming, but after people tell me they had been waiting in line for more than two hours with no progress, I go with my gut and abandon ship. Good thing I’d figured ahead with a Plan B and I already knew what bus to take to get to my second choice destination.

…LINHA 524 - BOTAFOGO…

Why a good thing? Because the bus system here is bewildering. As far as I can figure, there are several private companies that run city-managed routes. There are literally hundreds of bus lines in Rio - so many that the route numbers run into the high 3-digits.

…LINHA 179 - MARE…

I had not been taking buses until today. Taxi cabs are my preferred way to get around Rio. They’re comfortable, clean and air-conditioned. The buses are uncomfortable, fairly clean and definitely not air-conditioned. Yesterday I took a cab to a district not far from my hotel in Copacabana called Centro/Cinelandia. I tried to get the taxi driver to explain why the financial district is called Cinelandia. I think he was telling me that there used to be a movie house there by that name. He dropped me at the end of a long and well-known park, Parque do Flamengo, that fronts the Baía de Guanabara. There is a museum there - the Museu de Arte Moderna (MAM) - that I wanted to visit.

…LINHA 573 - SAO SALVADOR…
………LINHA 176 - CENTRAL - SAO CONRADO………
……LINHA 511 – URCA……

I liked the collection there. It’s a bit eclectic. There doesn’t seem to be as strong a Catholic influence on the modern art compared to what I’ve seen in the Catholic countries of Central America, southern Europe or Argentina. There was a section there devoted to something MAM alternately called the Brasilia movement or Tropicália. It comes from the revolutionary days of the 60’s and 70’s, and also the musical forms of bossa nova and related Brazilian music and other arts. The paintings held a mix of sex and blood and revolution. I liked an artist who had a sense of whimsy and absurdity, and seemed connected to earlier days of surrealism and Dadaism. One piece in particular grabbed me. It has now been appropriated many times over, in other places. “Zero Cruzeiros,” by Cildo Meireles is a semi-realistic Brazilian currency of denomination zero. Here’s a reproduction of it.

…LINHA 521 - VIDIGAL…

After MAM, I decided to try the subway, which is supposed to be a good transport option here. I hiked over to Cinelandia proper and found a subway entrance. Walking down the stairs to the underground entrance, I was puzzled to see the steel doors rolled down and the station apparently closed. Halfway down the stairs, a motion sensor activated a very loud siren-type alarm. No wonder the stairs were empty. I walked back up the stairs, all eyes of the people on the street on me. I’m now marked as a tourist. It’s Sunday, and there aren’t that many people in this part of town, since it’s a financial center. It feels a little unsafe, and I decide it would be best to take a taxi cab back to Copa.

……LINHA 438 - VILA ISABEL - LEBLON……
…LINHA 179 - CENTRAL - ALVORADA…

Standing in the present moment, here on busy Rua Jardim Botanico, the buses roll by continuously. And I mean continuously. Bus after bus, often seconds apart. It’s mesmerizing to stand and watch them. I keep looking at the route number written on a scrap of paper from the tourist office, then peering at the destination banners on the buses careening towards me.

…LINHA 569 - LARGO DO MACHADO…

It’s been a little hard to explore this city with the rain since life here is all about being outside. I started out my first full day by walking around Copacabana, then Ipanema. Ipanema. Copacabana. It’s very fun to listen to Cariocas pronouce those names. They roll them out in an exaggerated way: “a-Iapa-nahae-mah” and “Copa..CAH…bahnnah” Something like that.

The beaches are long, but not that clean. Many people are overweight and smoking. I think Brazil has the same disease as the rest of the world: too much food. Where are the legendarily beautiful women? Not on the beaches of Ipa and copa. For that matter, where are the beautiful men? There were many men wearing tiny sungas. It’s nice that people seem perfectly happy with their bodies, though. As for how I looked, I sported my anti-UV gringo look: big brimmed hat, plastered sunscreen (even in the rain), baggy shorts (the anti-sunga), loose shirt. I looked like an albino wannabe.

Nighttime in Copa is really interesting. A certain kind of boteca – really just a “hole in the wall” kind of bar - spills people out onto the street, with beers and caipirinhas and meat on skewers. Usually there are a few tables and chairs on the sidewalk. But when these dives get crowded, people sit on curbs or stand in the street, place their drinks on the cars of strangers, and sometimes beat out samba rhythms on the curb. I go one night to a more orderly place, Bar Pedrinho, which is like a local karaoke bar for samba and Brazilian old standards. It’s really wonderful to see how uninhibited people are. A group at a table will be in conversation or eating, and whoever is on stage sings a group favorite or the samba combo will beat out a familiar tune, and the group will naturally slide from conversation into song and back again.

……LINHA 511 – URCA……
…LINHA 573 - SAO SALVADOR…
…LINHA 176 - CENTRAL - SAO CONRADO …

Rio was supposed to be a bookend of sorts. Friend DC had planned to have his 50th bday here, mirroring the 50th birthday party of Bader (see United Nations of Bader). Unfortunately, family events caused DC to have to cancel. That’s kind of what it means for most people to be fifty, I guess. Family, career, life entanglements are both fully enveloping you, but also engaging you. I’m a little outside of the normal track in that sense. I’m free to roam the world, unencumbered, unworried about the future, no serious obligations. Freedom. Probably most men pushing fifty dream of freedom. So why do I dream of not being free? Why not be happy with freedom now, and if something comes worth trading freedom for someday, I’ll do that.

Intrepid co-travelers C&H (and friends of DC) don’t cancel, but do postpone. They were due 27 December, but are now arriving 30 December. I’m looking forward to seeing them. They’re also bookends, since I started the icelollysforall blog on my way out on the previous big trip, traveling through their (now left behind) Boston South End flat.

But I’m fine on my own. I’ve been thinking and sorting through much on this trip. A few days on by myself in Rio are welcome.

…LINHA 583 - COSME VELHO - LEBLON…

583! I step into the street, waving. If you don’t flag the buses down, they don’t pull over, even if you’re at an official stop. You have to be alert to catch the numbers early enough. The result is funny, because neither the passengers waiting on the street nor the bus drivers know if a particular bus is going to suddenly zip over to the side and stop. The whole street of Rua Jardim Botanico is filled with buses weaving back and forth, zooming forward and stopping suddenly.

I’m successful. I pay and settle into a window seat on the Linha 583, sucking fresh air through the small opening in the window. We bounce through Leblon (the roads are fine, but the buses all seem to have suspensions that are shot.) Turning slowly east and north, we pass through the center of Ipanema and finally down the long stretch of Av. Nuestra Senora de Copacabana.

Blocks from the Acapulco Copacabana, I look out the window. The fog on Corcovado has lifted. Redentor, finally visible with concrete arms outstretched, silently gives me a pre-siesta benediction.

Her name was Lola! She was a showgirl!

Praia do Copacabana
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
27 December 2008

Sing it, Barry!

Rio de Dezembro

Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
26 December 2008

Crime.

I’d been hearing more and more about it since I landed in Argentina more than three weeks ago. Almost every tourist I met in Buenos Aires had a crime story. Phil the kayaker on board the Prof. Molchanov told me how he threw his camera bag in the back of a taxi and when he got to his destination, the bag was gone. Bill told me that he had his camera and laptop stolen from his hostel, and that three out of eight students in his B.A. language course were eventually burglarized. When strangers on the street noticed that my purse or suitcase was open they scolded me. And everyone warned me about Brazil and especially Rio de Janeiro.

Getting off the plane at the international airport, I am little fearful. Reunited with my big awkward bag o’ polar gear, I am no longer light on my feet. It’s after midnight, and I am beat. I decide to go with the most secure, but most expensive way to my hotel: a “radio taxi”, priced at 80 reias, or about US$40.

It’s a cool and rainy night. I just cannot predict the weather on this continent, and have been continually surprised. Our taxi hydroplanes through the expressways of Rio. I cannot really make out the outlines of the city. It’s as grey and foggy as San Francisco. At stoplights, I see the occasional lone figure on street corners, rain slickers covering their faces. We park directly in front of my hotel, the Acapulco Copacabana, located in, yes, Copacabana.

The lights have been dimmed in the lobby. I check in, twisting my Spanish to make it Portuguese-y. Do Not Lose The Key To The Lockbox In Your Room. This message from the clerk gets across the language barrier.

Bouncing to a stop in the elevator, I roll out into the hall. It’s even darker here. The lights are off. I find my room in the half-light.

The ceilings are high, the room wider than any I’ve stayed in so far. A big bathroom, separate storage closet and large wardrobe. The lockbox fits my laptop + electronics, and the door seems secure.. Rain taps on the window to the airshaft. I don’t let it in.

I relax, realizing that this place will be safe enough and that I can manage the crime danger here. I can explore Copacabana and Rio tomorrow with confidence, rested and my gear safe.

Tired and punchy from a full day of travel from Bariloche to Buenos Aires to Rio, I slide between the rough sheets, making a comfortable me sandwich.

Travel trunk

Bariloche, Argentina
Rio de Janeiro, Brazil
26 December 2008

A big travel day.

See the map I found in a tree trunk on the trail back from Refugio Frey. I had to annotate it, but it shows all the legs so far of my trip. The most recent arrow leads from Bariloche to Rio de Janeiro…

Refugio Frey, Laguna Toncek and my second Christmas present

Laguna Toncek, Argentina
25 December 2008

We’re standing in the middle of a large bowl, just a few hundred meters from the rustic Refugio Frey, 1750 meters above seal level. This bowl at the beginning of the Patagonian Andes is formed by a ring of spiny peaks reaching skyward like bony fingers. The snow melt from the mountains nearly completely ringing us fills the large lagoon in front of us: Laguna Toncek. At the east end, behind us, is the refuge. And behind that that is a view of the ridge leading to the peak of Catedral Norte that we left behind an hour ago, and which we can now spy through the narrow opening in the bowl.

We had just left Frey, after I finished up a home-made refugio ham sandwich and a Quilmes beer. The sandwich wasn’t as necessary I as had thought it would be, because while I carried very little food and water, Bill had packed a couple of days worth of supplies in his rucksack. Still, I wanted that sandwich. Frey was similar to Lopez in style, but full of rock climbers and their gear. We talked at the hut with a chatty German family who were originally Barilochenses. They were drawn back here to these mountains and trails from Germany. I understand, because I want to return here myself.

Bill and I walk around the lagoon towards the opposite side of the bowl. Water, pooling, diverging, converging, running everywhere. Many different loops and ponds lead to the lagoon. It all flows down from the big bowl we’re in. Friend SJ would love this water, in all its forms here. I listen to the little streams and recall the language she once sent to me about the feeling of water flowing over skin. These myriad waterways make one think of how it would feel to be in it. I dip a hand in – it’s cold and clear. The shallow stream bed is sandy and a bit reddish.

Turning from south to north you can see the major peaks of Torre Principal, Torre Piramidal, and Roca Inclinada. Between the big peaks are a continuum of incredible shards of vertical rock peaks – many dozens - that all look they could be climbed only using equipment. Later, I will discover that this bowl is one of the most popular rock climbing areas in Argentina, with hundreds of well-known vertical routes.

One large, isolated rock finger is right next to Frey, just on the other side of the stream that flows from the lagoon and past the refuge. A group of climbers are scaling it, with one standing atop the several hundred foot tall and nearly vertical cylinder of granite. A prickle of fear make my fingertips sweat to look at this lead climber, waving casually down at us. “Acrophobia by proxy”, I call this familiar sensation.

We decide to walk past Torcek and to hike up the mountainside a little ways to the Laguna Schmoll on the way to Catredal Norte and the ski area. Bill and I are quiet as we pick through the clumps of grass, mud puddles and rocks around the lagoon. We had been fairly garrulous on the long walk up, in which we first passed through a burned out forest, then an intermediate forest of bamboo, a mature forest of cascading streams and the occasional strange flower, and finally up to Refugio Frey and Laguna Torcek.

Tiny frogs live in Torcek, according to some discreet wooden signs along the lagoon’s perimeter. We’re not to bathe in the water if we have sunscreen on, so as not to disturb their delicate metabolisms. Some strange birds rest on a small knoll in the middle of the waterways. They look half duck and half pheasant. South American geese? I don’t know…

A huge boulder sits near the center of the bowl, unique in size and position. T would probably say that it is mystical stone, and I would too, if I believed in the kind of mysticism she does. I do feel the power and special nature of this place. I feel the hum and the harmony, and something akin to the awe that religious people must feel. All the myriad forms of life and geology here, interacting in uncountable ways, somehow arising from the ten billion year old stardust that slowly intermingled all across our galaxy from the ashes of ten million long dead suns. This is the kind of miracle that has amazed me all my life, but that often bores the conventionally religious or spiritual. An improbable speck of beauty arising from a vast and empty Universe. I am luckier than I can imagine as I stand here, in this place and at this moment, a flash of consciousness awake for an instant, existing just long enough to experience this beauty and be aware of it, and also of my place in it.

Ascending the rockpile towards the north side of the bowl, on the way to the ridge leading to Catredal Norte, we reach a shelf. There we find some snow edging a small Alpine lake. It’s the beginning of summer here, so the mountains are almost snow-free. Much more barren than the system a few hundred meters below us, but this place is also beautiful. I can imagine how much snow must be here in winter. I want to see it someday.

We consider pressing onwards, upwards and around Catredal Norte, but my experience at Lopez suggests that things will get very hard, and that it will take much more time than the map suggests. Bill wants to go on, but finally we agree to return. As it is, it will take us many hours to find the town with an operating bus and a ride back to Bariloche.

We gather in the look of the place for a few silent moments. I think – not the first time on this trip – this is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen.