Too much funk to fit; PT 1

Funk sounds like "funky" with the accent. This is Funk Part 1. It's about the history and different genres of the funk craze in Rio's favelas. Coming is my best attempt at a portrait of the culture surrounding the current funk obsession. Including the low down on bailes, or off the heezy funk parteez. Gotta get my hands on some good photos at the baile wayyy later tonight! (The ones I went to last night in Rocinha and the night before in Vidigal are strictly UNcamera-friendly.) Here's a good one I found on the interwebz, though.

Of course, dancing funk happens mostly at bailes between the hours of 2 and 6 in the morning - not on the beach during the day. But this woman is super-Carioca. The thong couldn't be realer. The bundão (bootilicious badonk-adonk) couldn't be realer. The setting is Rio real. And her dance moves are TOP NOTCH.

INDY

My current epic mission is to present the most vivid, all-encompasing portrayal of Rio's biggest favela, Rocinha, ever in the history of the internet.

(I took this from a rooftop near the top of Rocinha.

Cristo pokes out in the distance - see him?)

My perspective will be submerged, and whatever bias I take on will be the opposite of the bias usually assumed when discussing communities of poverty. That is, due to my submerged perspective, I'm generally on their side. And while I'm not explicitly anti-rich people, I do believe in the negative social implications of the extreme gap between the rich and the poor in Brazil, and find it easy to criticize those who happened to be born into the former category (at least in terms of misconceptions and perpetuation of problems).

Anyway, here's my introduction of sorts to the favela of Rocinha, in terms of a hypothetical tsunami!

In future posts expect deets on more specific fevela goings on. What would it be like to grow up there? How does the average adult fit into the community? (Contrary to many myths, people who live in "violent" favelas actually live to old age.) I'm going to talk about Funk music/dance/parties. I'll do my best at tackling the enormous subject encompassing drug trafficking, heavy weapons, and the relationship with the police. I'll talk about the infrastructure - from local shops and bars, to medical centers and schools, to the growing presence of tourism and Non-governmental Organizations, which, bizarrely enough, are highly linked. I'll talk about some more stuff too, I guess.

Whatever. The point is, a tsunami came for Rio. Read about the aftermath, and spread the word!

Now for a few photos.

Above photo is from the bottom of Rocinha.

Both above photo and below photos are from the [enormous area that one might call the] middle of Rocinha.

Futebol

Here is my very late latest post, about FUTEBOL! But a richer story was born out of this story's photo acquisition mission, which isn't included there. Here it goes:

In order to get the photos for this post, I had to go to a game at Maracaná. Igor and I went on Sunday, and corresponding fails ensued, continuing through the next day; all hilarious.

When I woke up Sunday morning, Igor, all excited and whatnot, showed me a bunch of Flamengo jerseys he intended to get signed before going to Italy the next week and giving them as gifts to various amigos there. He pulled them all, including a fancy fabric-signing marker, out of a bag, to demonstrate the gravity of the task. It was rather amusing, yet not at all surprising.

We met later in the day, in some intense Sunday afternoon wind and rain, mind you, to embark on our respective missions: me to get the necessary photos of fanatical Flamengo fans for my story, and him to get the jerseys signed. We both were wearing Flamengo shirts of our own (he got one for me, presumably because he knew I'd never take the initiative myself), and we even painted our faces all black and red (I was a cat in honor of Courtney Parkin.)

All went well. Except for the part where São Paulo scored first, and then Flamengo only responded with one goal of their own, ending the game in a tie. But I got my photos, and we stayed relatively dry. It was fun too, and there was a section of fans with drums, which was rad. Love for drummmzz:

After the game, it was Igor's turn to try his hand at success. We wandered out and figured out from which of many Maracaná orifices the team would exit, proceed to board their big fancy bus and book it outta there. By the time they were done with whatever post-game chatting and putting on of the faces they had been up to, we were ready for action. From behind the fence surrounding the bus, Igor commanded me to put my woman voice to use and call one player, whose name I forgot immediately. He came right over, along with some short guy in ridiculous, tight, acid-wash cargo pants who works with the team, and was down to sign the shit. In a frenzy, Igor removed the goods from his backpack. With all the jerseys blank and ready to be marked up, he had only to procure the marker. But it was nowhere to be found. He searched every nook and cranny of every goddamned pocket 9 times, repeatedly proclaiming in a panic that it was there! It had to be there! But it wasn't. FAIL.

Eventually losing interest, the player gave up on him. Mr. Ridiculous-Acid-Washed-Tight-Cargo-Pants man could sense Igor's profound sadness and apparently felt for him. We were, after all, an indisputably dedicated duo, in our matching jerseys and face paint, waiting outside the gate in the rain like a couple of pathetic, starving puppies. He told Igor not to fret; he could come to Flamengo's practice the next day at the Clube de Regatas do Flamengo for the signatures. The Clube is only in Gávea, just a van through a tunnel away from São Conrado and Rocinha. He said it would be a perfect day for it - a relatively tranquil practice. Furthermore, the player whose signature he most wanted wasn't even at the game on Sunday because he was injured. Not a complete fail.

The problem was this: Igor works all day Mondays (and every weekday). And I was obviously incapable of doing it myself, because I lack the lifelong obsession with Flamengo that would make me more proficient in the mission. What a fail I'd have been myself, calling over players whose names I didn't know to sign jerseys that represented players that I didn't know. Giving up for the night, we left Maracaná, and spent the Metro ride home brainstorming a way Igor could get out of work early the following day to conquer the task that still lingered at hand. It is telling that the worst option was honestly; his boss is an avid Botafogo fan - in other words, an avid Flamengo hater! After a variety of ideas, the only that sounded plausibly functional involved "personal reasons." The glorious vagueness would just have to function.

We finally got back to Rocinha in some intense fall rain and wind, and I fled home to get warm, work on my story and fix up my photos, which would ideally have been submitted four days earlier, but I was settling on that night. After hours of failing at understanding entirely the ridiculous combination of coinciding futebol tournaments and championships that occupy fans and players of this crazy sport throughout the year, I drifted off to sleep. In the morning, I awoke to the continued need to finish everything. I set up with my view of the windy day through my wall of glass doors in my room and got to work. (Soundtrack of the morning notable: Animal Collective, Dirty Projectors, Deerhunter, El Guincho, Empire of the Sun, Fruitbats, oldschool Incubus, Andrew Bird, Ramona Falls, Basement Jaxx, The Ruby Suns, Wild Beasts, new Crystal Castles, The Kills, and some Shins. So much glory!)

Anyway, Igor got a hold of me and told me that he pulled the "I-Need-To-Leave-Early-For-Personal-Reasons" bullshit successfully, and would be rolling out at 3. And yes, I was down to accompany. It would be my only non-writing/studying/teaching for the day.

So we caught a van over to the Clube de Rigatta do Flamengo in Gávea, and when we arrived, we went to the main entrance. The middle-aged soccer moms behind the counter didn't seem too threatening - I could have taken any one of those hoes - but Mr. Big-Muscle-Shaved-Head-Security-Human in the background was rather intimidating. He was keeping watch over the devoted Flamengistas who had already paid to enter the Clube and watch the practice. But paying is for losers. We had a better way: Mr. Ridiculous-Acid-Washed-Tight-Cargo-Pants man.

But problem reeled around this corner as well. Neither Igor nor I had any credits on our phones, and were helpless in our attempts to reach this guy. In retrospect, it was hilarious to be present while Igor called cobrado (the Brazilian version of collect calling) 6 times in a row only to be ignored every time. FAIL.

Igor came up with a new plan. We exited and walked around the giant red and black painted wall surrounding the sports complex to another entrance, where kids, their parents, and athletes old enough to come without their parents flashed membership cards at two nodding middle-aged humans. The Clube de Regatas do Flamengo includes, among many a futebol field, a swimming pool and courts for volleyball, basketball and tennis. Actually, if I were in PUC’s swimming class, I’d hit up the Clube regularly. Furthermore, Igor apparently played basketball there at one point.

So his incredibly clever plan played out like this: He approached the nodding-middle-aged-gait-guarding humans and pled. He said that he had a basketball tryout or something and that he was arriving late and that the coach was waiting inside. While gait-guarding woman was busy allowing membership-holding honest folk past, gait-guarding man was not buying the BS excuse. After a little more pleading and attention from both gait-guarding humans, the two of them, with grumpy, skeptical looks on their faces, agreed to allow Igor to enter, go strait to the courts for whatever he “had to do,” and return.

Igor, making like he was in the hurry that he invented, set off striding toward the courts. When I hurriedly followed, I was held back. They apparently had told him he could go alone and that I was to wait there. Well I was feeling pretty fail for not having understood the logistics of the agreement. But I guess my “I feel incredibly inferior!” face and any other given girl’s “oh no don’t leave me here alone!” face are quite similar, and, without argument but with eye rolls, the gait-guarding-humans allowed me to accompany.

Great success! Except that the basketball courts aren’t the futebol fields. Neither are they close. Like obviously would happen to Igor, he ran into a guy he knew. He explained our fugitive status and the greater situation, and this basketball human agreed to cover for us if the gait-guarding humans were to come searching. The next obstacle was the same as the last: the only way to go anywhere from the courts was to walk strait back toward where we had just entered and turn in view of the gait-guarding humans. I reasoned that the guards were paying more attention to the entering humans from outside, rather than to what was occurring inside the red-black cinderblock-enclosed Clube. And Igor reasoned that if they said anything he could lie that the coach wanted him to wait a little while, and that he had chosen to wait in front of futebol practice.

Still, Igor took precautionary measures: by removing the sweatshirt he had been wearing upon arrival, he accomplished a two-fold blending in. First, he was no longer That Tall Guy in the Yellow. Second, by revealing the Flamengo jersey underneath, he became just another fan in the crowd. Had it been more necessary, I’d have dubbed the move “genius.” I’m dubbing it “frivolous.”

After a cautious, suspenseful walk across the Clube, we arrived at the side of the practice field. Soccer kids, their moms and miscellaneous fans speckled the sidelines. Oh yeah, and a bunch of camera crews and TV journalists. We had only to wait for practice to end. Three notable things happened while we waited:

1. Mr. Ridiculous-Acid-Washed-Tight-Cargo-Pants man, who had just ignored Igor’s repeated collect calls, appeared wearing the same goddamn tight acid-washed cargo pants he had worn to the game the day before. (Same t-shirt, too, which would be more offensive – hygiene-wise – were those ridiculous pants not so ridiculous.) He commented on the fact that we had managed to get in, chatted a bit, and bounced soon afterward. Sneaky little chap.

2. A little later in the practice, the second notable happening went down. The next day was the day that the Brazilian World Cup team would be selected. Due to Flamengo’s recent nationwide awesomeness, a few of its players were expected to be chosen. One TV network was covering the day-before-selection suspense, and was interviewing some fans at the practice. Igor got interviewed. He gave his predictions about the selection and that was that. I loved imagining his boss watching it on TV later.

(Kléberson was the only who ended up being chosen. In fact, what seems really ridiculous to me is that only three players chosen for the Brazilian team currently play for Brazilian teams. Most play for Italian, Spanish, or German teams.)

3. Igor made sure he had all the jerseys and the marker this time. I tested out the marker by drawing a fish on my hand. It turned out to be a red fish. The jerseys are black and red. FAIL. Luckily it wasn’t long before we spotted some Flamengista goober with his little brother and a black marker waiting for signatures too. We could easily trick the little bugger into hooking a brother up with some ink.

By 5:30, practice should have ended, and I should have been on my way back to Rocinha for my English class. But a bunch of players, namely Adriano and Vagner Love (for whose autographs Igor most direly yearned), continued to practice penalty kicks for another half an hour:

(Vagner Love is on the right. You can tell because he dyed his long cornrows red in honor of his team.) When they slowly began to seep off the field, they were absorbed immediately into the locker rooms. And upon seepage back out again, the TV crews intercepted them. By the time we got the chance to call them over, they had presumably had it with the attention. The only players who ended up coming over were this douchey bench-warmer bro with a gold chain, spiked hair and too much cologne, and I think the only current non-Brazilian starter on the team – a Chilean. Neither was particularly histrionically convincing when it came to fan dedication.

When Adriano and Vagner Love were leaving, we (maybe 7 fans by this point), called for them in vane. Adriano even shot a piquant tease of a glance our way before turning his back and rolling out like a cocky, pompous ass. His attitude was next to the British phrase, “caahn’t be bohhthuuhd” (‘ka:n’t bi: ‘bɒthʊərd) in the dictionary.

Quite disappointed, we finally slunk out of the club. No amount of reasoning (you still got two autographs!) would console Igor. It was as if life as he had always known it had been flipped upside down. His favorite players didn’t want to sign his shirts.

What a terribly dismal ending. Apologies. Check out this crazy Flamengista's tats though!

Epic Rain/INDY

(First and foremost, INDY!)

April 8th I lied to you. I never finished "a big complaint-saturated post" about the storm and its trivial, temporary effects on my life. But it wasn't my fault. A power outage took my post-creating abilities shortly after I finished describing that part about my computer. (It is being repaired, so I had no way to pass hours online doing nothing while it was raining. Nor could I upload and share my awesome photos, nor could I use it as a flashlight when the power wend out, nor could I update myself on the god damned NEWS! I was using the sluggish Windows '95 [LOL] desktop at my temporary, evacuation house the night of the 8th, and am now borrowing a friend's laptop while she's traveling.)

Anyway, the power outage that night was god's way of saying "Get off your ass and go get drunk with your friends in Baixo Gávea, you lazy shithead," and so I went.

The next day was Friday, and the weather was clearing up. I walked around taking pictures of all the big waves and damages done and such. Here's a good one of the beach in São Conrado, the neighborhood I evacuated, which I was missing pretty intensely at that point.

Treacherous wave and threatening cloud combo!

It rained on and off that day. For example, when I went to visit my house, I found it with two men chopping up the giant tree that fell on it. About a minute into conversation with them, it started to downpour. All I wanted to do was to go inside and crawl into bed, but I had to go all the way back to stupid Gávea!! BAHH!

Saturday, the weather was perfect, finally. Everybody went to the beach, but swimming was another story. The waves were the biggest they've been in Rio in 40 years, reaching up to 10 M. Only real surfers (not the wannabes that always speckle the coastline) were out shredding the gnar in front of all the happy, finally-outside sunbathers.

Rio's most popular beaches featured the biggest waves they've seen
in more than 40 years on Saturday, April 10.

Anyway, Sunday i finally moved back to my house in São Conrado. After sleeping uncustomarily late (losing will to be awake in the boring evacuation house), Lucia, my evacuatoin host mom told me Angela, my real host mom (also her cousin), had already moved back. Having had her son and three exchange students move out within the past month, Lucia really wanted me to stay. She told me to give it a try, stay for the week, and go back to Angela's next weekend if I wanted. I objected, and said I wanted to go back that day. She said tomorrow we could arrange it. I said, if Angela's already back, then I'm going back too. She said, alright, but I'm leaving in a half an hour and you need to leave the key with me, so how about you wait until I get back this evening to leave. I said, I can be ready in ten minutes! I got my stuff together, handed her the key, and was on my way back to São Conrado. It was like being let out of jail, to put it dramatically.

When I got back, Angela and I hugged repeatedly and she said that I was fofa (cute) for being so happy to return. She was pretty fofa herself for being so happy that I returned.

By Tuesday I had whipped up this contrite little tale of the Epic Rain Flight of Fancy Extravaganza! Here are the photos from the story, which you can also find if you click on the link, if you happen to be literate. The first four were all taken outside my house, on the street that runs down the hill I need to descend to get EVERYWHERE. The last two were taken on a walk along Niemeyer Ave, which winds along the coast around the mountain Dois Irmãos and connects the São Conrado/Rocinha area to the Gávea/Leblon area.

This mudslide in São Conrado left a pile of
mud and house remnants standing between me and the rest of the city.

This car was pushed by piles of mud and house remnants
through the roof of the gas station below.

This man and I observe simultaneously the remarkable
mudslide that took down a house in our hood.

The mud/house slide crushed a number of cars
parked on the street below.

Workers work to repair the electrical wires that were crushed three days earlier in this mudslide
along the well-traveled road of Niemeyer. These cars would have been crushed,
had the road not been closed for the better part of the week.

A once-strong wall along Niemeyer Avenue, which winds along the coast in Rio,
was no match for the winds and rain of the epic storm.

INDY

The Stupid Beach.

I wrote about it, way back in the day (last week) before Rio became a horridly beachless disaster zone.

(Some wind and rain is a really f*%#ing obnoxious reminder that the rest of the world isn't always quite as perfect as Rio, and that sometimes the imperfections spill over into this normally imperfection-exempt bubble. THANKS god. Not.)

I'm working on a big complaint-saturated post right now. I'm titling it, The Perfect Storm. Considering the jail-inducing weather, it will appear shortly.

You stay dry, world!

Pedra de Gávea (and INDY)

For starters, somebody stole my work ethic, and I'm offering rewards if you've got any tips. Here's my latest Independent column:

Hegy Hochi Chili Peppers

I originally dubbed the thing "Teaching English vs. Learning Portuguese: If It Weren't So Hilarious, It Might Be Frustrating." Good thing they changed it - I never would have opened such a tritely titled link. But now you've got an inkling of the subject matter: Exotic Spices of the Amazon.

What? Anyway, to bring attention to its date of publication compared to that of its predecessor's would be to depreciate myself. Worse would be to highlight the date of this post, which is right when I should be working on another story, rather than procrastinating by writing about not writing. Mild self-belittlement aside, a brief reflection on the subject matter of Hegy Hochi Chili Peppers is a solid reminder that I'm actually pretty busy, yanno. What I'm really trying to say, I think, is that this crazy little language game of the streets and the classroom kicks writing in English on my laptop's ass. The rest of the time is better spent exploring, climbing mountains, going to the beach, and hanging out with real live Cariocas (which falls into the first category).

Anyway, I hit all four of those points hard this weekend. Here are some deetz.

This was taken on my walk home along this treacherous road called Niemeyer. It connects the two wealthy neighborhoods of Leblon (near PUC, my university) and São Conrado, where I live. It has a dangerous reputation, as it basically winds around the mountain that is Dois Irmãos ("Two Brothers"), so called because its two peaks look like brothers. The mountain is home to Rocinha and Vidigal, two beautiful communities that scare the shit out of favela-haters. So the road's got all these upper class-created urban legends surrounding it. (Dois Irmãos is also the name of the NGO where I'm teaching English in Rocinha.) Anyway, the walk along Niemeyer is beautiful and refreshingly devoid of pedestrian traffic. It's got some excellent fishing spots along the way, so there are always a few friendly favelado fishermen ready with a thumbs up and a "tudo beleza!" to brighten my journey.

This photo has three important parts:

1. The Castelinho. I don't know the history of this abandoned cliff-embedded castle-like contraption, but imagining it is more fun. If this were Italy, it would be full of junkie squatters. But it's just a really beautiful fishing spot.

2. The São Conrado Beach. Interestingly, it's frequented mainly by Rocinha residents; São Conradans generally prefer the ritzier beaches on the other side of Dois Irmãos to the east, or Pedra de Gávea to the west. I prefer it for this reason. That, and being between the two epic rocks is a panoramic delight.

3. Pedra de Gávea. It's in the background. Here's another photo, taken from the São Conrado beach at the end of the Niemeyer walk during sunset on Friday.

Pedra de Gávea towers 842 feet above the beach, and is the world's largest seaside monolith. The highlight of my weekend - and I'm requesting emphasis on both the high and the light - would be surmounting it.

Saturday morning, I went straight to the beach and dug an enormous hole in the sand (cavei um buraco enorme na areia). Igor came later, dug another enormous hole, and helped to solidify all hole digging related vocabulary in my brain. We then left our holes, went for lunch in Rocinha, and set off to climb Pedra de Gávea.

We commenced the climb at approximately 4 in the afternoon. This is exactly what these guys, who "have an adventure club" and "climb the Pedra every other weekend" told me I shouldn't do. They go to PUC with me and are part of the genre of Rio men whose existence is frustrating. They have misconceptions about favelados who aren't privelidged enough to afford university, and will tell any number of lies to get girls. They told me I should climb the Pedra in the morning, early, and go with a big group, and take nothing valuable. I went at night instead, only with one person, (a favelado, at that,) and thought nothing about valuables - I brought the things I wanted. (Camera. Ipod.)

The hike up Pedra de Gávea consists of two categories, as far as I can tell: steep steps, and even steeper rocks. The steps suck. The rocks are fun. But the rocks don't take up enough of the journey. This is the last bit that we had to climb. It has the appearance of a face, and so there are lots of legends about it. But I'm not really sure what any of them are right now.

I'm climbing the rock!

We arrive on top!

We got there just in time for the sunset...

The mountain farthest to the right is Dois Irmãos. The really pointy mountain to the left is the one with the statue of Christ on top. While you can't make out the details of his shape, it is he who makes the top of the mountain appear especially pointy.

Getting darker...

Anddd... nighttime. Nighttime, before the clouds rolled in, was very bright, thanks to the moon.

For good measure, here's the neighborhood Barra (pronounced like spanish "Baja" or english "Baha"), to the south. Barra kind of sucks, in my opinion. It features really expensive flats in high rise buildings and lots of American-based commercial chains.

This is the tiny fire we made with what few dry twigs we could find in the dark. If we had relied on a fire for survival, we would have failed.

Considering the thick cloud coverage that soon developed and the surrounding lightening, we decided to find a cave rather than sleep under the stars. (The stars were somewhere above the clouds at this point.) The cave we found was very protected from the potential rain. But it was also very small, especially for two freakishly tall people (me and Igor) and so sleeping was fractious and generally egregious. Also, creepy noises filled the cave all night, and it never even ended up raining. Whatever.

The next morning:

Right before sunrise, over the ocean.

During sunrise. These colors are REAL.

A little after sunrise. It was incredible because the mountains were an obstacle for the light, forcing it to sneak toward the Pedra from behind them. The shadows and glares were ever-changing and spectacular.

After the sunrise, I fell asleep. I took a nap from about 6 am to 8 am. When I woke up, I was immediately impressed by the insane cloud action taking place around the Pedra. Check it out!!!!!

Rolling in...

The clouds were seeping up at arms reach in front.
I took this from within.

I'm floating on clouuddssss...
The peak of Dois Irmãos is peeking up from under the fluffy cover.

The moist globs were moving rapidly, swirling around the Pedra from below. It was like being in a plane but better, because I was outside. So it was more like skydiving, but I was stationary. In other words, in contrast to the time I was skydiving and my tandem instructor told me to breath deeply when we went through the cloud, I stayed in the cloud for many many breaths. Rather than zipping through the clouds like lightning (or like a free-falling body), the clouds were moving very slowly through me. Surreal!

It was getting really hot and we descended the mountain. We went immediately to this excellent beach nearby called Praia Joatinga. This beach is very isolated, mostly secret, and gloriously situated in front of Pedra de Gávea amongst lots of really rad rock formations. It's quite a popular spot for body boarders and surfers, because the waves are always GNAR. I took these pictures another day, around sunset, so the lighting is not indicative of the morning we spent there. But you get the idea.

Finally, we went back home to procure some more appropriate beach-going clothing. Underwear is really offensive at the beach in Brazil, apparently. We found our buracos from the previous morning, and they were mostly still intact! SUCCESS.

So much napping happened on the São Conrado beach Sunday afternoon.

Next adventure: Paraty Easter weekend! Camping disaster in the rain waiting to happen! Happy April Fools and end of Lent to all!

INDY (and a Giant Moth)

New Independent story. It's about university. More on that soon. Meanwhile, I went to make tea last night and this GIANT MOTH was staring me down.

A Conta Grande de Ilha Grande

I had no school or obligations for the month of February. Many other international students ambitiously planned trips and filled their time traveling around Brazil and bordering countries. But I explored Rio. Got to know this cidade maravilloso properly. And it was glorious. That is, until one day, when Amy brought up a valid point: We have a week left of break. Carnival's over. Let's go SOMEWHERE, do SOMETHING, before school starts. An adventure. We decided, along with Stephanie and the two Espanois, Marc and José, who currently live in my house, that we would dedicate that Tuesday through the end of the week to finding Ilha Grande, adventuring there, and coming back. Our entire plan consisted of borrowing a tiny two-person tent from our Finnish friend Mikko, and finding a bus from Rio to Angra dos Reis, where they have boats to Ilha Grande.

We prepared for failure, transforming the inevitability of failures into the inevitability of success. We brought insufficient funds, turning our need to pay for stuff like lodging and restaurants into an impossibility. Amy and I knew we were on the right track when Angela, the Donna de minha casa, sternly lectured us about the stupidity of our plan on our way out of my house. She tried to tell us about some miserable time she had attempting the same adventure. Whatever. Our turn.

After getting more "you're crazy" vibes from Mikko, subsequently taking his tent, buying some fruit, and procuring Marc and José (who had brought two loafs of bread and a pile of cheese and ham), we finally departed the southernmost part of Rio (Zona Sul) to find the bus station near centro. An hour in transit left us there, where it was already getting dark. From there, we hopped on a bus to Paraty that would stop in Angra dos Reis. After two and a half hours of coloring, bus-picknicking, chatting with this Argentinian guy named Pablo who was sad about the end of vacation but had fun at Carnival, and general shit-shooting, we were dropped in the dark in this foreign beach town. My first outside-of-Rio adventure in Brasil (save for that day in Petropolis, this terribly chato historical Portuguese colonialist town) had officially commenced. There were marinas, but the beach's locale was not obvious. There was no loud music. There were no beach-side beverage venders. We were definitely not in Rio anymore.

And then we met this guy:

His name is Tiago. He was finishing work at a tall building near the bus terminal. We wandered by in vague search of a beach fit for camping and/or the ferry terminal. He was walking to a bar near said terminal, and would pass the closest beach on the way. He kindly dropped us off, newly acquainted and ready for the night. At the terminal, we learned that the boat to Ilha Grande would leave at 8 da manhã - in mais o menos 10 horas.

Our beach was occupied by a well-lit futebol game. It was beautiful, with two clusters of tall palm trees towering near the water, some cracked-paint fishing boats floating tranquilly just off shore, and an eerie harbor bordering to the right.. Save for the lack of lighting, it was picturesque. Proof:

With our boat and our beach plans requiring only time to pass, the next order of business was drinking. One of two downsides to the beach was that it didn't have soft, fluffy (Rio-like) sand. It was covered in hard, packed bits of shell. (The other downside, I'll get to later.) Not so comfortable. So, when I say "drinks," I mean, "drinks enough to get comfortable under one of the clusters of palm trees on this picturesque but not-so-comfortable beach and sleep."

We failed at finding a bar where they either a) served Caiparinhas under R$8, or B) Served Caiparinhas. We did find a place filled with creepy old men where the Itaipavas were only R$1.50, but the place offered insufficient beverage options, and would not do for more than an hour. On a half-assed mission to find a dive bar, we stumbled upon a closing supermarket. As a worker pulled the stainless steal entranceway door down, José literally slinked under the door and swiftly collected a bottle of vodka, two cartons of orange juice, some plastic cups and a bag of ice. Success! Fully prepared with supplies, we went back to the beach, selected a cluster of palms, spread our array of cangas, and settled in for the night. We made drinks, and drinks after drinks, and drinks after those, and played a hillarius game of rule-less Never-Have-I-Ever for the next few hours. And then we were re-procured by Tiago! He wandered jolly toward us with a Bob's Burgers bag in one hand and a giant smile on his face. He joined us under our palms for a while, sharing with us what we originally thought were arcana: a história verdadeira dos fantasmas de Ilha Grande. That's right, GHOSTS. The island, at different points in history, used to be home to pirates and lepers and a giant prison. Madame Satan (a ghost transvestite pirate or prisoner - I can't remember) offered a lengthy conversation topic. Tiago was curious to know why we were the bravest Gringos ever; sleeping on the beach and not having fear of Rio and whatnot. We were curious to hear about his life and his impressions of us. We were all pretty drunk. When Tiago went home we went swimming in what we thought was clear, warm water. José caught some big, neon crabs with his bare hands, which was very impressive.

(Our comical excuse for a camp site.)

(Our camp site being used.)
(José posing like a big goober with one of his crabs.)
(Marc showing off one of the bigger crabs that he did not catch.)

The next morning brings me immediately to the other downside of the beach. When the sun woke us, we could see the water, which was dirty as can be. The bottom wasn't soft because of luxurious sand - it was covered in mud. The crabs weren't big and abundant because of clean, nutrient-rich water - they were feeding on garbage. FAIL.

But when we went over to the boat terminal we also discovered through zombie eyes what Angra dos Reis actually looks like. I'm jus' sayin', it looks better than I at 8 in the morning.

We made our way to the ferry, got on it, went to the roof, and fell asleep.

When we woke up we saw this:

(Arrival dock in Vila do Abraão.)

(Surrounding islands = perfect hiding spots for pirates.)

Ilha Grande is truly stunning. I could definitely see why pirates would love it there. (And why their ghosts - Madame Satan, for example - would never leave.) After coffee and breakfast, we went immediately to this magnificent beach to swim with swordfish, other fish, and turtles!

Then we embarked on the epic journey that would occupy the next 10 or so hours of our lives. The destination was Dois Rios, an isolated village of bygone years that presumably featured a pristine beach, a blue lagoon, and Ilha Grande's abandoned prison. It was a three hour hike up and over a mountain blanketed by jungle. The barrier divides Villa do Abraão, the little town with all the touristy beaches, restaurants, hotels, ice cream shops and snorkel rental stands that surround the arrival and departure docks, from the wilder, better-preserved Dois Rios.

Up and up and up we went, and just when we thought we would find a peak with a view and such, the trail began to descend. We followed it down and down and down until we came across a spot where a river got all imbued with waterfall-type contraptions, and a voluminous pool offered perfect bathing/hydrating opportunities. The Piscina dos Soldados.

(The closest thing we got to a peak with a view.)

(...unless this view of ENDLESS GREEN counts...)

"A place where soldiers bathed and quenched their thirst after walking all the way from Vila do Abraão to the prison."

We may as well have been simulating a day in the life.

Refreshed, we continued down the path. We vaguely wondered where the hell we were, but were so satisfied by our discovery of/dip in the Piscina dos Soldados that the importance of our Dois Rios destination diminished. Until we cheerfully stumbled into the "ghostlike" town. I say "ghostlike" in quotations because Amy's Lonely Planet said it would be. But it is. Check out these ghostlike houses and the ghostlike prison. They haven't been used for a hundred years. Except by ghosts.

(The abandoned prison of Dois Rios.)

Right next to this "ghostlike" cluster of manmade remnants is one of the most beautiful beaches I have ever seen. It is easily up there with a few in Southern Thailand, Big Sur, California, and the Mediterranean. But it's exceptionally pristine; isolated; unscathed; preserved. A lagoon, which is probably one of the "Dois Rios," or "Two Rivers" for which the village was named, ensures that the soft, spotless sand is surrounded by blue-green wetness. As in the city of Rio de Janeiro, the place's stifling beauty is so panoramic that the mono-angular perspective of photos offers incomplete depictions. Try and get in your computer and put one of these on each side of your face.

I lied before. Not all of the buildings in the "ghostlike" town have been used exclusively by ghosts for the last 100 years. Today, one is home to currently living human beings. The family has not surprisingly capitalized on their probably boring, isolated location by turning their front yard and porch into a restaurant of sorts. Passersby are minimal but constant, and the family might as well make some money serving the hungry ones some homemade Brazilian food. We sat at one of a few plastic tables in their yard, and were served what Amy and Stephanie - the meat-eaters in the group - called "some daaayum good Brazilian food!" or something like that. (As for me, there's only so much you can do with rice, black beans, lettuce and tomatoes...) The feijão and chicken reminded Amy of her Brazilian dad's amazing cooking. This is exceptional. Except preparation of all this from scratch took forever. Like an hour and a half forever. Three obstacles suddenly allied against us:

1. The time change. We lost an hour the previous weekend.

2. The mountains. They made for a very high sunset.

3. The hike back. The same really long way we came was the only way back.

Re-energized and determined, we left Dois Rios. We asked about a shortcut, and ran into our savior for the day. A man named Marce or Marse or Mars (I will call him Mars as a tribute to Marc's love for David Bowie - and his unknowingly psychic moment on the beach in Angra the night before when he wrote MARS? in the sand...) Mars was hiking back with his family, and knew of the shortcuts. We followed Mars and his hilarious family up the path and into the jungle. We all stopped again at the Piscina dos Soldados, where a trail wound strait up through the jungle, instead of going around, to the top of the mountain dividing Dois Rios from Abraão. How we failed to notice it earlier is a mystery (that can probably be explained by our gringo/noob-ness). Up and up and up we went, again, and after a half an hour or so on this steep, narrow path where a machete might have made the going easier, we were almost at the top. Some of the faster members of Mars's clan started shouting from the top for us to come quickly. We could hear some vague guttural noises resonating through the jungle, and Mars mumbled something about macacas. Monkeys! We mustered our energy and ran the rest of the way to the top, where the booming, boisterous sounds of monkeys rumbled through the trees. We cautiously and quietly found a spot from where we could spy up at the powerful beasts in the trees. Mars and his family warned us that if we were detected and perceived as threatening, we might be attacked, and that we really had no legitimate defense against the beasts. After I took one photo, the playful/crazy niece of Mars started screaming and told me to run. So I did. And she laughed. And everyone else laughed. But then we all had to run because the monkeys heard her, and started watching us. We ran to a freshwater pipe situated at the bottom of a waterfall. Each of us drank about a gallon of water. Then Mars lead the way to Shortcut Pt. 2 - the one that goes down the other side of the mountain - and we began our descent, away from the macacas.

By the time we were almost at the end of the short cut to Abraão, it was already dark in the shaded jungle. Thanks to Mars, we saved an hour of muddy, downhill blind hiking that would have been perilous and miserable.

We asked the wise Paulista (person from São Paulo) about camping, and he told us that camping outside of a campsite is illegal. He said camping in a campsite costs money. He said the cops would find us, and fine us, or send us to a campsite or hostel. We asked about exceptions, and he said... well... the enforcements don't normally make it over to Praia Preta... Perfect! We had been planning on camping at the Praia Preta, along with all of its ghost inhabitants. Imbued with the teachings of Mars, we thanked him for saving our lives, wished his big, eccentric family good camping, and set off for the beach. From the center of Abraão, we would follow the coast for twenty minutes to the left until reaching Praia Preta. We needed to size it up before the dark completely obscured it. When we reached the water, I was struck by the combination of magic hour and incoming heavy clouds:

(This photograph may as well exist to create insatiable voleibol-playing urges. It has that effect on me, anyway.)

We beat time in a race against it. When we reached Praia Preta a few remaining minutes of the quickly dimming natural light remained, allowing us to scope the scene. There were plenty of large rocks behind which to hide and camp illegally for the night. Praia Preta ("Black Beach") is the beach where the Lazareto, or leper/cholera hospital (basically leper colony) was built in 1871 and used until 1910. In 1910 the prison at Dois Rios, which was a political prison, or a penal colony, became the main use of the island and the leper colony was shut down. Unlike the prison, the leper colony remnants are few and hidden. They are presumably really eerie, but because we didn't get to experience the Praia Preta in the light, we never saw them. Fail. (In 1954 the subsequent penal colony was shut down, and the island was used only by ghosts until 1994, when it was opened to tourists.)

( My dad says black sand comes from black rocks. He's a scientist. Thanks dad.)

A word on pirates, while we're on the subject of history: Between 1500 and 1800 pirate activity and smuggling were huge on Ilha Grande. The Spanish used it, along with Florianopolis and San Sebastian, as an in-between island for food and water during the trade of Peruvian gold and silver. The island was a strategic point for pirates. They hid out among the giant rocks and took the treasure that inevitably filled Spanish ships. Praia Preta was obviously one of the cooler pirate hang-outs.

After taking a quick bath in the ocean, getting our Praia Preta bearings against the quickly-diminishing light, and determining that our Praia Preta camping experience would be flawless and superb, we returned to the touristy center of Abraão for some much-needed nourishment. We got some Finnish ice cream, hit up a supermarket, and set up a picnic on the beach in front of rows of chic, overpriced restaurants and jungle-backpacker-themed, overpriced hotels and hostels. It was much like the night before. But with more dogs. In fact, what Ilha Grande lacks in cars (there aren't any), it makes up for in dogs. Hundreds of wandering, skinny dogs add a dirty but - I think - fantastic component to the island. Marc and I decided that there are so many because when the pirates all died, there was no one left to educate the young pups about birth control. I had to include that. Whatever. The point is, we made a friend, and he stuck with us throughout the night:

(His name is Pombo, or something. According to Marc, it's a popular last name in Galicia, where José is from. Marc thinks the name is funny. But he named his dog Book, which is english for Libro, or Livro. So what does he know.)

Suddenly, the clouds that made for a beautiful sunset exploded with moisture, and intense drops of big wetness pushed us under the only overhang that wasn't owned by a restaurant or other business: the one over the main arrival and departure dock of Ilha Grande. Pombo came with. It was only around 10 pm, and we decided we'd wait out the rain with drinks. It was quite an entertaining couple of hours. We played an advanced edition of Never-Have-I-Ever. Tonight it went a little more like this: "I did [this specific ridiculous thing]." Everybody drinks. A story is told. We were inturrupted frequently, as our rain-protected hiding place was visited by extremely annoying drunk gringos. It was a little more than mildly entertaining, as always, to play games of whit with the belligerent Australian men.

By midnight, the rain had waned sufficiently to wander about the town in search of more mixer. By 1, the rain had stopped, and we were ready to camp. Marc went to the hostel that José booked because he was "feeling sick." We the women knew this really just meant that we were much more badass then the boys.

As we left the Abraão area, a guard told us that we'd better not be going to camp. We said we knew. We were just going for a walk. We found the beach, and, using the flashlight that Mikko gave us (which straps to ones head), we found a spot with our names all over it. We pitched our tent with miraculous ease and sat down to shoot the shit. There was just one problem. The tide. It came up about 2 feet in the half an hour that we were there, and started splashing the ocean-end of our tent. Also, the area smelled like rotting dead animals. It was revolting. Also, we looked around and realized that we were literally on the one spot on the beach where sand was not underwater. It would soon disappear. All of this reality sank in, and we un-pitched our tent and went back to Abraão. The guard looked happy to see us. We were happy to have pitched the tent successfully. It was outside forces that caused our failure. In other words, the failure was not truly ours. We were fail free.

(Success.)

(This passageway was basically designed for the incoming tide to wash us away.)

We decided to take the act-like-we-know-it's-illegal-but-we-just-don't-give-a-fuck route and spread our cangas in the most obvious spot possible - on the beach next to the main dock of Ilha Grande, right between some street lights and the boat-speckled water. Pombo was there, waiting faithfully, and we slept. Or tried to. Actually I slept. But Amy and Stephanie had some stories the next day of bums and drunk tourists alike, who stopped by to hang out at various times throughout the night. Whatever. Around 5, the universe turned against us. 1. It got light. 2. It started pouring again. But more this time. We ran into this tiny café that was luckily opening right then, and 2 seconds later the street/beach/docks were flooded. They were an extension of the ocean, except from the other direction. The meeting of water from above and below was intense.

(This is our dock overhang. It was much more romantic at night, I swear.)

There we sat in awe at the utter and absolute wetness of it all. We texted Marc and José, and they emerged from their hostel a while later. We ran to the dock, and waited soaking with some dogs for our ferry back to Angra dos Reis.

(Cachorro hanging out by Amy's canga, which is "airing." I should mention here how smelly our stuff was. After pitching our tent on what must have been the rotting remnants of some Ilha Grande beast, our cangas, clothes, backpacks and Mikko's poor tent smelled RANCID. Mostly the cangas. They were a pain to bring home, because their odors constantly inflicted utter disgust.)

(Ilha Grande looks a lot different when the top half of the above-water portion is covered in clouds - or, also under water. Think about that...)

Everybody had the same idea. Everybody was getting the hell off Ilha Grande. Nobody wanted to be there in the rain. The island actually suffers from extreme mudslides. When I registered with the US Government Visa Service Trip Advisor they told me not to go there. A year ago or something a bunch of people died and houses/a hotel? were destroyed for this reason. So our boat was full. Definitely not enough life jackets on board for all of us. It was windy, and the rain blew in from all directions. Despite the obnoxiously squished together 100 or so seats, half the passengers had to stand. Our arrival back at Angra dos Reis left us with a hike across the town to the bus station. We may as well have swum there. When we got there, we had an hour to wait. We took our dripping clothes off, fished the least soaked of our soaked clothes from our drenched backpacks, and attempted to retain a bit of warmth. The bus, however, was absolutely FREEZING. Brazilians are really into their Omnibus Air-conditioning Systems. Even when all the passengers are wet and cold. We finally got back to Rio after 2.5 hours of this. I wanted SO BAD to sing "We made it through the wilderness!!!" the whole time, but we decided that we would go to PUC dinner (R$5 for delicious rice, beans, salad, meat, whatever. The cheapest way to eat a lot in the entire city.) Amy wouldn't let me sing it until we got there. Marc, José and I then raced home; they took the 178 bus straight from the station near Centro to São Conrado. Thinking about the traffic and how much I utterly detest it and its effects on the buses in Rio, I went for the Metro-connect-to-van system. It cost two fares instead of one and went way out of the way but what I'm really trying to say is I BEAT THEM!!

So, after traveling from 8 am to 6 pm, I was finally home. I got to take a shower and start my laundry first, (since I WON!!) and we finally went to PUC.

WE MADE IT THROUGH THE WILDERNESS!

Finally, I have some more Ilha Grande pictures that didn't fit in anywhere else:

(I like green bikes.)

(My friends are resting.)

(This futebol field is situated rather epic, né?)

(Alleyway next to the café that served us coffee the first morning and took us in from the rain the second morning. Green BYKZ.)

(This one's for MIKKO!!!)

(The Itaipava [Brazilian beer] boat, included for good measure. In case you were wondering how they got all that beer out to Ilha Grande.)