Joseph Ernest Martin

Everyone was really excited. It was the night before Joe's 30th birthday and he, Zac and me were chilling in the Kilo restaurant just round the corner discussing plans for our opening night. It was to be a joint celebration.

The sound system had been installed by Elvis and it was sounding sick. The noise could be heard all over the neighbourhood. Everyone was really excited. Everyone was really excited.

Two days previous to this Thursday night, Elvis and Joe had fallen out over the matter of Joe taking his girlfriend upstairs, numerous times, to sleep in hostel without checking her in. This was forbidden by Elvis and to be fair, Joe should have respected this. However, until this time it was a rule that had never been enforced. This disagreement had resulted in Elvis losing his temper and throwing a chair at Joe which broke over his arm. Elvis had aimed it at his head. This may sound extreme but in Elvis' defence Joe had been winding him up profusely over this matter by denying that it had happened, despite Elvis having it on camera. After this disagreement, Joe decided he no longer wanted to involved in the bar, which was understandable; the problem was, Joe had already signed the tenancy agreement and paid part of his non-refundable 3rd share for the lease. Elvis expressed that the only way Joe could be out was to find a new third party to by him out. Subsequently, this created problems for Zac and I, who didn't - and still don't - want a new partner. Joe ended up turning to alcohol for the answer. For the following two days I didn't see Joe without a drink in his hand day or night.

Once night had fallen on this Thursday night, Joe went to Beco do Rato - a samba cafe just round the corner from the Hostel, still in Lapa. It usually gets busy around midnight and I had arranged to meet Joe there. Joe loved that place, he was there every week, without fail.

Me, João and Elvis had arranged to go to a new strip joint around just up the road. When we got there, they let us enter with our beers and it cost 2 Reais to get in. We walked in and it was full of prostitutes. They swarmed us. We each got a complimentary lap dance to the sounds of some grimey funk music, which was amusing; these girls were experts and shaking their Brazilian batties. We soon got bored and fled before being pestered for more drinks.

After this, we piled over to Beco da Rato where Elvis bought himself an X-Tudo burger before shooting off. I bumped into Joe as soon as I got there, although, he took a few seconds to recognise me; this was unusual for Joe. I noticed instantly there was some white residual powder below his right nostril, he'd had been getting on it all night and was extremely drunk by this point, as well as sniffed up. When talking to him, his attention kept turning to his girlfriend, who was talking to some guy. "I'm gonna fucking kill this guy, Nik," he growled.
"Why? What the fuck has he done, mate?" I replied.
"Nothin' really, he's just talking to Leila, I don't like guys talkin' to my girl."
"You're not gonna touch him, Joe. That girl fucking worships you, man. Don't be such I prick, come on let's go over there, I need to talk to you,"
"No wait, first, let's go get a shot of Fogo Paulista," Joe demanded.
"Claro," I nodded, he then grabbed my head and gave a me a big kiss on the cheek.
"I fucking love you, my brother, give me a kiss!" He cried. I laughed at him. "What you can't give your brother a kiss now?" He said.
"Course I can," I shouted, before obliging and following up with a big hug for his approaching birthday.

I led him to the bar where we each downed a huge shot of this vile Goldschlager-like spirit; it burned as it went down almost inducing vomitus. I then grabbed a couple of beers for us and we walked off to a quiet area to discuss plans for his birthday celebration. Along the way, as we waded through the crowds, Joe stopped to chat to a couple of Americans from New York. He was completely hammered by this point and proceeded to insult them both "Wait, you guys aint from Manhattan are ya?" He jeered, with a sick chuckle behind his voice. "So your Jewish asses like tha Yankis?"
"Sure we do," the short, stumpy, mole-like Jew replied.
"Just know, when you die, Joe Martin thought you were an asshole," Joe cackled before giving him a big kiss on the cheek.
"Who the fuck is Joe Martin anyway?" The other Jew tried to retaliate.
"Me motherfucker," Joe shouted.
I excused Joe's rudeness, invited them both to the party then dragged Joe away. He was in a wild mood. As we walked off, I remember him yelling at the top of his voice, no words, just a loud scream which made everyone on the street turn and stare.
"I gotta tell ya somtin," he said.
"I already know. You haven't got the money for tomorrow" I said.
"Yeah but no, err yeah but I fucked you and Zac over as well. I bought all Elvis' stock off him on credit." He continued.
Now, this consisted of a case of Cachaça and various other bottles of spirits. His idea was that this would be his contribution for the party and that Zac and I would provide the beer. "
What about the rest of the lease money, have you got it yet?" I asked.
"That's coming, my mum's sending me that next week, you can speak to he and ask her if you don't believe me" He replied.
"Joe, mate, we're not in school, if you say you got it, you got it, I trust you man, we'll speak about all this tomorrow when you're not off your nut."
"Agreed." He then grabbed me kissed me once again and told me once more how much he loved Zac and I. I reciprocated with a big smacker on his cheek. "likewise." We had one final man-hug before I went home to bed.

At about 4am my phone rang and woke me up. It was Elvis. "Nik, hi, sorry, were you asleep?" He said calmly.
"That's alright, whatsup?" I retorted, in a weary slumber.
"Are you with Joe? He asked.
"No man I'm at home in bed, why?"
Well, Joe was shot in the belly by an off duty cop and I just wanted to check whether you were with him."
"What the fuck, are you serious? Where is he?" My eyes opened.
"He's in the hospital, mate." Elvis continued calmly.
"Fuck, what the fuck happened?" I shouted.
"I don't know exactly," he said. I thanked him for calling but wasn't sure this was real, I soon fell back asleep not knowing if I was dreaming.

At 8:00am my phone rang again, this time it was Alan on the phone. Alan is 23, Brazilian and from Petropolis, he works as a kind of handyman for Elvis. Alan told me again that Joe was in the hospital and I told him to wait 15 minutes for me.

When I arrived at the hostel I asked where Zac was. I then asked what had happened and this is what I was told:

Elouis and Cassandra, two friends of ours who used to stay at Samba Villa had been drinking just round the corner, when some kid snatched Elouis' bag and ran down the road. A random guy off the street had then accosted the kid and pinned him up against the wall. Joe meanwhile, was walking past cheering about reaching 30. He walked up to Elouis and Cassandra, who told him to be quiet and updated him on the situation. Joe had continued drinking and sniffing since I left him, 3 or so hours earlier. He must have been fucked up by this point. He was not happy with the events and ran down to the man and the thief. He then pushed the man off the thief before planting a headbutt on the thief's face. The thief dropped the bag and ran away. "Why did you do that?" The man shouted at Joe, in English.
Joe replied something in Portuguese along the lines of "No one steals around here, especially from my people."
The man was not happy with his answer and pulled out a pistol aiming it at Joe's bare chest. "What are you gonna do now?" The man shouted, again in English.
"What are you gonna do? Shoot me? Go ahead, everyone is watching!" He challenged.
"The man then shot twice at the ground in an attempt warn Joe off.
This didn't seem to faze Joe, who apparently replied "Shoot me then, come on you haven't got the balls."
Holding his hands out in either side of him seeming to imitate Jesus on the cross and clutching a beer in one, and a fag in the other. The man then shot twice in the air and the arguing continued, now in Portuguese. The man then shot twice more missing the first but hitting with the second shot. This was not an attempt to incapacitate Joe, no, the bullet hit Joe in the abdomen not a leg or a foot. Just try and imagine what that lump of metal flying at hundreds of miles per hour would do to a stomach full of vital organs. Joe fell to the floor clutching his belly as João, Leone, Allan and Elouis watched in terror. The man was calm and casually walked off to stand on the corner. The Policia Milita soon arrived and paid no attention to Joe. They spoke almost casually to the gunman before another unmarked car turned up. The gunman got in the car with a PM and people started screaming "murderer," and throwing rocks at the car.
The car sharply reversed straight into the crowd causing them to disperse. The car then stopped and the man got out again. Meanwhile Joe sat crying in on the side of the road. Leila, Joe's girlfriend soon arrived pm the scene and sat next to Joe crying. About 30 minutes passed before the Ambulance finally arrived. They put Joe in the back and another 20 passed before they finally shot off. They took Joe to some lame hospital just 10 minutes around the corner. Leone apparently went with the PM's to check that he was detained.

I called Zac's mobile and told him what I knew. He at first didn't believe me but eventually said he'd be there in 5 minutes. When he arrived we left immediately and jumped in a cab. It only took 10 fucking minutes to get there, 10 fucking minutes.

When we arrived at the hospital, they would only let one person in Allan went. Zac and I sat outside waiting. In my mind, Joe was sitting with a bandage wrapped around his chest sitting up in bed.
I had planned to call him a prick and say "What the fuck have you done this time, ya nutta?"
Allan came out, his eyes were wide and he looked shaken; I will never forget his words "Cara morreu" or "dude died."
Me, Zac and Allan went back into the hospital and Allan led us to waiting room where we found Leila and Joãn sitting in tears. I couldn't cry. I just felt numb and confused. Everyone else was in tears and I just sat there in a bewildered daze. Eventually, I took Leila out and sat holding her tight while she cried and cried. I tried to comfort her and told her I would be here for her.

Joe died at approximately 4am, during surgery. It was his 30th birthday.

Joseph Ernest Martin

25th May 1977 - 25th May 2007

Died for his people - Morreu para a gente

RIP

UFO

Last night I returned home from the beach with Shelley to find some of the guys I live with in the garden. Two of them were having a jam - one on trumpet, the other guitar; another two were practicing some new juggling moves. One of the guys, Sebastian, was raised in the circus. He has a stupid hair cut, is about 5'3" and is the most amazing juggler I have ever seen. He can unicycle with one foot, balance a ball on the other and another on his head, while juggling three skittles. The two musicians were playing improvised jazz style rhythms. Shelley and I went out to join them and took some pictures and filmed a little.

Shortly after, I had a shower, a shit and a shave and went downstairs to my bedroom. On my way down I heard loud voices in the garden, including my name being called. I went out to investigate and saw Daniel, Martin and some other Argentinian guy who's name I can't remember, all standing at the end of the garden staring up into the night sky. They all had their eyes completely fixed and were frantically calling for me to come and join them. When I did, I was flabbergasted by what I saw. Directly above us were about twenty or so lights floating in a triangular formation. Some were flashing and others static. They were moving slowly as if expanding. Then more started appearing but now different colours of green and red. At first I tried to excuse them as planes or helicopters but there were too many and they were too close together. 'Shelley, you gotta fucking come and see this,' I shouted into the house, 'this is fucking mental, I'd be quick if I were you!' Shelley hurried down the steps to join us. 'Jesoos Chroost' she howled in her Dublinesque accent. 'Wha is thaa?' She asked. No one had an answer to give, we just stood staring in amazement. I then darted up the stairs to fetch my Olympus and was back in a matter of seconds filming what we saw above. More lights appeared. What could it be? Aliens? What the fuck? I am sceptic at the best of times but couldn't deny what I saw with my own eyes.

As we continued to stare, I got on my mobile and called Samba Villa. Joe answered and without a greeting I started 'Joe you gotta get the fuck outside, bro, there's fucking spaceships 'n' shit up in the sky' He was like 'What the fuck?' Before putting the receiver down to go and check it out. He called back 'errr, Nik man, I din see no aliens, dude,' he said chuckling. 'THERE'S MORE, GET YOUR ASS OUTSIDE, BRO!' I shouted, just as more lights started appearing; this time orange and in another area of the sky. My phone rang, it was Joe again 'NIK, THEY'VE FUCKIN LANDED IN LAPA SQUARE, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!' He screamed, before promptly hanging up. 'Fuck off,' I thought, knowing he was taking the piss. By this time the last of the lights had disappeared, so I loaded my bag with my camera and data cable and headed down to the hostel to examine the evidence.

When I got there, I asked Joe if he had seem them 'Yeah, they're hot air balloons,' he said, 'people used to set'em off in my neighbourhood.' 'No way' I replied. 'You didn't see the ones I saw.' 'I'm pretty sure they were balloons, Nik,' he said in a pragmatic tone. 'As soon as he said this I kind of accepted it as truth, but was slightly gutted. Take a look at the link below and make your own mind up.

The truth is out there..... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ynuJdVqr8ZM

Favelas and Ecstasy

It was Thursday night, the beginning of another weekend for me (as I don't work on Fridays!) We started off drinking whiskey and coke in Samba Villa. I - unlike my self-promise - had entered into a discussion on the military occupation of Palestine with an Israeli. Ashton is 21 and fresh out of the army. I was fairly tipsy by this point and was being particularly contemptuous. We didn't really progress very deep into discussion and the topic ended after I remarked 'the difference between you and me is: I hate the disgusting by the atrocities committed by the foreign military interventions of my government, where's you deny them,' he seemed shocked that I could denounce my own government, obviously having been trained in his conscripted military service to be 100% patriotic. 'You can think for yourself, you know?' I said with an authoritative tone. I think this hit a spot and he didn't reply, he just faintly nodded. Once we got off this subject, we actually got on really well and discussed music and his passed occupation of bar manager. He had some great ideas for what we should do with our new venture. His taste in music was slightly different to mine, him being into hard techno or 'psy-trance' as it's known. I asked if he liked Drum & Bass and although he hadn't heard much of it he said he did. I told him I knew a good club where he could experience proper DnB. So we agreed to head to Botafogo to a club called Casa de Martiz, for - as far as I know - Rio's only Drum & Bass night. We discussed getting some little ones for the night's festivities and then got on to the debate of who should go to the favela to score them. Joe said it was about time I went alone as I'd never done so before 'I think it's about time ya gat ya stripes, Nik' He challenged in his Boston accent. 'Fuck it, I'll go,' I agreed. I had to go home to change anyway and it was kind of on the way.

Off I skipped, to the neighbouring town of Gloria home of Favela Santa Amaru. I had been there a couple of times previously but only with other people and never actually up to the boca - 'boca' being Portuguese for 'mouth.' The boca is where the actual trafficking takes place. I'm not certain how it got this name but my theory is the mouth being the way in which the favela communicates with the outside world: drugs.

The streets along the way were full of old men selling brikabrak on the side of the pavement, I wondered how these people earned any money from this; the goods were old, seemingly useless and some even broken. When I finally got there, I noticed a police station sitting across the road from the entrance. 'Great,' I murmured. Surprisingly, I felt no fear. Maybe it was the alcohol supressing my nerves, or maybe because I have become so familiar with favelas over the past few months and now believe myself to have a good understanding of how they work.

Santa Amaru is, like all favelas, is on a big hill. Ironically, they say that if global warming continues at its current rate, the slums' residents will be the only inhabits left in southern Brazil.

The entrance was met with a huge flight of stairs and I mean huge. I began my assent. I could see a couple of guys in white shirts walking up ahead of me which gave me second thoughts, 'white shirt in favelas?' It didn't seem right. I stopped and a teenage boy came dashing down the stairs passed me, he said something as he was passing, which I didn't understand. I remember thinking 'is he warning me of trouble ahead?' Another guy passed me climbing up and I decided this meant it was obviously safe, sort of. I followed him up and soon we were deep inside the favela. Suddenly numerous voices coming from the pitch black darkness which lay ahead, started shouting at us 'levante sua camisa' 'levante sua camisa' meaning lift up your shirt. We did so and continued again, more shouting began, this time 'vire!' 'vire!' 'vire!' I momentarily didn't understand what they meant until one of them, visible by this point and holding a handgun pointed straight at me, started indicating that I turn around. I did so. 'phew' I thought and shouted back 'ta bom?' He replied 'passe' and as I passed he turned to me and asked 'Sâo louco broda?' 'Nâo, eu gringo, amigo!' I replied and he turned to his mate as if to say 'oh now I get it' They then ushered me on and as I walked past I heard faint laughter behind me. I continued up the hundreds of dark stairs that lay ahead and passed another guard sitting at the foot of another flight, he sat on a stool playing with his gun, which I remember glancing down at as I walked by. He can't have older than sixteen. Finally, I reached a bar and asked one of the staff 'onde fica é a boca?' The man didn't say a word, just walked passed me and led me through the alleyways ahead. I was finally there: the boca. About 6 guys each heavily armed including one carrying an AK-47 were surrounding a table. On the table sat a fuck off bag of money and numerous bags of drugs. 'Você tem, Ecstacy?' I asked in my best Carioca accent. 'Tem. Quantos?' He replied. 'Quato custo, para uma?' I aksed. 'Vinte' (20) I then asked how much for 10 and he replied 200. I was in no position to bargain so replied 'bem' and handed over the cash. He carefully counted out ten pills each wrapped in pink plastic and advised me to wrap them up. I thanked the trafficantes and was soon on my way. Bloody nice blokes, I thought.

When I was nearing the bottom, I took a 2 Real note and wrapped all ten pills as tight as possible. If I was caught by the police with these, I would have to pay dearly, 'perish the thought,' I thought. I took the package and placed it firmly in between my bum cheeks: the safest place possible. The walk home was aided by adrenaline. That was certainly an experience to remember. It was like being in a scene from City of God. I laughed to myself, for surviving it.

The truth is: the boca is a protected and highly secure business, it's function is not to kill people; these kids aren't murderers, most of them are just guys with no hope or future, who need money to feed themselves and their families. Most of them have no legal documents and thus no chance of getting a job. The favela provides an income and their work is surviving the police and/or rival gang invasions. Most of the trafficantes are dead by the time they reach their mid-twenties. Once in never out.

When I got back, Joe was excited to see me and firmly shook my hand to congratulate my experience. I distributed the goods adding an extra 5 Reals on each for my troubles, and we had another drink before heading to the club.

Me, Shelley, Joãn, Ashton and Ashton's Israeli friend flagged a sherbet to the Casa de Martiz club and were entertained along the way by the cabby's insane driving; screeching round corners and running red lights. I requested some funke to be played and the cabby seemed very much to like this idea. I love it. It is so fucking gully. One popular tune that is played everywhere at the moment includes the lyrics that roughly translated mean 'pull that girl close, pull her, pull her, pull her, rub her, fuck her, fuck' and 'prosti, prosti, prosti - tute, prosti, prosti, prosti - tute' When we arrived, we jumped out and the cabby wheel span off. Joãn negotiated our entry price down to 12 Reals from 16 and managed to gain free entry for himself. I think he blagged that he brought us all on a tour from the hostel. Ashton and I had already dropped ours and were coming up in the queue. They were strong. We were soon inside brocking out to some heavy DnB. I don't think Ashton was very familiar with these rushes as whenever I saw him, he would tell me he was falling in love with me and give me a big wet smacker! He also told me how amazing and special I was and that he believed I would be rich, famous and very happy in life. Joãn had never done ecstasy before and was off his face; he was absolutely loving it but looked slightly disturbing. Zack soon turned up at the club and I handed him a couple of jubes. Shelley had been abstaining but eventually got on it too. We were all soon smashed and danced night away. After the club closed we all went back to Samba Villa to meet Joe and continue the debauchery, this time in the form of sniffed up poker. The party continued till about 4pm the following day when I finally went home to bed. Or at least that was the plan. There was no hope of sleeping, I was wired to the moon. Shelley came to see me and we both lay in my bed unable to wind down. Eventually after getting up and walking around, sitting down, laying down and then repeating the process countless times, we agreed to go for a walk. We ended up back at Samba Villa where we found Zack in a similar state. Zack and I had been invited to a party by Anna, a beautiful translation student who works on reception in Samba Villa. We accepted the invitation. The party would be in Petropolis in a mansion on a mountain. Anna told me it would be cold (by Brazilian standards, probably British summer temperatures) and advised me to go home and put some trousers on. I did and returned shortly. Although, by this time, I was completely shattered having not slept for about 30 hours! I decided not to go and sat down chatting to Elvis and Anna for about an hour. Elvis is bloody mad but very likable. I think he and I shocked Anna with our completely random and insane rhetoric, which, from what I remember included he and I describing a past of growing up together in a forest where we were reared by wolves and eventually earnt our fortune through hunting reindeer for their precious antlers, which we ground down to make an aphrodisiac paste we then sold to China for vast quantities of cash. Surprisingly, after all this nonsense she agreed to meet me for a drink and to get to know each other after work the following Monday. She is fucking hot.

It was about 8pm and I left to go and reattempt sleep, this time successfully until 3am when I went out again in search of food; something I had forgotten to do all of Friday - oops.

Glue kids

I thought I'd post a brief post detail the disturbing images I observed the other night.

Me, Shelley and Joãn planned on going to the cinema to see Spiderman two the other night. It is located just up the road from Lapa (where I live) in an area called Cinelandia. When we got there it was closed so we decided to go for a stroll in search of some scran. We walked round the corner to marvel at the sights of the Museu Nacional de Belas Artes (National Museum of Fine Arts) the Teatro Municipal and Centro Cultural da Justiça Federal; all relics built about 100 years marking the rich wealth and grandeur of Imperial Brazil.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Imperial_Brazil

A boy of about 9 came up to us begging for change. He had a big smile and an innocent (probably well practiced) face. He was about 5' tall and skinnier than a rake and was clutching a can of Skol, although, this can didn't contain beer. I pulled out 2 a two Real note and handed it over to him before he scarpered off into the night. To confirm my suspicion Joãn asked 'you know that wasn't beer in that can don't you?' 'Yeah it was glue, wasn't it' I replied. Joãn nodded in agreement. We then sat on the steps in front of the Centro Cultural da Justiça Federal discussing Brazilian history with Joãn (an international relations student who works as a translator for Elvis). He went on to tell us that there still existed a Brazilian royal family who dwell in the State of Petropolis, although they have no power or say in the running of the country.

The same young boy who had been begging us for money just 10 minutes earlier was attempting to tackle a football from some slightly older boys in the square. They kept throwing him on the floor like a rag doll when ever he managed to touch the ball. None of the children had flip-flops on and this wasn't to help their footballing skills, it was likely to be because they had been taken from them. They were all clutching empty plastic coke bottles and just like the can of Skol they contained no coke.

Behind us, further up the stairs we heard voices and commotion. There was a small alcove on the top left of the staircase. This alcove had become home to about 10 you boys and girls; one of whom, no more that 16 was pregnant. They were darting in and out of there 'home' all throughout the time we sat there. Each of them clutching their bottles of glue.

I will never forget the powerful juxtaposition of seeing those poor solvent-addicted homeless kids, playing in a square surrounded by such splendid and rich architecture.

The link below contains some startling facts:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Street_children#Street_children_in_Brazil

Skol Beats - Day 2

We finally reached Central Sâo Paulo and meandered out of the bus station. The streets surrounding the bus station were alive filled with market traders vending their cheap & tacky merchandise.

After grabbing a disgusting x tudo burger we wandered the streets of Sâo Paulo to check out the local action. There were free parties in the street everywhere. Sâo Paulo has had a bad write-up and pretty much everyone I'd spoken to had completely slagged it off as a city; however, personally, I enjoyed it and would definitely like to spend more time there. I can imagine that the days must pretty bleak, like any other big city but the nightlife seemed to be heavy and full of action. We took a detour into a chemist where I tried to sneak on some ladies cotton fresh antiperspirant, although was caught and had to buy it. I then had the idea of buying a toothbrush and toothpaste; everyone followed suit and we were soon the only four people to be wandering through the city streets brushing our teeth in unison while dancing to the free trance music blaring from every street corner.

We were soon in a cab on our way to day two the festival where the second days mashup tent awaited us. Along the way, we passed through the main city centre and were all amazed by the fantastic architectural splendor that remained from Imperial Brazil. The Teatro Municipal particularly caught my attention with its huge Doric columns and intricately sculpted statues; there were queues of people lining up to enter an apparently free night of theatre.

Again we bought tickets from touts outside and I handed them the ladies antiperspirant as a gift; they we overjoyed with excitement and scuffled with each other over who would spray first. We left them to it.

The festival was even busier than the previous day and we started off in the live tent listening to hard trance; not my cuppa tea but Zach and the girls love it and I do believe in democracy. I got chatting to a rather chunky little teenager with braces, who reminded me of a puffin with a rucksack. She was very friendly and offered me a few caps of supposed amphetamines in exchange for a beer. She introduced me to her friends who equally friendly and I chatted practicing my Portuguese. The puffin girl then told me that her fat friend wanted to kiss me I responded polite yet negatively, she then added that she wanted to kiss me. I told her I had a girl friend. The trance was replaced by some funky breaks and we had a little brock out before moving on to the next arena. I knew I would spend most of the night in the DnB tent so thought it'd be a change to experience a bit of variety first.

It was soon midnight and time for the main event. DJ Marky, Sâo Paulo's first and most famous Drum & Bass DJ and producer. It couldn't have been better; the tent was rammed full of Brazilians all gathered to worship their new-age messiah. He kicked off with a remix of Coolio's 'Take a ride with me' which contains some fucking sick, distorted, analogue basslines. Every tune he slammed on caused the arena to tremor with excitement and mayhem. I was satisfied with my fix of DnB although dissatisfied by the non-existent effect of the amphetamines. We all went for more beer and to the neighbouring tent for some funky house and electro; not sure who it was on the decks.

It was then time for Fabio and Grooverider who were unimpressive; I guess my hopes were set too high after the last time I say Grooverider play a 3 hour private set with my jungles amigos Colin and Gaz; I'll never forget the eclectic range of characters including fast-forward issue wall man; massive black dude with size thirty white trainers; hippy with steamed up glasses and gay rainbow Marvin Gaye impersonator; but there another story.

Eventually the party was winding down and we joined the Spanish girl Sarah and her friend for a final dance, before leaving to find their hostel. By this time Zack and I were steaming mad drunk and started arguing and wrestling in the back of the cab, over what I cannot remember, Sarah jumped inbetween us to separate the violence and keep the cabby tranquil. Shelley wanted to bail so we drove to bus station. All the while, the cabby is on the phone trying to sort e's out for Zack and Sarah. I left with Shelley with the intention of helping her get the coach and briefly darted in the toilet, when I came out she had gone and I drunkenly rolled through the station looking for her. I was soon lost. I tried to go back to the taxi rank and find the others although couldn't find that either. Just then I saw Shelley and we both bought tickets before KOing for most of the 6 hour journey home.

Skol Beats - Day 1

After the serious search by the PMs, Joe and I went back to Samba Villa to sign the rental contracts with the landlord Elvis and third partner Zack from Australia.

Zack and I had arranged to go to São Paulo for a rave called Skol Beats. I had heard about the event months ago and checked the line up online. It was sick. I had to be there.

http://bizz.abril.com.br/barulhoonline/37824_comentarios.shtml

As you can see the second day included a tent solely dedicated to 15 hours of DnB!

Zack and I were to join Shelley, a 22 from Ireland staying in my hostel; and Fernanda, a 23 Brazilian from Brazilia, staying at Samba Villa. After finalising contracts with Joe and Elvis we left for our adventure. Eventually, we flagged a taxi down at the ripe time of 18:00 (4 hours over schedule) and arrived at the bus station after 30 minutes of rush hour traffic to buy our bus tickets. The bus was comfortable and had seats that leaned back almost horizontally, allowing us to sleep for most of the journey. We then took a sherbet dab to the event picking up tickets from touts on the way.

Security was tight and I was afraid that the tickets wouldn't get us in, but they did. First off, we went to the bar to get some beer down us. The only drink on the menu was Skol beer. After necking a few we followed the music to our first tent. Q-Bert was in the urban tent. He is one of the world most famous turntablists. Turntablism means to use the turntables like a musical intrument; creating music by juggling two records, mixing and scratching in time. He was fucking awesome.

After we went to watch DJ Housey. AKA David Guetta from France. To my surprise I really got into it. He play a set that was even comparible to Bob & Pat's 'Gash Sessions Vol 3'. There was somehting missing though.. Jubes. We went in search. None. Eventually we bumped into a Spanish girl who we new from Rio and she said she could get some for R$40 each. I bought two, and double dropped because they tasted like paracetamol. I think they were pro-plus or something similar. Very disappointing; they tool about an hour to do something very subtle, not dissimilar to drinking a cup of coffee. Someone should really sort out the jube problem in Brazil.

For the rest of the night we hopped from tent to tent consuming massive amounts of Skol enjoying a mixture of house, electro, breaks and hip hop. The night passed fairly quickly and we were soon drunkedly dancing to the rythyms of Mstrkrftin in the blazing São Paulo sun. At about 9am security guards dressed in black, efficiently ushered everyone out of the vicinity. Surprisingly, the four of us had successfully managed to remain together for pretty much the whole night; probably due to lack of chemical intoxications.

We waited in vain for a taxi outside of the rave and soon got chatting to a particularly drunk Brazilian, who offered us a place to crash in exchange for buying him breakfast. He informed us that he lived only 15 minutes away, so we all jumped in a sherbet and took off. I was soon asleep.

I awoke to be faced with a R$70 meter bill; Shelley tells me that our newly aquainted and soon-to-be host had first said his house was fifteen minutes away; fifteen minutes later, he updated us that it was half an hour; half an hour passed and that turned into 40 mintutes, at which point she woke me up. At this point, my mediteranian temper fueled by copius amounts of alcohol flaired up. I started cursing in my newly learnt Portuguese 'Po ha! Carâlio!' which literally means 'spunk dick' although weirdly 'po ha' in this context means 'fuck' and 'carâlio' means is commonly used as an insult! This woke Zack up and he joined in the profanities. Just then, the cabby, seeming to get very nervous, flashed a police car in front to pull over. Great. These fuckers jump out of their truck and bound over with there guns flailing. At this point, I sobered up instantly and tried to calm the situation. The police then attempted to lure us all over the road to their station but after watching us all shouting at each other, they seemed to get bored, chuckled to each other and jumped back in their truck before speeding off. We managed to get some money from the drunk and paid the innocent and furious cabbie before staggering away. After this episode, I asked a local garage for directions to a hotel and he pointed us to a merky looking establishment across the road. We entered the 'motel' and were greeted by a fat skanky bird with convenient, prostitute-like attire. She told us that we had to pay by the hour (gives you an idea of this place's purpose) and had a choice of rooms: standard beds; round beds; octogon beds and even rooms with no bed at all, just some weirdly shaped chair with about 10 arms! We opted for 2 standard rooms and were over the moon to find they boasted plastic-coated pillows and sheets. Mmmm. At this point the time was about 10am and we had paid till 5pm.

I woke up at 4pm and could not bare to be in these completely depressing surroundings any longer so rallied everyone else out of bed and eventually - 40 minutes later - we went in search of civilization. It was not easy to come by, we been ferried miles away from anywhere and were now stranded somewhere in the outskirts of the vast São Paulo state, which is home to 20,000,000 Paulistas. I asked directions in a local garage, a short mole-faced man pointed in the direction of the nearest bus stop, just 200 yards away. We all stopped off for Acaî and each chowed down on a greasy fried steak sandwhich; I dowsed pimenta all over the meat, mmm, hot chilli, mmm. Once we'd finished, we went and found the bus stop. It was located in an area which reminded me exactly of being inside Rosinha; full of hustle and bustle and local small businesses. Zack and I stopped to admire a view of favela like houses that stretched as far as the eye could see. 'This country is absolutely fucking huge, innit?' I mumoured. 'Yeah, it's fucking sick, dude' Zack replied, and we continued across the road to wait for the bus. Fernanda asked a girl also waiting for directions to the 'grande citade' where we would find skol beats and normality. 2 hours away by bus, was the girl's amused reply. When the bus arrived, it was full and we all spent the majority of the journey standing propped up against metal bars attempting (unsuccessfully) to relax. It was however interesting to see the slow build-up of civilization as we drew closer to São Paulo's main city centre.

Good Cop, Bad Cop.

Friday 4th May began with a shaky start. I wanted to visit the Policia Federal to get info on how I could legally leave the country, go around the world and come back before my maximum stay of 6 months per year is up. It turns out that if I leave on the 1st August (one week before the end of my 6 months) I can return next year legally for a week, once the week is up I will be staying illegally. What this means is I will get charged R$4 for every day I overstay my legal welcome, with a maximum charge of 100 days this equates to a total of 100 quid. The reason for my imperative return: I have just leased a bar for one year. Now, I have a certain itinerary that involves meeting with Gaz, Nefs and Colin 10th June in Peru, followed by a two week trip to Colombia. I then return to Rio for another two months and leave for New Zealand. The other arrangement, that I definitely do not want to miss is Thailand for NYE, where I will meet 10 or 12 of my UK mandem. So you see, it is all a bit complicated. The reason why the day started shakily is due to when I went to renew my visa, I was informed that I would have to pay an extra R$250 for losing my immigration slip. I refused and went home to find it.

On the way home, I bumped into Joe, my American friend, who I am co-renting the bar with. We discussed the details of the bar and basically came to an agreement that while I was away, I would receive only half of the profits for the bar. This I think is fair and will mean that I will have a nice chunk of cash when I return in January 2008. We sat on Selaron's stairway to chat about the plans and my reservations over a beer. Just then, I military police car drove slowly passed and the passenger started staring at me out of the window. I stupidly - in hindsight - stared straight back. The car stopped. What followed was most unnerving. The cop who had been staring at me, jumped out wielding an M16 assault rifle and shouted something at me, which I didn't understand, he then pointed the assault rifle straight at me. I raised my hands in the air, not like I just don't care! The 'bad cop' continued barking at me and I replied 'Eu inglês, amigo, calmo' keeping my hands raised. He then pointed at my bag and a second pig, the 'good cop' jumped out of the car and came over with a pistol in hand. He was calm and behaved politely. I must have seemed to panic, (naturally with a fucking m16 pointed straight at me) and Joe then told me to stay calm and replied something to them in Portuguese. I then sat down and opened my bag, and the guy shouted 'levante-se!' (stand up) so I stood up again! The good cop with the pistol came up to me and calmly told me to empty my bag and my pockets, which I did. I had relaxed somewhat by this point but was praying to myself that I hadn't left anything illegal in my bag. I decided I had never used my bag to carry anything illegal and stayed cool. He went through every nook and cranny and when he was done, he pulled forward my shorts and took a good look down them! The bad cop searched Joe just as thoroughly and eventually once they had finished checking out our cocks, the bad cop finally hollered 'obrigado, acabo de fazer meu trabalho' meaning thanks I'm only doing my job.

They were really hoping to find something, to them that means a bonus on their salary. I have been told that if you're caught carrying drugs you get taken to a cash point rather than the police station.

The Policia Militaria remain the most feared gang in Rio.