Rosinha

The other day I went to check out The Two Brothers Foundation in Favela Rosinha. It was my first real experience of a shanty town. I met the guy outside the Copacabana Palace at noon and we caught a van along the coast. We alighted just outside the entrance. The town in which Rosinha is situated is a pretty middle class well to do area and walking in was a shock; it was literally like walking into a third world country within a country. A self contained society, which works and functions with predominantly different rules and regulations to the rest of the country.

No one actually knows how many people inhabit the favela but some say it is close to 400,000. This number will not and can not be confirmed. These people officially don't exist in Brazil.

I was led down various winding alleyways and eventually into a small office. A door on my left opened to reveal a very sweet little classroom. Clearly meant for children with its small chairs and basic colourful number and alphabet charts all over the walls. It reminded me of visiting my old girlfriend Louise at her primary school. I was then shown upstairs and into another larger classroom for teens and adults. Above this was another floor, which had flooded from the morning's tropical rainstorm. Finally, I took it upon myself to climb the last staircase up onto the roof. WOW. I was absolutely amazed with what I saw there. Miles of clumsily constructed brick box houses, in some cases crudely painted in an attempt to brighten the raw orange brick colour up. I stood there staring for about 20 minutes in complete awe. It was very hard to believe that people are living like this, juxtaposed with the people living in luxury apartments only ten minutes along the coast. I laid down to ponder and fell asleep.

I must have been out for two hours, when my body clock prompted my revival. It was 15:05 and the lesson I had planned on observing should have started. I rushed down stairs and met the 'teacher'. Obviously, the kids were already working on Brazilian time as they hadn't yet turned up. Marina is a trained nurse over here from the US to travel and work; she is of part Afro decent and could quite easily pass as Brazilian; as could most mixed race people. She had been living in Rosinha for the past few months teaching voluntarily. She seemed nice enough.

A few moments later, the first of her two child students arrived. A small pretty-faced girl of about 8 or 9 years; her name I cannot remember (yet). I followed teacher and student into the class. It was obvious after five minute that Marina had had no formal teacher training; although, in her credit she was making a good effort and any volunteer gets my respect. I was impressed by her grasp of Portuguese but slightly concerned by the amount she used it. 10 minutes later, a slightly pudgy 8 year old named Douglas turned up and politely shook my hand. He had a huge cheeky grin on his face, which revealed a big gap in his first front teeth. The lesson continued and I felt sure I could make a difference here.

After the lesson had finished, the kids scrambled off home through the maze of alleys and Marina joined Washington and me for a brief chat. She explained that she was leaving to travel northern Brazil. Washington put the pressure on me 'We really need you Niko,' he exclaimed, 'in two weeks we will be without an English teacher.' I paused for thought, before agreeing to look at my current schedule and check when I'd be available. He was very happy at this and promised to send me the timetable. We all shook hands and he gave me a warm genuine smile of gratitude before I departed.

As I left alone venturing through a favela for the first time, I felt no fear or danger. I made my way in reverse of the way I'd come and back down the main road. The organisation is located right next the the favela's aptly named 'bocca' or mouth; this is the point where most of the drug trafficking goes on. Metaphorically, how the favela speaks to the city. I locked eyes with a guy sitting down speaking on his mobile phone as I crossed the small internal road, I then glanced down to his waist and noticed he was propped up on a massive AR15 assault riffle! It was at this moment when I remembered where I was. There were 3 or four others, all about my age, each sporting automatic weapons and casually chatting over beers. Wisely, I didn't hold the gaze any longer and walked by as calm as if I were shopping in the supermarket. Further down the road, there were kids with bumbags full of money selling merchandise - unarmed but heavily protected. I carried on down the street, which ran adjacent to the sewage stream; this, I was told earlier, only provided sanitation to half the population; I wasn't told how the other half managed. A little further was a road block of boulders, there were teenagers manning this and only authorised vehicles could pass. Even more shocking was what is saw next: I left the favela and literally 50 yards from the armed beer drinkers in the favela stood and heavily armed policeman. His gun was fucking massive and looked like the railgun Rasmas uses in Alien. He stood with a grimace on his face, calmly watching over the entrance. The funny thing is, both sides are blatantly aware of each other's presence but don't cross the line in some agreed truce. The police are paid well and therefore play a part in the problem instead of preventing it as they were first employed to do. I crossed the road unnoticed and waited for my bus home.

Return to Rio

There is something extremely different and powerful about this place. Something in the air, something in the vibrations. In a country with such powerful life-force bursting from every rock or grain of soil, not to mention the Amazon, it seems understandable that the human population would possess such a passionate thirst for excitement. Rio de Janeiro is a city demanding respect from every angle. There are real gangsters and drug barons; amazing and crazy parties; hugely corrupt police and military; Acai; exciting attacking football matches; beautiful beaches; beautiful people and this is all in the set of breath-taking scenery with music pouring out of every door.

I could quite easily stay here and forget about the outside world completely. And this is not a feeling that is unique to me, no, certainly not. Pretty much everyone I speak to who hasn't just passed through Rio has caught the same infectious bug. Like a morphia, this city is highly addictive.

So now I am back, for a while it would seem. I have a cool double room to myself in a hostel which is closed to the public, it has a swimming pool and a great night time view of the city. The place is also leased out to three others all Spanish speakers from Latin America. I try to ignore their speaking Spanish in the most polite of ways as it confuses my Portuguese.

For the few couple of weeks I have been socially frequenting a local hostel named Samba Villa. It is under the Archos da Lapa in Zona Sul. I have made friends with the owner, Elvis - the son of a Serbian General. Elvis is a huge, blond, bear-like man, born and raised in Australia. Elvis has had a fruitful past you might say, a trained military lawyer who spent some time in the import-export arms business. In other words he was a gun-runner. He is certainly someone you want on your side. He and his more quieter business partner, Austin, a South African fellow who spent the past 7 years in Brighton, seems nice although certainly the more submissive of the partnership. They acquired the building in September 2006 and have basically come into the area offering rooms cheaper than anyone else in Rio at 19$R per night (about 5 quid). I have befriended two guys who are living there: Joe from Boston, North America and Zac from Sydney, Australia. During week nights we chat over a couple of beers and play poker with other residents for small amounts of cash. I am so far undefeated and could actually survive on the wages I've earned from it! Although, obviously I know it would not be wise to ever rely on this type of 'work'.

Favelas

What is most fascinating and also disturbing to me is the favela situation. A favela is the Brazilian term for shanty town or slum. The largest favela in Brazil, Favela Rocinha is home to some say up to 400,000 residents. That's a possible 400,000 people with no formal address. Miles of slums. Until 2006 this favela was controlled by the largest of the three criminal factions in Rio: CV or Comando Vermelho, which is Portuguese for Red Command. With state-of-the-art arms they govern the majority of the favelas with a stern hand. Don't be fooled, this is not some two pence operation, the CV have 60,000 gang members (same as the number of Vodafone UK employees!) making them the largest street gang on the planet. The organisation was founded in 1969 in the prison Cândido Mendes, on the Ilha Grande island (see Feb 07 blog), as a connection of ordinary cons and political prisoners who were members of the Falange Vermelha (Red Phalanx), who fought the military dictatorship.

During the entire 1990's the criminal organisation was at it's strongest, but today the principal leaders have been arrested or are dead, and the organisation is not as strong. The second largest faction Amigos dos Amigos (ADA, Friends of Friends) arose from a conflict between the Comando Vermelho and Terceiro Comando , Terceiro Comando being the third main criminal faction and another principle rival of ADA and CV. ADA controls many drug selling points in the North and West zones, while CV control pretty much the whole South.

You can walk into a well organised favela and be pretty sure no harm will come to you providing you behave and cooporate entirely. The guns are extremely alarming although are not for gringos, they are for rival gangs; especially the largest and most dangerous gang in Rio - the police.

I have yet to experience a visit first hand. I have avoided the seemingly voyeurish favela tours in favour of a real experience.

There are armed guards stationed at the entrance to most favelas. They will search you for weapons and ask what the nature of your visit is. If you answer that you want drugs, they will point you in the direction of the favela's aptly named 'mouth' where the drugs are distributed. The point is, they want to sell their drugs and if you have the money to buy, they would rather sell you their product than rob you and risk execution from the powers to be. They would also be in a lot of trouble with the police if a gringo was murdered. Police have a tendency to react to these killings with ferocious vengeance. Last year a bus full of people was burnt while in service; 10 people were burned alive. The police responded with bulldozers, destroying multiple homes in the favela, home to the guilty party.

Some view the factions as modern day robin hoods; through selling their drugs to the rich segments of society and supporting the poor. These factions are famous for providing much needed resources such as support for day care, medicine for the sick, and money for the poor. They also have been known to build asphalt roads, host huge parties, and even sponsor other recreational spaces and activities, such as football pitches. These groups normally maintain a very high level of control over social behavior, strictly prohibiting street crimes such as rape, muggings, and break-ins within the favela.

Despite the low incidence of street crime in favelas, the frequency of gun battles between police and rival gangs in these communities present real dangers. Police and drug traffickers co-exist in a very complicated balance of power that involves a high level of corruption and cooperation. Even so, police invasions of favelas such as Rocinha are common, and the results can be dramatic and intense large-scale gun battles. To be fair the factions are also infamous for murder, gun smuggling and torture. The standard practice, should you be discovered as an undercover cop, is to be incased with tires up to their neck, the tires dowsed in petrol and set them alight. The effect is savage, carbonising the body allowing the victim to stay alive while feeling and smelling their own flesh melt. Nice.

What the media fail to show us in England is the reality that there is civil war going on here. I wonder if George Bush even knows where Rio is let alone what a favela is...

Chapada Diamantina

Still in Salvador, I had a tough decision to make between one job offer and another interview invitation. The offer came from a local school in Bahia, who were just opening a new School for the community; they would need me to work part-time starting in 2 - 3 weeks. The pay would not be great but I would get discount on Portuguese lessons. The invitation came from a school in Rio named 'New Start'. The director (Adam Reid) emailed me in response to me sending my CV to him. New Start are a school who run courses of business English for working professionals www.newstart.com.br. I called Adam who sounded very interested, he told me that his organisation pay comparatively well. I told him I would be in Rio the following Monday and would call him to arrange a time. Both sounded very positive and I figured I would go to the interview, which would be my preference, and if this was unsuccessful I could always go back to Salvador.

Arthur had arranged to go to Chapada Diamantina with a couple we had met in Morro. What is now a jewel of the eco-tourism, was once a refugee of precious stones hunters. The cities that border the National Park are filled with colonial buildings representing the architecture of this time, a vivid memory of the richness of the diamonds, which made Brazil the first world producer of the stone during the beginnings of the 20th century. Lençois, (pronounced len-soiz), the main village in the Chapada, lies 400km (250 miles) west of Salvador. The city grew up around the huge diamond boom in the region in the mid-1800's. At one stage it had a population of 30,000, but as a result of the discovery of diamonds in South Africa, the town began to go into decline. It is home to the largest waterfall in Brazil, apparently so high that the water never actually touches the ground as it evaporates and turns into misty rain.

I was torn between going back to Rio or join Arthur. I ended up rescheduling the interview, pushing it back 3 day to Thursday; Adam was fine with this and still sounded keen.

We set of early on Friday morning for a 6 hour drive. The Brazilian countryside boasts huge stretches of green mountain ranges surrounded by miles of fields that seem to fade into infinity. I was amazed as we passed through rural villages home to just a few hundred people. One seemed to have only a small hall and four houses; the residents all seemed to be congregating under the village tree. Arthur and I joked about this - 'What are you up to today?' 'Oh, I'm just gonna hang out under the tree, you?' 'Yeah me too.'

We arrived and were all greeted by excited locals all trying to sell us accommodation and trekking. One particular guy who called himself Washington seemed overly keen to impress us. He would be our guide for the next two days' trekking.

We set out early - around 8am with our packed lunch. The plan was to make our way by jeep to a mountain, climb it and then return to Len Souz across 20km of country.

We reached the mountain in about 1 hour and began our ascent. It was not a tough climb, in fact it was hardly what you would call a mountain and after about 30 minutes we reached the peak. We must have climbed the short side of the mountain as when we reached the top, the peak revealed a huge stretch of mountains and rich Bahian countryside.

We then trekked 20km across this amazing and huge countryside it was so beautiful and, well, massive. I have never seen hills stretch so far, far, further than the eye could see. And the sky, well the sky just seemed so much larger than I am used to. With some much land to cover, there was plenty of time for self-reflection and deep thought.

As I writing this, the owner of my current place of stay is blaring Celine Dion and singing along in the most completely tone-deaf wail. Does he realise how gay he sounds? Please make it stop. ARRRRRG.

Day two - Trek of Terror

We woke the next morning to meet Washington for the second instalment of adventure. We had arranged for him to take us to the second largest waterfall through the forest and later, a big natural waterslide. Unfortunately, when he arrived, he brought bad news with him; he would not be able to guide us as he had injured his leg. Instead, he left his older and cross-eyed brother in charge, which was obviously of slight concern to us. He led us in almost silence and at a fair pace, leaving half of the pack behind. Eventually we reached a white water river, stopped for a short break and then continued to climb up the river. I must admit it was at times a harrowing experience; he actually led us through the river on multiple occasions. I kid you not, if any of us had slipped on the damp and algy covered rocks, we would surely have broken numerous limbs if not perished. We continued and it became apparent that the guide was ad-libbing the journey. At one point we came to a complete halt and the guide seemed concerned that there was no way ahead. He then proceeded to wade through the river hip deep and beckoned us to follow. Bearing in mind that we all had and mine included my camera, we decided this wasn't wise. After some discussion, half the group stayed behind to swim in a pool and look after the bags. That left four of us to continue. It got even worse after that, we had to literally scramble up a river that was battling to absorb us. The worst part was holding on to the side of a rock face with just fingertips and shuffling across two inches of ledge, for about 50 yards.

Finally we turned a corner and there she blew, a monster of a waterfall with a massive pool at her foot. There was a larger cliff next to her and guide urged us to climb and jump off. I was first of course and without giving it too much fear-inducing thought I left into the pool. The water was brown - from a reaction with the surrounding plants - but very refreshing.

We then swam toward the waterfall and climbed behind the rushing water. Wow. The air was pounding us as the gallons of water forced it out of place, it felt like being in a wind tunnel (I imagine). There we stayed in complete harmony with nature. I felt so alive. There was a convenient flat-topped rock place just behind the rushing water, we took turns in laying down to be massaged. I could have stayed there for hours just thinking. We each went for another dive. This time, I decided to brave a headfirst attempt. It reminded me of diving off the top diving board at The Prince Regent Swimming Pool. As I hit the water, I became completely blind from the brown colour; I must've gone pretty deep as I had to swim a few seconds to reach the surface. As I did, something felt wrong with my leg. I felt my calf and to my shock there was a tennis ball sized bulge. I thought I must've snapped my leg or something but felt no pain. Was it the shock? I recall thinking. As I was swimming to the edge I was massaging my leg and before I had reach the edge, I'd pushed the bulge back into place!

We made our way back with military-like pace, I was happily enjoying this but others kept complaining. We had one more stop before our journey back to the town - a natural water slide. Eventually after an hour or so we arrived there and it was amazing. Arthur, the guide, another Brit named Ru and myself climbed to the top. It didn't appear very hospitable on the waterfall, bare rocks, which had been pummeled by the streams of water from god knows where for thousands of years, formed a smoothish slide. Arthur braved it first; he seemed happy enough although it looked like a very bumpy ride! I went next and was pleasantly surprised. It was bumpy but didn't hurt at all and after, at one moment I almost lost control, however, managed to steer myself back on track in time for the plunge at the end.

After a smoke with the locals and a mean Pag Thai curry we went for a drink in a local Reggae bar pretty much dedicated to Bob Marley and then went to bed.

Geronimo Banda Mont'serrat

After arriving back in Salvador, we returned to our Pousada o Pagador Promessa. Aptly named after the steps it overlooks; these steps being famous for sharing the same name as the first Brazilian film to win a prize at the Cannes Film Festival. There was a band setting up on the steps.

We dumped our stuff and headed out for some food. After buying some dirty street-meat from a vendor and then promptly throwing the uncooked old meat away. We went back to the steps to find things hotting up. They were playing 'Chan Chan' by one of my favourite bands, Buena Vista Social Club, from Cuba. This as usual reminded me of my Father, who introduced me to them some years ago.

There was Makahonia being smoked everywhere quite openly. It was being passed selflessly around for all to enjoy. I spoke to a local named Miacho and he took me off to score some. We chatted about football and where we were both from, largely I was just agreeing with him enthusiastically, while clumsily forming sentences with the little Portuguese I have picked up. I did pleasantly surprise myself and both the journey and transaction took place with no English being muttered. The weed was good.

Arthur and I had a smoke and then returned to our pousada to enjoy the band from our balcony. The band were absolutely awesome. Mixing elements of afro-jazz, funk, soul and traditional Brazilian.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P3kU9yBb4-I

After the band finished playing we went out to enjoy the Tuesday night festivities. Tuesday is like our Friday night over here. We ended up in a Reggae club in the main square of Pelarinho, it seemed very inviting from the outside although once inside, felt completely different. Arthur and I headed for the back of the club but when we got there we were warned not to go any further. I needed to piss so went off in search of a commode and ended up doing a full circle to no avail. A guy must have picked up on the fact that I seemed a little lost and came over to talk to me, I asked where the toilet was and he beckoned me to come with him. I followed but felt a little uneasy. We walked into the area I had been warned off and he pointed me in the direction of a very dodgy looking alleyway. I had a piss and he led me back onto the dance floor, before he left he warned me to stay where he could see me, at this point it became apparent that his intentions were honest and that he worked for the club as an undercover bouncer. I was relieved. I met Arthur again and told him what had happened. We then went to get a beer and I was approached by a pregnant women pleading me to buy her a beer. Obviously I wasn't going to contribute to the harm of her child and refused, she then tried to go in my pockets! I removed her hand at once. Later Arthur and I were dancing and again we were approached, this time by a thin looking white guy. He introduced us to two Maori NZ`s. He then offered us coke which we refused but then insisted on introducing us to his `man`, we then refused again but the trafficante started racking lines up on the dance floor, right in front of the security guard. He said it was okay because they didn't have any weapons! We eventually left with the two Maori`s and the two peddlers - who were heading to an after party. It turned out the after party was in a favela so at the first available opportunity (when in sight of armed police) we said our goodbyes and went home. What a crazy night that was?!

Morro de Sao Paulo

Morro de Sao Paulo

The girls left for Morro de Sao Paulo that day, a tropical island north of Salvador. There was talk of a full moon party on the beach on the following night (Saturday). This sounded good to Arthur and I, and we arranged to email them for details of where they were staying. Arthur and I would join them the following day.

The next day we took the lift down to the port and catamaraned for an hour across to the island at a steep price of 50 Reals each. First impressions were pretty low and the place just looked like a massive tacky tourist resort. We walked along the coast looking for the pousada which the Americans were staying at. It turns out they gave us the wrong name. I thought I spotted them on the beach but when we went for a closer look. It wasn't them but as soon as we turned to walk away we saw them. They were sitting with some Canadian dude who I took an instant dislike to, perhaps because he was blatantly interested in Megan. I sensed something had already occurred between them. After some chit-chat, they showed us the pousada. It was cheap but cheerful.

Like Ilya Grande, the island forbays cars, so amusingly, their is a massive population of wheelbarrows! Or 'Taxis' as they are referred to. Boys from the age of about 11 ferry these single wheeled carts to and from the port to peoples pousadas, filled with luggage, undetered by the steep hills all along the coast. It is a great system: it provides jobs to the youth in between school (or instead of) but also keeps them extremely fit. It's not uncommon to see youts as young as 12 built like brick shit-houses! There is no begging on this island.

The first night was fairly messy. The beach was full of fruit vendors selling there natural and hand-made fruit cocktails. Despite the volume of these stalls, they all seemed to be busy. There stalls were beautiful full of fresh tropical fruits, all sliced and displayed most elaborately. Although Meg and I kissed at various points in the evening, I sensed a change in her. It was blatantly something to do with the Canadian. The cocktails were delicious and fresh. We drank plenty and went home to chat shit to each other all night.

The next day, Arthur and I went to find a decent beach; we were not disappointed. Most of the tourists just stop by about beach 2 of 4, but if you keep going on to beach 4, you end up turning a small island corner and arrive at a paradise of white sands, crystal clear waters and no tourists. We sat and chilled for hours and befriended a couple of Brazilians who interestingly were auditors for the state treasury.

That afternoon while we chilled back at the pousada, four more Brazilian guests arrived. Two couples: one married, and the other just split up. The girl who was now single was named Sheila. She was black, slender and had a gorgeous face; a fine specimen of Brazilian beauty. They were very friendly and I practiced my Portuguese on them while Arthur and the yanks slept. Sheila was loquacious and her friend, the married girl, kept pointing at her and then me, followed by a beaming smile. I understood and reciprocated the smile. I played her some Brazilian drum 'n' bass and she loved it. She was dancing extremely provocatively and smiling at me. I wasn't about to complain. We drank sangria and shots of Cachaça while laughing and dancing- one earphone each. Her ex, Junior, did not seem to be bothered by her actions and watched also smiling at her then me. Perhaps this was a facade, I wasn't paying too much attention to him to be honest. He left to go to the shop and we danced together already drunk after a few shots. I couldn't help staring at her big soft lips and, picking up on this she planted them on me!

We all had a smoke and then everyone left us and arranged to meet us later. After a passionate hour, we left to meet them down the beach, for more debauchery. We found them and sat in a cirlce drinking. Eventually, Arthur and I broke off from the crowd and went back to the pousada. The two couples were already there and junior came into our dorm for a drink and a pick-me-up. After a few minutes we heard moans. Junior went back to his dorm to find the married couple and Sheila indulging in a Ménage à trois! He was shocked and Arthur and I made a swift exit. Too messy. I'm glad I took the necessary precautions.

The following day we said goodbye to the crazy Bahianos and decided we had had enough insanity, so went to find ourselves a chillout beach. We did, it was unbelievable. Once you get beyond the tacky tourist strip, the island reveals miles of white sands and shallow clear waters. The waves break about half a mile off the coast. We took a special lunch of lobster in one of the restaurants on the beach. A vole-like man served us with great enthusiasm bouncing back and forth with our orders. Four fresh lobsters off the grill cost us about a tenner English in total. Arthur and I joked about how much the likes of Due South on Brighton beach, would charge! The Americans left that day and we arranged to meet back in Salvador.

The following day, Arthur and I woke early, as it was our last day. We got some coffee and pastries then set off to find another beach. This time not one of the numbered ones from the map. We walked along the coast for a couple of miles in and out of coves, before passing three tourists each covered head to toe in a pink substance. A bit further along we came to a massive cliff of pink rock. There were gently trickles of water leaking from various holes and where the water fell, pools of pink gooey mud. A man was bathing in one of the pools, Arthur and I couldn't resist and got stuck in, caking ourselves in this exfoliating pink mud. After collaring some Israelis into taking some snaps, we launched ourselves into the sea to cleanse. It was a highly invigorating experience. The locals say the effects are salubrious for the skin, and sure enough I felt softer than usual. After this, we chilled at a nearby bar, listening to Alpha Blondie before making our way back just before the tide came in.

The catamaran journey home was rough. I felt quite bilious. The only way to deal with the ailing was to stand up outside at the port of the ship, while the warm wind and sea sprayed in one's face.

Bahia

Salvador

We stayed another night in The Brazil Hostel. The next day I sent my CV to a local school in the hope of finding work teaching English. Arthur and I just chilled that day and made a phat Spaghetti Bolognese for us and Yearime. Is this the last meal we will ever share as a three? Probably yes. It was delicious and we all cleared our plates with satisfaction.

Then next morning Arthur and I decided it was time to move on. I hand-wrote a letter to Yearime using my newly engraved 'Cross' pen - a present from a dear friend back home to mark my new journey and career as a teacher - it was short and heartfelt. I toyed with the idea of not actually giving it to her but eventually did. The goodbye was brief and unaffectionate.

Instead of getting the cheaper 32 hour coach to Salvador, we went to the travel agent and booked a flight which would take us only 2 hours. At the airport in Salvador, we went to wait for a bus; the plan was to go to Carmo - a small town in Salvador renowned for its laid-back afro infuenced culture. We waited over an hour and still there was no bus. A women came round and offered us to share a cab with her but before Arthur and I had time to look at each other, she informed it was full! We had spotted two western looking girls also waiting and Arthur suggested we ask them the same question. I got up and went over to introduce us. They were American and although from Washington DC seemed friendly enough. We all got in a cab and went to find a Pousada. We got the name of a recommended one out of the Lonely Planet and it turned out to be farily close; the cabby dropped us off at the bottom of a seedy looking road which wasn't acceptable so I insisted he took us to the door. It turned out to be a 2 second drive up the hill he was unimpressed and we were cracking up!

That night we went out with the Americans: Lily and Megan who turned out to be sisters. They surprised us again with their liberal and educated views of the world. They were well traveled. Megan, the eldest told us of her journey to Palestine with her ex, only last year during high-conflict times. I found this very admirable and incredible. It seems decent Yanks do exist after all.

We chose pretty much the first bar we came across which turned out to be a stupid mistake. The pestering was unbelievable, I kid you not, we were approached every 2 or 3 minutes. Children scruffy and emaciated continued to beg us for offerings all night. They would come round with ribbons and attempt to tie them to your wrist as a gift which they thought gave them the right to hound you to buy their merchandise of handcrafted earrings or beads. It was upsetting to experience. Once again we were surrounded by poverty. We befriended some locals who were only interested in our money and went to another bar, where we drank some more and chatted. The girls scored some gear and we went back to the Pousada for a private party. This went on for a few hours and we discussed politics before eventually going to bed. During the night, the Megan began to whisper to me; although can't remember what was said. Before I new it we were kissing! I need to curb my philandering I think.

The morning came. The place was and is a beautiful very old colonial town - originally the capital of imperial Brazil. The architecture is stunning although, like most colonial structures in Brazil, has been left to become dilapidated and unpainted. Some of the residential building have been re-vamped with pastel colours created a very mellow feel.

I checked out a local school and the Portuguese teacher informed me that he would need English teachers in about two weeks. He was starting a community school for the underprivileged; he said that this would pay up to 12 Reals per hour; I suspect no working visa would be needed for this.