This Girl's on Ipanema...and Leme...and Sugar Loaf Mountain

 

Friday, June 12, 2015
This Girl’s On Ipanema…and Leme...and on Sugar Loaf Mountain.

            I awoke refreshed to another bright and very sunny Rio morning. With breakfast of cereal and milk, passionfruit yogurt, a ham and cheese-filled croissant, fresh fruit and coffee consumed, I was ready to hit the sightseeing trails again. And this time I would cover two more Rio Highlights—Sugar Loaf Mountain and famed Ipanema Beach.

            Shower done, I dressed and was out the door by 8.30 am as my guidebook had told me to get to Sugar Loaf Mountain as early as possible, both to beat the heat and the crowds. Into the Metro train I popped and rode it south to Botafogo metro station from where I took a connecting bus to Urca. Getting to Sugar Loaf Mountain is a bit of a production as it a bit out of the way and has no direct access.  Still, I was proud of the fact that I found the right bus stop and the right bus despite the debilitating language barrier.

 Climbing Sweet Sugar Loaf Mountain (Pao de Acucar):

            Sugar Loaf Mountain has neither sugar (or sugarcane) nor loaves anywhere near it. It is so-called because its conical shape reminded early Portuguese settlers of the conical molds used for the straining of sugarcane juice for making sugar and cashaca, the fermented liqeur that goes into caprinhas. Like Corcovado, it is visible from many parts of Rio and sits, quite prettily, in lovely Guanabarra Bay which is dotted with sailing craft.

            As in the case of Corcovado, there is a contraption that gets you up the mountain—only this one isn’t a picturesque tram that runs through a rain forest but a modern-day, very spiffy cable car hanging on thick cables. For the sum of R62(approx.. $21) that included the return ride to and fro as well as entry to the summit, a visitor has just as stunning a selection of postcard views of the city—and this time with very little aggravation for there are fewer tourist hordes.

            So, joining other visitors in their quest for the cable car station, I found it tucked away at the end of the street on which the bus had let me off. I bought my ticket and ascended into the very modern cable car boarding station and was soon leaving Mother Earth behind and beginning my ascent to the top. It was a much clearer day too and the city was not enshrouded in fog. As land grew more distant, we were dropped off at the first landing level called Morro de Urca (Urca Mountain) which offered really stunning views of Guanabarra Bay from many angles as well as delightful sightings of commercial aircraft taking off from the airport into the blue Brazilian skies. Of course, I did take several pictures because my camera simply did not wish to stop. On the opposite side, I could see Christ the Redeemer spreading forth His embracing hands only to be covered in thick cloud every few minutes.

            A short circumnavigation of the mountain took us to the second landing dock for ascent to the next level. Another short spurt in the cable car brought us to the summit of Sugar Loaf Mountain as we climbed ever higher. Once up there, a fierce wind threatened once again to blow off my baseball cap and I clung on to it for dear life. A few paces ahead was a lovely look-out point that offered a stunning, unbroken view of Copacabana Beach with its beige sands and its spiffy hotels on the promenade. From other parts of the mountain, one could spy still more attractive curves and angles of this beautiful city. There were many opportunities, in fact, to receive bird’s-eye views of Rio which is not common in other cities. It is easy to take in the seamless connections between nature and human development for every structure seems to have been carefully considered in terms of where or how it would fit within the complicated land and sea scape. It was really a pretty introduction to the city from a darling vantage point and I do think that although Christ the Redeemer is the more famous of the two locales, Sugar Loaf Mountain has much more going for it.

On Vermelha Beach and the Claudio Coutinho Trail:

Upon reaching ground level, I briskly went in search of a Trail named after Claudio Coutinho, a famous Brazilian football player. It is to be found at the base of Sugar Loaf Mountain and comprises a footpath that has been cut into the mountain following the curve of the sea. In attempting to find it, I was on the sands of the much-lesser known Vermelha (Red) Beach which is devoid of tourists but filled with locals enjoying the sun, sea, sand and surf. I sat on the stone parapet overlooking the waves for a long while and munched on a sandwich as I watched fifty shades of Brazilian bodies gleam in the sun.

            For what is remarkable about Brazilians, as I discovered on this visit, is how multi-racial they are. Truly, as in India, you can find every shade of complexion in this complex land—from Caucasian white (direct descendants of the Portuguese colonial settlers who arrived with the ‘discovery’ of Brazil by Pedro Cabral in the early 1500s) to Afro-Brazilians (descendants of African slaves brought to Brazil by the Portuguese from their colonies in Angola and Mozambique) and every shade in-between as a result of the immense inter-racial co-habitation that has gone on in Brazil for centuries. If there is any form of racism in Brazil, I was not made aware of it during my short stay. Instead I found people living in great harmony together irrespective of their skin color or class—for it is also evident that, as in India, there are a plethora of economic levels of prosperity. Extraordinarily wealthy Cariocas (as seen in the sophisticated coffee shops) share space with the homeless and with beggars—both of whom I saw on the streets very frequently.

            After I spent a while musing and enjoying the hssh-hssh of the waves on Vermelha Beach where I spotted surfers, kayakers, swimmers and sun-bathers, I began my trek along the lovely pathway named for Coutinho. I also discovered, while in Brazil, that all the surnames with which I am completely familiar through my Indo-Goan heritage, are pronounced quite differently in India (where they have become heavily Anglecized). For instance, Coutinho is pronounced Coo-tin-yo. And Noronha is pronounced No-ron-ya. Moraes is pronounced Mo-raish and Soares is pronounced Su-or-aish. Mendes, therefore, becomes Men-daish. Keeping my ear closely sensitive to the sound of words as they are pronounced on the Portuguese tongue, I found great similarities with French. For example, it is customary to greet anyone you meet with the words Bom Dia which is pronounced Bonjia—its similarly to the French Bonjour which is also used to mean Good Day and begins any conversation is surprisingly similar.

            The Trailway was as delightful as I expected. It is not very populated so I did not expect throngs. But I was not afraid as there is an army base close by and the presence of military personnel in uniform was evident everywhere. On this trail, I passed by very pretty birds that looked like parrots but were very differently colored—I believe they are called tanagers. I also saw what looked like kingfishers with long sharply pointed beaks. Seagulls and dark black cormorants were everywhere bathing and sunning themselves on the rocks that jutted into the crashing waves. On the bottom, where the ocean met the land floor, I saw fishermen trying their luck. Families were picnicking on the edge of the trail seated on benches that afforded lovely views of Vermelha Beach. Indeed, it was a perfect morning for a walk and I enjoyed the trail very much. About a half hour into the walk, I turned around as I still had a great deal of exploring left to do for the day and did not want to tire myself out too much.

 The Girl’s Going to Ipanema:

            Back at the bus stop, I found the bus that would take me to Ipanema—another lovely long bus ride through the warrens of the city showed me many different faces of it. I loved the experience of traveling with local Cariocas and of becoming a part of their daily commute to work or their daily chores. I asked a girl seated in front of me to tell me when to hop off for I was headed to Ipanema and her English was good enough for her to assure me that she would do the needful.

            Like Copacabana, Ipanema Beach is famous globally. It was a song that put it on the tourist map—a song called The Girl From Ipanema with which all jazz enthusiasts are familiar. I was keen to get a bit of the local action there and when I got off at the Vincius Moraes stop, I could already smell the salt tang of the sea air. It took me two seconds to discover that Ipanema is a far cry from Copacabana. The approach to the latter is still seedy, run-down, unimpressive. The former, well…it turns out to be the most sought-after address is Rio and the hang out of all the most beautiful people. Trendy restaurants, high-end stores, designer fashion boutiques—they are all here in the three long streets and many by-lanes that compose the area.

But I wasn’t there for the shopping—it was the beach I was after. And when I got there, I found another endless stretch of black and white mosaic stone pavement and a wide white sand beach behind it. The waters were equally azure but the waves were far more in control for the  tide was probably out. It was a good time to wet my toes and peeling off my sandals, I waded in gasping at first at the coolness of the water and then enjoying it immensely. Many pictures later (for these land and seascapes just beg to be photographed), I was off. At Zona Sul, a lovely upscale supermarket on the corner of one of the streets, I stocked up on more food for the next few days—more custard apples (I simply could not get enough of them!), gorgonzola cheese, bottled water.

Then I walked to the subway and while on it heading home to Gloria for a much-needed rest, I read up on the history of the song that put Ipanema on the global map. Indeed, the long roadoin which I had been walking (Rua Vincinus Moraes) was named after the song’s lyricist—he and composer Antonio Carlos Jobim had created it in 1962 based on the fact that they would see daily a very beautiful young girl walk past the bar at which they drank and make her way to the sea. They knew that she was far above their league—she was young, they were faded musicians; she was privileged, they were penniless. They wrote the song for her because both of them fell in love with the image of this gorgeous girl and because Age had bestowed on them a certain truth of which she was unaware—that Time would rob her of her beauty, her vivacity, her hopefulness. So, the song is not just about falling in love but about regret at our inability to hold back the cruel hand of Time—rather like Shakespeare’s Sonnets really. It won the Grammy Award for Song of the Year in 1965 after Frank Sinatra recorded it with English lyrics written by Norman Gimbel.

Back home, I put my groceries away in the fridge and lay down for a while. At 4 pm, I awoke, got freshened up and walked to the Windsor Florida Hotel to attend a session at the conference that I was keen to hear. Right after it ended at 5. 30, we were supposed to be taken on a Walking Tour of the city entitled “Walking Between Night Lights in Downtown Rio” by Dr. Joao Baptista Ferreira de Mello, professor at the State University of Rio. But sadly, the skies had turned rain-ridden and the good professor decided to call the walk off.

Dinner on the sands of Leme Beach:

            Plan B went into action. The 12 of us who had signed up to take the walk decided to go out for dinner instead—to Leme Beach which adjoins Copacabana Beach—and that was what we did. We piled into taxis and hit the sands and, in one of the beach shacks, decided to eat the offerings of a very modest eatery. The waves made fine music in the background as Prof. Anna Sodolewska from Poland and I decided to share a plate of 10 bacalau balls and a giant plate of Brazilian fish—they served the curried fish whole —with rice and salad. Nothing to rave about, I’m afraid, but the joy of sipping another frosty caprinha on the sands of Leme was romantic and I soaked it all in.

            By 8. 30 pm, we were done for the evening—yeah, we profs are a rockin’ and rollin’; lot!—and into cabs we piled. I shared one with Prof. Theo from Metropolitan College in New York who dropped me at my building and carried on to his hotel in Cinelandia.

            All it took then were a few minutes for me to prepare for bed with brushing and flossing of my teeth and PJs to piled into.

            Until tomorrow, ciao!       

Rio's Botanical Gardens & Discovering Lapa and Santa Teresa

Thursday, June 11, 2015:

Rio Conference Calling, Botanical Gardens, Discovering Lapa and Santa Teresa:    

            On the day of my conference presentation, I arose at 6. 30 am, did some reading in bed (I had downloaded Far From the Madding Crowd by Thomas Hardy on my I-Phone), took a shower, ate a hearty breakfast of cereal with passionfruit yogurt, coffee and fresh fruit, and walked out of my apartment with growing confidence. In 10 minutes, I was at the hotel just in time for the Welcome Remarks at 9.00 am sharp by David Rosner and Michael Andregg. And then, we were off to the room in which my presentation would be made. I had a Powerpoint Presentation to set up and a paper to fish out and within five minutes, I was ready to go. Indeed, I turned out to be the first speaker of the conference and to a crowd of global representatives from many countries (many of whom were from Saudi Arabia), I was off and running. I spoke for twenty minutes on “The Clash of Titans: Quasi-Capitalism and Socialism in the Literature and Cinema of Post-Colonial India”, showed several slides on the screen and waited for the next three presenters on my panel to strut their stuff before the house was opened to questions from the floor. I had a very interesting morning indeed as I listened to the presenters as well as responded to questions and then within two hours, it was over. My official part in the conference had concluded. I was free to enjoy the city of Rio at leisure, attend several more panels and more presentations as and when I chose to and network with the delegates. I had a small coffee, nibbled at a chocolate and walked out into a brilliantly warm day for the next excursion on my agenda—a visit to  Rio’s famed Botanical Gardens.

 Browsing Through The Botanical Gardens:

             Several guide books had recommended a visit to Rio’s Botanical Gardens as a great place in which to discover rain forest vegetation. Somehow, I thought I would take a break from urban sprawl and sprawl instead in vast green acreage, far from the madding crowd. The hotel receptionist told me that taking public buses would make the journey long and complicated as it involved a change. He recommended a taxi and got me one for the agreed price of R30 (approx.. $10). I thought it was a steal but found myself stuck in awful traffic—thank heavens we had agreed on a price at the start—I was certain  I would have paid double that had I gone by the meter.

            Well, the Botanical Garden was probably my biggest disappointment in my travels. It was huge—hundreds of acres were covered with lawns and gardens and at the Entrance from where I purchased a ticket for R9 (approx. $3), no one informed me that there was a golf cart of sorts manned by an assistance that ferried people about the park. As it turned out, I was presented with a bilingual map and after surveying it for a while, decided to begin by a walk through the Parade of Imperial Palms—so-called because they were planted by King Dom Pedro II of Pprtugal when he moved his capital from Lisbon to Rio to escape the onslaught of Napoleon II in 1820. He chose to plant palms as a manifestation of Portugal’s colonial might. These tower above the visitors’ heads today and are quite the tallest palms I have ever seen.

              Next, I intended to see the Orchidarium (as orchids are my favorite flower). But after a long and very hot walk past many sculptured members of royalty, a gushing musical cascade, an arbor strung over with creeping vines, I had a huge disappointment awaiting me. The Orchidarium was closed because it was being renovated in time for the Olympics. While workers painted the inside walls of the green house in a brilliant white, I consoled myself with the thought that there were not many orchids to be seen anyway as it is winter in Rio.

            Instead, I was compensated for my disappointment by sighting a vast family of marmosets—small, black, tufted-eared monkeys, that were raiding a garbage bin, helping themselves to the contents before swinging up and huge a wide banyan tree. They were simply adorable and I ended up taking a bunch of pictures. They were the only wildlife I saw that morning although brochures state that the Botanical Gardens are a haven of bird life.

            I continued walking for at least the next hour as I inspected the varied offerings of this space, but nothing impressed me. Looking for a rest area to nibble on my ham and cheese sandwiches, I bought a bottle of cold water and picnicked in the company of a group of middle school kids on a field trip with their teachers. Finally, my visit ended with a nip into another glass house to see carnivorous plants that devoured insects that settled on them. I had never seen anything like these and was amazed to find succulents with tiny insects actually embedded in their waxy leaves. Another long stroll under the Imperial Palms brought me to the entrance of the gardens from where I looked for a bus to get me to the center of town. I ran into two tourists from Portugal who were looking for a bus stop too and we soon found out that we had to walk a good ten minutes to find the correct one. Eventually, however, when a bus marked ‘Gloria’ trundled along, I hopped in and was so delighted to find that it was air-conditioned and did not cost me more than the standard R3. 40. It was a very long and winding bus route indeed but again, I was in no hurry and thoroughly enjoyed the coolness of my confines, the opportunity to rest my feet and survey the wide-spread city.

            The bus dropped me in Gloria, just a block away from my apartment, and I was amazed at the joy with which I anticipated an afternoon nap. For indeed, I have to say that the heat was quite enervating indeed and I found myself feeling quite drained by mid-day. I made myself a cold chocolate milk shake, settled in front of the TV to enjoy it, did a bit of reading and then took a half hour’s nap.

Discovering Lapa and Santa Teresa On Foot:

            With the early evening stretching ahead of me and the temperature having cooled down somewhat, I decided to go out in search of the highlights of the two neighborhoods adjacent to Gloria called Lapa and Santa Teresa. There were several structures in these areas that demanded inspection and I was keen to comply.

            I walked first to the Church of Our Lady of Lapa (Igrejia de Nossa Senhora de Lapa) which is appealingly antiquated on its corner location within striking distance from the far more dominating Arcos de Lapa or Lapa Acqueduct. Inside, I found an extremely old and very ornate Portuguese church adorned with ceramic tiles. Its altar was in the Portuguese mode with which I had become familiar on my travels in Portugal as well as in Goa, India: several step-like tiers climb to the top where a statue of the deity to whom the church is dedicated is placed. I spent some time in prayer, admired the splendid interior with its multiple statues and then left.

 Climbing the Selaron Staircase (Escadaria Selaron):

Just across the street from the church is a nondescript lane that leads to one of Lapa’s most intriguing attractions: the Selaron Staircase.  Although it was already 4.00 pm, scores of tourists were making their way to the end of the lane where the staircase was clearly visible. They are the handiwork of Chilean artist Jorge Selaron who described them as his “tribute to the Brazilian people”. In 1990, Selaron began to renovate the delapidated staircase running outside his house with brightly colored tiles representing the Brazilian flag. Initially, people laughed at him, but the project soon became his obsession and he neglected his primary work as a painter to create the staircase.

Very soon, Selaron was joined in the project by visitors from around the world who warmed to the idea and began donating tiles representative of their countries. In the 250 steps, there are today about 2000 embedded tiles. The steps that begin in Lapa, an old and rather run-down part of town, go up to the heights of Santa Teresa where there is a small shrine. Selaron began to see the project as never-ending. Every few months, he would start over an area that had already been completed—as a result, it is a constant work-in-progress. Today, tourists pose, as I did, on the steps and closely inspect the many tiles that represent so many different countries. It is a lovely idea on global ecumenism and collaboration and certainly a sight to be seen in Rio. No wonder bus tours bring loads of tourists from all over the world to grab an eyeful.

The Aqueduct of Lapa:

            From the steps, at the end of the lane, the Aqueduct of Lapa is only a few steps away. This is a towering structure that is reminiscent of the Pont du Gard in the South of France. It is built in two tiers and is freshly painted in cream (perhaps for the Olympics?). I took several pictures before attempting to make my way to the end of it in order to board the famous tram that would carry me up Santa Teresa hill.

            No such luck! I discovered that the tram has been temporarily discontinued as fresh track is being laid down on the hill of Santa Teresa…you guessed it, in time for the Olympics! My plans were dashed again, but as I walked under the aqueduct to enter the very happening neighborhood of club-infested, bohemian Lapa, I spied a Tourist Information booth and hurried to it. The sweet assistant told me there in broken English that I could catch a bus that would follow the same route as the tram and take me up to Santa Teresa—this neighborhood offers lovely views of the city as well as the charm of old architecture and well-preserved old houses.

 Exploring Santa Teresa by Bus:

            With darkness falling swiftly (around 5. 30 pm), I followed his directions, found the bus-stop and boarded the bus. And then I had to hang on for dear life because the driver kept pretending he was in Grand Prix! He went around the hair pin bends of the hills of Santa Teresa at top speed, came frequently to sudden frantic jerking stops and seemed to be having the time of his life. I had believed that only auto-rickshaw drivers in India were demented—but these beat them hands down! I had been advised to get off at Guimares Square and had told the driver to let me out when I got there. I have to say that despite my fears of dying in a bus collision, I quite enjoyed the ride.

But I was rather disappointed when we arrived at Guimares and I was told to get off.  There I was in what seemed like a gigantic construction zone. The uprooting of the tram tracks left deep trench-like trails on the hill top, the lighting was barely there, the area was almost deserted but for a few people awaiting a bus on the opposite side. There were a few desultory restaurants doing faint business but I could not, for the life of me, find anything even remotely interesting and wondered why I had made the wild trek up there.

Eventually I did find a store assistant who could speak a bit of English and she advised me to walk down the hill towards the two museums for which the area is famed. It was close to 7.00 pm by then and both museums would be closed at that hour. However, she said, their grounds afforded lovely views of the city lying in what appeared to be a carpet of gold and silver lights and I got a few good views. But it really wasn’t anything to write home about and, once again, I found myself worrying about personal safety as the area was almost deserted and the few folks I did pass were of the dodgy sort.

It was best to find the bus stop that would take me back to Lapa and I lost no time in looking for one. Fortunately, a bus arrived in under a minute and climbing in, I was deposited back downhill to Lapa from where I began the brisk walk home to my apartment. En route, I stopped at one of the casual eateries (run by the Chinese Mafia in Rio, as Rosana informed me!) and bought myself a ham and cheese roll and a chicken puff for a mere couple of dollars. A few feet ahead, I saw a man with a cart selling Churros—the deep-fried dough treat to which I had become introduced in Spain during our travels there. These were made on a tube like machine and inside each tube either dulche de leche (caramel) or chocolate sauce was squirted. I chose one of each for just R2 each and thrilled with my dinner, made my way home. The churros were outstanding and I resolved to buy them if I ever saw the cart again. Once again, the TV in Portuguese kept me company while I prepared for bed after what had been a rather disappointing day discovery-wise but a very satisfying professional one.

Until tomorrow, Ciao!

Feeling Like a True Carioca: Discovering Corcovado Mountain and Copacabana Beach

 

Wednesday, June 10, 2015

Becoming a True  Carioca--A Full Day of Sight-Seeing

            Awaking on my first morning in Rio, my I-Phone alarm did not go off: I had forgotten to put it on AM mode—it promptly went off at 6. 30 that evening! Rosana was expected at my flat at 8.00 am ready to take me off for breakfast to a local eatery where ordinary folks get their first cuppas of the day. I was eager and excited, but lay fast asleep. Brazil is one hour ahead of New York time—so it was a few minutes before 8.00 am, when I awoke with a start. Rosana rang my bell quite promptly, five minutes later, then remembered she had left her cell phone at her place. That gave me 15 minutes to get my act together before her return.

The Church of Our Lady of Gloria (Igrejia de Nosso Senhora de Gloria):

            About 20 minutes later, I was all set. But we had lost precious time and Rosana had a conference to attend. She was keen to take me for a visit to the Church of Our Lady of Glory (for which the entire area is named). It is perched high on a hill and overlooks the city center. Even from below, I could see its Portuguese archaic design. We walked together briskly, dodging traffic, across Gloria Park and made our way to the entrance of a funicular train that whisks worshippers up the hill to the church—I was grateful because I did not fancy climbing a steep hill on an empty stomach. Alas, the church was closed. We were able to skirt its periphery, take pictures of its old-world ambience as well as lovely pictures of Rio spread below us at a time when Cariocas were slowly getting ahead with their day. The sun was a little too hot on my back—this is winter in the tropics, I thought! The days are warmer in winter than Southport, Connecticut, in the summer!

 Breakfast in a Local Eatery:

Next on the agenda was breakfast in a small local eatery—not the one Rosana initially had in mind as there was little time for that venue; but a small, inexpensive coffee shop of which Rio is full. People stop at any time of the day for a cuppa and a snack—fried bolinhas (balls) with sweet or savory fillings are common or stuffed puff-pastry triangles make similar treats. Rosana ordered a cheese ball—cheese is not stuffed inside in this case but is included in the dough which is then baked. I found its texture too rubbery for my taste. I chose a large slice of banana bread studded with granola and a large cup of American coffee with milk. It is customary to drink espresso coffee here—dark, strong and black in very tiny cups. Not my cup of er…coffee! Breakfast was delicious and on wiping our mouths clean, we walked for the next five minutes to the Windsor Florida Hotel where the conference for which I had come to Rio would be held. Rosana’s conference was in another hotel nearby.

Off to See Christ the Redeemer (Christo Redentor):

            At the entrance to the Windsor Florida Hotel and having pointed out the Metro (underground) stop called Catete, Rosana bid me goodbye and hurried off. I know from much travel experience that it is best to ‘do’ the most important sights first—in other words, to prioritize one’s sightseeing and to take advantage of good weather (one never knows when rain will arrive to dampen touring plans).In cities, there is always the chance of a transport strike or other factors that can close it down—best see the main sights while possible and go down one’s list in descending order of importance, I say.

            So…it was to Corcovado—the famous mountain on which the towering statue of Brazil’s most iconic sculpture is located—that I made a bee-line. But how to get there? It is not served by a Metro stop. Best to ask at Hotel Reception, I thought. So in I went to the charming Receptionist at the Windsor Florida Hotel whose English was good enough to get her message across. A number of hotel personnel converged around me to offer the standard response to most tourists—to get somewhere, just take a cab—and there was a string of them outside the hotel. Now cabs are very reasonably priced in Rio, but I was keen, as I am everywhere in the world—to live like the locals do. So I insisted on being told how to get there by public bus (the cheapest and easiest way to see a foreign city). In a few minutes, I was advised to walk five minutes up the street to the bus terminus at Largo do Machado from where buses ran to Cosme Velho—the base for an excursion up Corcovado.

            And how easily I found it! At Largo do Machado, I asked some bus conductors to direct me to the correct bus for Cosme Velho—pointing to the places on a map was a good way to get answers to questions. Another five minutes later, I was sailing off to Corcovado and getting a free sightseeing tour of Rio in the bargain! Again, I kept thinking I was driving through the streets of Bombay because so many similarities leaped out at me.

 Climbing Up Corcovado:

            About a half hour later, I was at the terminus of the Trem de Corcovado, a modern tram system that gets visitors up the mountain every half hour. I bought a ticket for R51 (about $18)—this included return fares on the tram and the entry fee to the monument. Crowds were gregarious and noisy—most were Americans who had arrived in package tours groups, although there were hordes from Singapore and elsewhere. Having to wait for a half hour for the next tram allowed me to use the free wifi (as there was no sign of connectivity in my apartment). It is amazing when one travels how sensitive one becomes to re-charging points, wifi hotspots, etc.

            When a half hour had passed, the tram did arrive and I piled in with other merry-makers to climb the mountain. It was a delightful 20 minute ride into the heart of the rain forest called Tijuca National Park that was shaded and dappled at every turn. Trees that I easily recognized from my Indian childhood flooded into perspective—mango, cashew, papaya, banana, banyan. They formed a shady canopy as we climbed ever higher when the first glimpses of the sculpture came into focus even as the sprawling city of Rio grew more distant beneath us.

            When we arrived at the summit, we raced a few paces to the peak and then, there it was! My first glimpse, up close and personal, of Christ the Redeemer. It is a towering work of art by the Parisian sculptor Paul Landowski through a project engineered by the Brazilian Hector da Silva Costa for which local Cariocas raised money as they went door to door urging people to give. It is 98 feet tall with an arm spread of 92 feet. The equivalent of Paris’ Eiffel Tower, this figure can be seen from most parts of Rio (when the summit is not shrouded in fog). It stands on a tall pedestal (like the Statue of Liberty) in which base in a really tiny chapel with room for about 10 people—Pope John Paul II said Mass in it on a visit here but although I wished to enter, it was all boarded up for refurbishment. This was what I found in a number of places I visited: perhaps this is the wrong time to visit Rio for the city is gearing up seriously for the 2016 Olympics and everywhere you go, there is evidence of sprucing up. Next year this time, the city will be glowing, no doubt; but for the moment, I realized I had to get accustomed to disappointment.

            Soon I joined the hordes on the crest of the mountain to take pictures of the city spread out beneath me. Unfortunately, it was a very foggy day and huge bits of the city were blanketed in a haze. I took pictures as best I could and asked others to take my picture to immortalize my visit to the sacred spot. The spread of the city at my feet was an awesome feeling. I tried to acquaint myself with its many neighborhoods—tall high rise apartment buildings dwarf the lower structures. But there is order everywhere—Rio is not haphazard in the way that Bombay is. It is not derelict in the way that some parts of Bombay are. Everywhere you look from a height you see more mountains and islands. There are large stadiums (including Maracana which will play a big role during the Olympics, no doubt) and parks—so much greenery everywhere—and a huge lake called Largo de Roderigo Freitas in the middle of the city. With so many water views, it is no surprise that luxury high-rise buildings offering stunning views are packed into the urban island spaces. They give the city a most interesting and very distinctive feel.

The Art Deco sculpture is indeed impressive, not just in terms of its massive size but also the benign and kindly expression on Christ’s face. Sadly, visitors make the whole experience a bit too overwhelming. There are crowds and noise and cameras and professional photographers offering to take glossy pictures with the statue in the background for a lot of money. There are souvenir shops whose tacky wares were heavily overpriced. There are refreshment rooms whose food and drink costs a fortune. Overall, it was not as pleasant an experience as I had hoped and it was with little regret that I returned to the line to take the tram back down to the base.

            It was while waiting for the tram that I made friends with a young guy who was reading an English novel on his Kindle. He turned out to be a gay American professor of eco-tourism who teaches at Ferrum College in Virginia. Also traveling alone as part of a work assignment to create eco-friendly trails in the rain forests of Brazil, Chris made a worthy companion as we talked about our plans in the city. He intended to get to the Confiteria Colombo downtown after our excursion in Corcovado, while I decided to go in search of a place called Largo de Botacaria that Lonely Planet had suggested I visit without fail.

 In Search of Largo da Botacaria:

            Largo da Botacaria was supposedly only a five minute trek from the base of Corcovado Mountain’s tram station and Chris decided to accompany me on my search to find this antiquated square built in the 18^th century that was reminiscent of Rio in that epoch. When we did find it, we were kind of disappointed. I expected to find much more that the rather ill-maintained, dilapidated Portuguese colonial era building with its faded paint and central potted plant in the cobbled square. A river that flowed through it looked little better than a large gutter. Still, I suppose, it was worth it to see how old Rio might have looked before automobiles when people sat on their stoops and gossiped the hot mornings away—as a couple of women were doing when we visited. We spent barely ten minutes there, took a few pictures and left them to their natter.

 Off to Confiteria Colombo:

            Five minutes later, we were back at the public bus terminus looking for the bus that would take us to Centro (as the downtown area is called) to go in search of Confiteria Colombo of which I too had read in my guidebook. This is one of the old coffee shops that date from Portuguese colonial times—the 1700s, a time when fashionable men and women stepped into these restaurants to sip a coffee and nibble on a delicious pastry after a busy morning’s shopping for luxury exotic goods that had been acquired through colonization. With a few of these places still left in Rio, they are being well-preserved and patronized and a stop in any one of them is a lovely experience of Rio as it once was.

Our bus ride took forever as it wound sluggishly through the crowded streets. While I enjoyed it immensely (as bus rides are, in my opinion, the cheapest and most interesting way to see a city), Chris got fed up and recommended that we jump off at the next Metro station to take the super quick underground train. I agreed as I was grateful for his company that would enable me to learn how the system worked. At Largo do Machado, we jumped off and under Chris’ guidance, I bought a Pre-Paid card (the equivalent of a London Oystercard) and filled it with R20 worth of rides (each ride costs a flat R3.40 as on the buses). There is something wonderfully comforting about having a flat transport fee over the entire country! From Foz to Rio, the price of bus rides was the same! I discovered that Rio’s Metro system is small—really tiny with no more than a total of 20 stations. But it is marvelously bright, clean, spacious, modern. Rio’s city map contains its Metro map as well and within five minutes, I felt like a veteran commuter. It was ever so easy to get in and out of the trains and to find seats within. All underground trains are fully air-conditioned and quiet: here is where Rio differs from Bombay. While the trains in Bombay are hot, smelly, dusty ovens filled with incessant chatter, here no one spoke and when people do, they speak quietly. The trains get you up and down the city speedily and conveniently and at about a dollar a ride, they are dirt cheap as well.

Coffee and Conversation at Confiteria Colombo:

            Chris and I hopped off at Urugiana Metro station and, using our trusty maps, found Confiteria Colombo in about ten minutes, tucked away in one of the busy commercial lanes of the Centro area. Once inside, the visitor is struck by the delightfully antiquated ambience. There are wall-length Belgian mirrors that reflect sparkling chandeliers that light up the cavernous space. All wooden fitments are made of native jacaranda wood and a huge stained glass ceiling (as in Paris’ Galleries Lafayette) offsets the entire interior. It is opulent but in the classiest way.

            A maître d’hotel led us past an array of dazzling show cases filled with every conceivable pastry, frosted cake and cookie. A lovely hostess then led us to a table for tea where we settled down with bilingual menus. Local Cariocas were dressed beautifully—men in jackets and ties, women in pearls--as they sipped their coffees and forked creamy cakes into their mouths. We felt a bit scruffy in our tourist gear…but hey, we were there for the local experience. Before long, we had made our choices: I got a most unusual item from the menu (one I rarely see anywhere but which happens to be a personal favorite of mine!): A croquette filled with Smoked Ox Tongue! I know, I know…you are possibly shuddering, but believe me, I have always loved cold tongue and I never can find it in the US. I also chose a Hazelnut Chocolate Pastry made of Hazelnut chocolate mousse in a crisp tart shell—similar to the Pastel de Nata (Christmas pastries, really little custard tarts, that were invented in Belem outside Lisbon in Portugal where I had eaten them on a visit there). We washed our goodies down with coffee—iced for Chris, a macchiato for me--and by the time we lifted the last crumbs off our plates, we were well and truly full. Everything was delicious but, more importantly, we felt as if we had experienced one of the oldest traditions of this city—whiling away a few hours with coffee and conversation in very good company.

 Off to Copabacana Beach:

            With our bills squared away, Chris and I hopped on to the Metro again. He was off someplace that he wanted to cover before he left Rio for a trip south the next day. I was headed to the city’s most famous beach—Copacabana, that had also given its name to a New York night club (that I had once danced in early in my stay in the US—one that Barry Manilow had immortalized in one of his songs. ).

Well, I took the Metro down to Cordeal Arcoverde station and about fifteen minutes later, I was looking straight at the water. It was about 3.30 pm by this time and I have to say that the entire area is a bit tired-looking. Copacabana Beach is wide and full of fine white sand. It was the local hang out and far from upscale until the Copacabana Palace Hotel opened in the 1930s in a grand Neo-Classical style. Then the beautiful people began flocking here and before you knew it, the beach was on the international tourist map.

When I arrived at the promenade that runs along the waterfront, I was struck as all visitors are, by the beautiful curving forms of the mosaic sidewalk in black and white stone. In fact, these are an essentially unique feature in Rio—a product of Portuguese colonial design. But since they have to be laid, stone by stone, by hand, the process is laborious and expensive. Rosana explained to me that it is hard to find local Brazilian labor to undertake this work and, ironically enough, laborers are now being imported from cash-strapped Portugal, to take on the repairs of these interesting sidewalks. Not the most convenient for high heels, I have to say that I was grateful for the Hush Puppy Epic Mary Janes that I had especially purchased for this trip as I had grown tired of my Dansko Clogs (that had been my trusty footwear over many a mile in unknown realms).

Anyway, I spent a while lounging on the sands of Copacabana and watching the changing human drama unfold before my eyes. Bikini-clad Cariocas were frolicking amidst the towering azure waves. The water was crystal clear but the fury and height of the waves made it perfect for surfing. Although I saw a lot of surf boards sprinkled on the sands, there were no surfers in sight. Bathers yes, surfers no. And it was hot! I had no intention of getting into the water because I lacked bathing gear…but I was sorely tempted to wet my feet. Vendors went from one customer to the next selling an array of products—beach towels, beach balls and other toys, snacks, potato wafers, cold drinks. Kite fliers were busy on another part of the beach that curved to the distant Copacabana Fort. The seascape reminded me a lot of South Beach in Miami as the promenade here too is lined by luxury hotels—Miami’s architecture is restricted to Art Deco buildings while these are varied.

            When I had rested my feet a while, I began to walk along the curving black and white mosaic sidewalk towards the grand hotel that had started the tourist rush to the water front.

There in the cool air-conditioned space, I used the free wifi and the free loos and took in the special ritzy ambience of five-star hotels everywhere in the world. The Copacabana Palace Hotel has played host to some of the world’s most prominent celebrities including Queen Elizabeth II and there is a small exhibit on one of the floors that proclaims its fame.  I also had a sit-down on one of the nicest sofas in the Reception Lounge and then, when I felt sufficiently rested, I walked slowly back to the Metro stop, along yet another street in order to discover some more of the area and feeling as if a bit of a lie-down was in order, I made my way back to my apartment. I loved its central location and was very grateful for the fact, as in the case of my London apartment, that I could get anywhere in about 15 minutes.

A Late Afternoon Siesta Chez Moi:

            I had my customary 40 winks. This usually lasts 20 minutes and leaves me feeling really refreshed—the perfect cat nap. In the quiet, darkened atmosphere of my bedroom, with city sounds shut off, sleep came quickly and I dozed off and slept deeply. It was good to take these breaks from the hectic pace of uninterrupted sightseeing.

 Conference Cocktail Caprinhas on the Terrace:

            At about 6. 30 pm, having changed and freshened up, I walked with the confidence of a local resident to the Windsor Florida Hotel which I reached in under 10 minutes, to meet the rest of the delegates who would have arrived for the conference in which I would be participating the next day. The Conference was being organized by the International Society for the Comparative Study of Civilizations (ISCSC) and its office bearers were already at the lobby when I arrived. I immediately recognized its President Prof. David Rosner of Metropolitan College, New York, who welcomed me warmly, exchanged a few words with me, introduced me to the local Rio liaison person, Teresa Aguiar, and suggested I take the elevator to the Roof Garden to meet the other participants over drinks. And it was there that I had my first sips of the famous cocktail known as the Caprinha (pronounced Caprin-ya) which is Brazil’s answer to the Cuban mojito. Made by muddling limes, adding a shot of cashaca (sugarcane liqueur) and loads of ice, the drink is wonderfully refreshing on a hot evening although I reckon it could be enjoyed all year round. Snacks like potato crisps and assorted nuts were provided by the bar and seated in the company of international delegates from the US, Iran, Brazil, Poland, etc. I felt very much at ease. Over the next few days, I would get to know this pack of participants well and I was glad to have made their acquaintance as we literally broke the ice over drinks.

            But by 8. 30 pm, I felt compelled to return to my apartment. Although the area is well-lit and crowded, I was rather worried about my personal safety and did not wish to risk staying out alone too late. The brisk walk home took me less than ten minutes and in the quiet privacy of my room, I reviewed my presentation for the next day, watched a spot of TV in Portuguese, had a lovely hot shower and readied myself for sleep after what had been an ultra-productive day of sightseeing that had covered two of Rio’s highlights—Corcavado and Copacabana.

            Indeed, by the time I switched off my bedside lamp, I had begun to feel like a true Carioca!

            Until tomorrow, ciao!                  

Getting Acquainted with Rio!

 

From Iguazzu to Rio
Tuesday, June 9, 2015:

            The highlight of my day was the gargantuan buffet breakfast that was part of my deal at Hotel Rouver in Foz de Iguazzu. I must explain that the town is nothing to shout about—a one-horse outpost if it is anything at all. Good job there wasn’t much to do. This enabled me to linger over breakfast in the pleasant ground floor dining room, offered from 7-9 am. I awoke at leisure, showered and dressed and seated myself at a table after walking past the most impressive array of food. Lonely Planet had described it as “a modest breakfast”. Well, they might have had their tongues most definitely in their cheeks, for this spread was huge. Scrambled eggs, ham and other cold cuts, sliced cheese, croissants, butter, a selection of preserves, two kinds of quiche—ham and cheese; a variety of cakes from plain sponges, to coconut cakes to chocolate domes, plain and fruit yogurt. There were juices and coffee and tea. And best of all, there was fruit! Tropical fruit like fresh pineapple and musk melon, sliced papaya, big chunks of watermelon. I was in foodie heaven and am ashamed to say that I ate enough to get my money’s worth—and all I had paid was the modest sum of $30 for this bed and breakfast steal. No wonder I lingered, had a second cup of coffee and then returned to my room.

            An urgent work commitment kept me chained to pen and paper for the entire morning. I had a lot of reading to do (I had carried my papers with me) and I poured over them until about noon, by which time I raced through my packing and with check-out time being noon, just about made it to the counter and out the hotel door on schedule. I waited at the bus stop for about five minutes, hopped into a bus and was at the airport within half an hour.

 

Flight to Rio de Janeiro:

            My flight to Rio by TAM Airlines at 2. 45 pm was a two-hour affair. A window seat and two sweet female companions from Australia offered me my first glimpses of the stunning landscape that is the city of Rio de Janeiro—also known as Cidade de Maravilhosa (The Marvelous City). Bathed in bright sunshine under clear blue skies, it reposed quietly. Touchdown was smooth and reassuring and half an hour later, my baggage retrieved, I was at the Arrivals Lounge looking for my friend, Prof. Rosana de Freitas who teaches Fine Arts at a local Rio university. She had offered to meet me at the airport and lo and behold, there she was. We were meeting after exactly a year—we had parted in Kyoto, Japan, last July, little knowing that when next we met it would be in ravishing Rio!

            Rosana found us a taxi and soon we were skirting Galeao airport and at 5.00 pm joining the peak hour rush on the highway towards the city. It was a fine time for the two of us to catch up as the taxi inched its way through heavy traffic. I caught my first exciting glimpses of the famous iconic image of Rio—Christ the Redeemer perched high on a hill, His arms outstretched to embrace the world.

 

Discovering my New Apartment in Gloria:

But, an hour later, the driver was pulling up in the central Rio neighborhood known as Gloria and taking the lift to an apartment owned by Rosana and her American partner, Andrew. As luck would have it, the apartment which is usually rented to visiting tenants, was empty for the week of my occupancy. I saw shades of London all over again as Rosana put me through  the paces, gave me keys that opened the great big front gates and the door to my 2 bedroom flat. Unlike my little boutique flat in London which was tiny but brand-new with the spiffiest new appliances, this was old and sprawling, the rooms huge but wearing their age proudly. I was introduced to the layout of the space, inspected the kitchen and bathroom, took stock of closet space (loads of it in an empty cupboard), was shown supplies of bed linen, etc. before Rosana left to run errands.

            I did what every new arrival in new accommodation does. I unpacked, I made the bed (Rosana had left me bed linen and towels, soap, toilet paper, a few cookies) and marveled at the Andy Warhol print of Marilyn Monroe above my bed. In a former life, when living for three months in a loft in Farringdon, London, there were Marilyn avatars all over my living room (only those had been the real thing—signed Warhol lithographs--while this was a pink print). Still, there was a comforting sense of being followed by poor Marilyn as I switched on the fan to cool the room. The only downside was that for some reason I wasn’t able to get on to wifi nor did the TV in my bedroom work.

 

The Bombay-Rio Connection:

            Rosana took me for a brief turn around the neighborhood, which, strangely enough, reminded me so much of Bombay and more specifically of Bandra, the small suburb of Bombay from which I hail. When I try to think why it was so reminiscent of the city of my birth, I am sure it has a lot to do with the fact that Rio like Bombay is a coastal city of buildings—no houses to be seen. Shops encircle the ground floor of these buildings that, as a result of the city’s perpetual heat, have wide open balconies around each flat. Indeed, Rio even smells like Bombay: it is the smell I realize now of the urban tropics—a heady mixture of quickly deteriorating garbage, warm and sweaty bodies, the salt tang of the sea. Even the bright fluorescent lighting of the shops reminded me of my home town. The only difference was that unlike the English and Hindi I hear everywhere in Bombay, this was all about the Portuguese tongue tripping on the mouths of one and all. No one speaks anything but Portuguese and in the week that followed, I picked up several words to enable me to get by.

            With Rosana’s guidance, I found the little grocery store that would become familiar to me as I bought food for the next few days: milk, Nescafe instant coffee, cereal, ham, cheese, multi-grain bread for sandwiches, ice-cream and fruit (yes, I almost cried happy tears of nostalgia as I bought papayas, guavas, and custard apples)—enough to see me through the next few days. Even the market smelled like the shops do in India, where the heat quickly gets to meat and fish even with refrigeration and where even the freshest vegetables wilt rapidly. With my food supplies for the week, I returned to my apartment and continued to get organized when Rosana arrived to escort me to her apartment, three buildings away.

            Up a low hill we climbed together and made our way to Rosana’s miraculous ‘find’ of a home: a two bedroom terrace apartment on the rooftop of an eight-storey building that offered lovely views of an illuminated city! Inside, she offered me the country’s favorite snack—Brazil nuts, of course. And cashew nuts and a cold glass of water. There was humidity in the air and it followed me around throughout the week. This too was similar to Bombay. Before long, Andrew walked in. Rosana made introductions and we got chatting easily as we sipped the local brews. They had decided to take me out to dinner on my first night in Rio and I was grateful for the suggestion. It would enable me to experience Rio’s legendary night life as well as acquaint me with restaurant etiquette in this gracious city.

 

Dinner in Lapa at Nova Capella:

            Half an hour later, we were strolling through the ink-black night under the warm shroud of darkness to Lapa, a bohemian neighborhood just ten minutes from our digs in Gloria.  I had requested local traditional Brazilian food—no McDee’s for me when I have local friends with whom to feast. Luckily, they got exactly what I meant to discover—a small, old, custom-bound eatery that would showcase regional cuisine. Rosana and Andrew chose Nova Capella, a Lapa dining institution dating from 1906, with white sharkskin-clad waiters who exuded gracious charm. Seated at bentwood chairs on red gingham-covered tables, we started with drinks (local beer for me, cashaca, a liqueur made from sugarcane juice for Andrew, red wine for Rosana). They ordered appetizers that were the specialties of the house—bacalau (dried, reconstituted cod fish) formed into fritters with mashed potatoes—light and very tasty, and shrimp–filled empanadas. And for the main dish, they got the house special: roasted squid with broccoli rice. I noted with wonder that the squid was far from leathery—indeed, it was almost as soft and appealing as chicken. Portions were large, the young waiter was cordial throughout and very kind to the foreigner in me—he even offered a bilingual menu! What a wonderful evening, what a fine meal, what delightful company! A gal could not ask for better on her first night in the city.

            On the way back home, we trawled at a leisurely pace through Lapa taking in the well-refurbished restaurants that are seeing a recent gentrification. Old buildings continue to color the neighborhood with the shades of its rich history, but bright paint, the sounds of bossa nova and samba strains emanating from every eatery as live music was offered to patrons on a week night gave me a taste of the rich night life for which Rio has acquired quite a reputation.

            Happily I noted my surroundings, making mental landmarks to remind myself of what I had passed through so that, while on my own, I might renegotiate my way through this vibrant area. We passed an old atmospheric church constructed in the Goan-Portuguese vein, a massive Aqueduct that once carried water to residents in the hilltop enclave of Santa Teresa and is now used for the running of the historical tram from downtown to the hills. On one block, there were strings of gorgeous, skimpily-clad women. I realized at once that they were hookers, but you could have knocked me down with a feather when Rosana informed me that every single one of them was a man—transvestite prostitutes who would not hesitate to kill a regular hooker if she ever strayed on their turf. That was one of the times when the seedier side of Rio revealed itself to me. Repeatedly I was reminded to “Be Careful”—to watch my back. It is a city with a dangerous side and personal vigilance, quite unknown to me, became second nature during my stay. I was even told to put my watch away.  

            There had been a great deal to take in on one day—and my mind was spinning with so many sensual impressions. But above all, as I turned the key in my door ready to hit the sack, I could not help but feel grateful for the opportunity to live in a foreign city once again just like a local resident—a Carioca, as Rio’s citizens are known. Having done so already, on different occasions in my life as in London and Paris, I felt like an old hand at making myself at home in an unfamiliar city. Rio, I thought, here I come!

            Until tomorrow, ciao!                 

Ignited by the Iguazzu Falls

Monday, June 8, 2015: At Foz de Iguazzu

            Going through Immigration was painless at Rio de Janeiro’s Galeao airport, but retrieving my baggage from the Claim area took forever: the No-Win Unwritten Rule of International Travel is that if Immigration is a snap, the wait at Baggage Claim is endless; if Immigration takes an hour, you get your bags in five minutes! For me, the next aim was to find the Domestic Departures section as I was to be airborne again in less than two hours, for my onward flight to the south of Brazil—for I was headed to the small town called Foz de Iguazzu which is the base for every global roamer’s wish to spy the Iguazzu Falls.       

            Well, the connection was just as smooth as peanut butter—and this time, I requested a window seat—but again, all were taken and I was placed besides an Oriental woman who seemed to have flown to Brazil from China as she slept right through the flight! What a horrible waste of a window seat, I thought! Still, at least she did not pull down the blind. Lonely Planet (my Travel Bible) had said that passengers on the left side of the plane often received a good view of the Falls at landing—and as luck would have it, there they were in all their glory. A gush of water that ended in a haze which was clearly a result of the mist that develops where the river Iguazzu makes landfall! Needless to say, I snapped a few pictures and was quite pleased with the results.

            At Foz de Iguazzu airport, as is my wont in a foreign country, I picked up my baggage and looked for the Tourist Information Desk in the Arrivals Lounge. It was a tiny little room manned by a lovely young girl named Marcella who spoke functional English. It was 12. 30 pm when we landed at Foz and at 1.00 pm, there was a public bus right outside the airport to take me to my hotel. There was little time to waste: I was grateful for the maps handed to me and being directed to the little bank kiosk next door, I changed a couple of hundred US dollars into Brazilian Reais for a far better rate than was offered at New York or at Rio airports! Feeling very pleased with myself, I raced off for the bus stop, found it in a jiffy and five minutes later, along came the bus.

It took me less than five minutes to figure out how the public bus system works in Brazil: you board the bus, wish the   driver Bom Dia (pronounced Bonjia—very similar to the French Bonjour), turn to the conductor, usually a female, who is seated at the front at a turnstile! You pay her your fare (a flat R3. 40—approximately a dollar) for any journey, then turn the turnstile around to let yourself through. If you have baggage (as I did), a kind passenger gives you a hand to pass it across the turnstile on the top—God forbid if you are handicapped! I found a seat and spent the next 20 minutes feasting my eyes on the tropical green of southern Brazil for the Iguazzu Falls sit bang in the midst of the great Brazilian Rain Forest—thousands and thousands of acres of it as is easily evidently from the aircraft. If you are familiar with Goa or Kerala, you will fancy yourself in that part of the world for the vegetation is similar: miles of coconut palms, cashew and mango trees.

            As luck would have it, the bus dropped me right outside my hotel: all I had to do was cross a busy street and there it was: Hotel Rouver (pronounced Hotel Hoover—as words beginning with R are pronounced as H in Portuguese). Five minutes later, I was checking in, opening the door to my first floor room, dumping my baggage, changing into a tank top and capris (for it was HOT!) and using the facilities before heading off to the Falls.

            Because, you see, there was no time to waste. I was only at Foz for one night and my flight back to Rio was to depart at 2. 45 pm the next day. I had little choice but to make the most of the rest of the day and I was determined not to waste a second. The hotel receptionist kindly directed me to the bus-stop (again, right outside my hotel) and in the ultra-warm afternoon, I waited for ten minutes for the bus that then made its way back to the airport and past it to arrive at the entrance to the famed Iguazzu Falls.

 

Sighting the Iguazzu Falls:

            I should make clear at this stage that it was our family friend and physician, Dr. Edward Pinto, who had told me that the Iguazzu Falls were one of the most spectacular sights he has ever seen—and he is well-traveled. He had advised me to make a detour and go and see them, no matter where in South America I happened to be. Since I always heed my doctor’s advice, there I was! At 3. 00 pm, there was plenty of daylight left and at least three hours to see the place. Once off the bus, I hurried to the Main Entrance to buy my ticket (R54, approx. $18) and was directed to the bus that ferries travelers through the vast expanse of the National Park in which the Falls are located. I took a seat on the top deck and within ten minutes, the bus took off with about twenty passengers on board. I was very grateful for the strong breeze that blew throughout that ride (on the open upper deck) that threatened to blow my baseball cap right off but cooled me well!

            The plan on a bus tour of this sort is something akin to the Hop On, Hop Off bus service found in many of the world’s cities. You get off wherever you please (usually an Observation Deck) and wait for about 20 minutes for the next bus to come along and take you to the next stop. I had done my homework and had found out that Stops 14 to 19 were the most crucial because they offered the most stunning views. At Stop 14, most of the passengers alighted and climbed down the ramp leading downhill for their first glimpse of the Falls. From that point, I walked for about 4 kms (2 miles) along the periphery of the canyon stopping frequently to take pictures and appreciate the sights from many varied vantage points. For what is unique about Iguazzu is that, unlike Niagara, is it not just one gushing wall of water but several different falls—some narrow, others wide; some very tall, others much shorter; some close at hand, others far in the distance; some a drop over a single shelf, others comprising multiple tiers.  Overall, the variety of scenes and the fury of the Iguazzu Falls make Niagara look like a trickle! With every step I took further along the trail leading eventually to the piece de resistance, Devil’s Throat, at Stop 19, I was awed! At some points, there are simply no words. You just gaze and try to get your camera to do justice to what you see—but you soon realize that the impact is only partly visual. Much of the effect is audio—you hear the gushing, you take in the deafening roar. And tactile—for you are sprayed gently at some points and well soaked at others. It is a completely sensual experience to be drenched by the spray of hundreds of tons of gushing water as the mighty Iguazzu goes over a succession of rapids and plunges into a foaming cauldron of white blindness! What is also spectacular about this spot are the multiple rainbows that form across the ravine as the tearing waters catch the sun’s rays. Cameras work overtime to capture it all—and often fail. But I did spot at least two rainbows through the length of my stay at this spot.

            Enough said! As often happens to solo travelers, you request fellow sojourners to take your picture against the sound and the fury—and before you know it, you have a new friend. This was the case with me as I requested a sweet young man to take my picture and in turn offered to take his. He happened to be one Mohamed Saad, Algerian by parentage and heritage, French by birth (he was born and grew up in Lyon) and now working in Bristol, UK, as a petroleum engineer. I enjoyed trying my French out on him for size and was delighted to receive compliments on my fluency! We got into the natural rhythm of discovering each other in French as we discovered the Falls and were grateful for each other’s company. As we trekked through the rain forest to the next vantage point, we squealed at the sight of raccoon-like furry brown wild animals who stomped around in packs. They are called Quatchi in the local lingo and they amused one and all with their hunt for food.

            Ultimately, after walking for about an hour, we arrived at Devil’s Throat, a spot where visitors actually walk right over the falls on a concrete trail that takes you to the heart of the ravine. This part of the Falls is very similar to Niagara and boat trips (similar to the Maid of the Mist) take visitors to the base of the Falls (for an additional fee earlier in the day). We contented ourselves walking to the absolute edge of the canyon and watching the water swirling in mighty pressure beneath us. Right across the ravine is Argentina—and, as in the case of the Niagara Falls where one has views from the America and Canadian sides of the borders, so too here, one can view the Falls from both countries. There were many people across on the Argentinian side also walking along a concrete trail—which led me to investigate the possibility of getting on the opposite side the next day. However, I nixed it when I discovered that US citizens need a visa for Argentina which is available at the border but costs a whopping $160! Not worth it, I thought for just a few hours! Overall, I was very thrilled with the visit to the Falls from the Brazilian side and did not regret my inability to cross international borders to see them again.    

The trail was wet with the constant spray and we were quite drenched by the time we tore ourselves away from the Devil’s Throat and returned to the bus stop to take the bus back to base. Restaurant, restrooms, souvenir shops and other amenities are frequently available along the trail. Had one the entire day to spend at the falls, one could do all sort of trails, take the boat to the base, etc. But I was perfectly content with the three hours I spent there and felt that it had certainly been worth my while to make the long two-hour flight to South Brazil to catch a glimpse of this astonishing natural wonder.

The drive to base took another 20 minutes, at which point I spied the public bus that would take me back to my hotel. Mohamed and I took the same bus and got off at the same stop—he had reservations at the local Youth Hostel near by. We exchanged contact information and parted and I walked to my hotel. En route, I spied a McDonald’s—yes, I have to admit that when I am alone in a small outpost where I cannot speak the language, I am rarely tempted to enter a restaurant. McDee’s suits me just fine and with a salad, a fish burger and a cold chocolate milk, I was content to return to my hotel, eat my dinner and spend the rest of the evening catching up with email—for I had free wifi. Sadly, the TV only transmitted in Portuguese—of which I do not understand a word. One hot shower later, I prepared for bed and having taken the red eye flight from New York, slept the sleep of the dead!

Ciao until tomorrow…  

Breezing Through Brazil--Departure and Arrival

Sunday, June 7, 2015: Off to Brazil

Departure for and Arrival In Brazil:

 By 5.00 pm, we had piled into our car and began the drive to Kennedy airport from Manhattan—with a very tired and sleepy lot of passengers in the back. It was really hard to say goodbye to my family members from India (especially as we had such a splendid week together), but by 6. 30, I found myself in great time to check in, go through Security and take my place at the Boarding Gate of a flight on TAM Airlines, the national air carrier of Brazil. The flight departed promptly at 8. 30 pm—the red eye is a great way to catch some zzzs but not before I enjoyed The Second Best Exotic Mariegold Hotel on the in-flight entertainment service. Sleep did come eventually after dinner was served and at 7. 30 am, the next morning, I found myself at Rio de Janeiro’s Galeao airport. Alas, I did not have a window seat so could not look for the telltale sightings that orient me to a city while still airborne (but I would have a few opportunities to get bird’s-eye views of this appealing city as the week progressed).

 

Until tomorrow, ciao!