Why Not To Shop In Brazil

International journeys starting in Brazil are exempt, thanks to some abnormally brilliant Brazilian law, the normal baggage restrictions of international airline travel.  So, while economy passengers on all other global routes are only allowed two paltry 23 kilo bags, those flying from and to Brazil get to max out their two bags to 32 kilos a piece, without paying excess.

I customarily fill every last milligram of my allowance - and that of my kids - with the fruits of an obscene month-long European shopping spree.  Usually a roof-box and trailer are required to get us to the airport with our 200 kilo load at the end of the holiday.  I justify it as a means to save money, because I essentially buy the non-perishable goods required for entire year, from nappies and toothpaste to christmas and birthday presents, and avoid buying anything aside from groceries in Brazil.  It's just too expensive to shop here, and I'm pretty sure I almost compensate for the cost of the flights.

If the price of goods wasn't enough, the exasperating purchasing process here is enough to dampen the  appetite of even the most rabid shopaholic.   First off, many Brazilian clothing stores follow the fifties' shop model, with many goods behind a counter manned with overly helpful assistants.  You can't just browse the racks to find stuff yourself.  Instead, you are obliged to be 'served' by a girl with a massive grin and a name that for some reason she thinks you need know, who will fetch what you request along with a collection of garments you wouldn't be seen dead in.

If you do decide to go ahead with a transaction, you must be prepared for the multi-hooped circus act that is checking out.  It usually works like this:  The assistant who has been serving you will issue you with a numbered ticket and ask you how you want to pay.  (If you pay cash you will probably get a 5% discount).  She will send you (without your goods) to the back of the store to the cashier, an invariably dour looking woman sitting behind a glass screen.  Do not be surprised if this lady asks you for your vital statistics, such is the detail of personal information that is required even to buy a pair of socks.  She will also ask you if you want to pay upfront (a vista) or in multiple interest-free installments (parçelado).  Once you pay, she will duly stamp your ticket 'PAGO' and send you to another area of the shop to pick up your goods, which in the meantime have been bagged up.  It's a frustrating, inefficient system that can mean 3 different queues, and requires 3 times more staff than necessary.

But for newcomers to Brazil, the frustration can set in long before you even set foot in the store.  In order to shop you obviously need access to your money.  Sound simple?  Far from it.  Opening a bank account is the first hurdle, and can take months while you wait for your official residency ID.  But even with that first box ticked, you have two more hurdles: getting into the bank and operating the cash machine.   You can take nothing for granted!  When I first arrived in Sao Paulo, I tearfully aborted the first two attempts to get into the front door of the bank.  I couldn't yet speak the language and was intimidated by the metal-detecting revolving door and the armed security guard shouting instructions at me from behind his bullet-proof screen.  I just didn't understand what I was supposed to do (remove everything from my handbag and put them in a transparent container in the revolving door).   It sounds pathetic, but I just turned around and fled! 

And the cash machine amazes me every time to this day  Withdrawing cash is akin to dancing the hokey kokey:  You put your cash card in.  You pull your cash card out.  In, Out, In, Out and shake it all about.  Do the hokey kokey and your turn around.......Seriously, I have to put the bank card into the machine and take it out again a total of three times just to withdraw a tenner.  I have to punch my pin code in at least twice, and even that isn't straight forward - it's in a type of code whereby you press one button if the digit you want to input is a 1 or a 3, another if it's a 5 or a 7, another if it's a 9 or a 0 etc. (If you don't manage, you can always resort to using your cheque book, but I've lost count of the number of times my signature has not been deemed to match the one the bank has on file. )

Sigh....what a moaning Minnie post.  I think it's because the annual holiday is so close I can almost touch it.  Bring on that shopping spree.

Does My Kid Need Therapy?

I was called into school today to have a meeting with the school psychologist to discuss Little Bear's behaviour.  The tiniest little upset can set him off like a firework; screaming, shouting, kicking, hitting and spitting.  It's a pretty regular performance at school, and she was curious to know if he did the same thing at home and, if so, how we handled it.

Six weeks ago I was not handling it.  At all.  I was in despair.  He was throwing fits on a daily basis and i was trying every strategy known to modern and cave-dwelling parents alike.  I tried ignoring the behaviour but that made him worse.  I tried Time Outs but they don't bother him.  I tried smacking him but that just led to escalating tit-for-tat physical conflict.  I tried positive praise but that just enraged him.  I spent nights researching Aspergers and child bipolar disorder trying to figure out what his problem was.  I cried and felt like a terrible mother, not least because I found myself wondering if I still loved him.  I just couldn't understand how a four year old with a loving, attentive family could be so unhappy.  It was breaking my heart. 

But about a month ago there was a shift.  We decided to try a weekend without turning on the computer, so that we would be less distracted and more engaged with the kids.  It was so much fun that it is now a firmly enforced family rule.  Around the same time I also made a conscious decision to give Little Bear more 'colo', which is a wondeful Brazilian word that amounts to cuddling and holding someone like a baby.  Guess what?  In the last four weeks we haven't had a single episode of the same magnitude, at home at least.  He's being utterly adorable and sweet and happy most of the time.

For me, it was case closed.  But today the school psychologist was recommending we should take him for an evaluation with a child therapist to see if we can figure out what is bothering him.  I have my own theories; jealousy of his younger sibling; anxiety about growing up (and even death) and a desire to go back to being a baby, all of which manifest themselves in massive attention-seeking fits replete with baby behaviour.  See, I've got it all figured out myself.  Why do I need to take him to someone else to corroborate my theory?

Truth is that we Brits are not very comfortable with therapy.  I don't know a single British friend of mine that has ever been to a therapist, or taken their kid to one.  The therapy culture of countries like the US and Brazil is a source of total bemusement to us.  It's just not something that we do.  And if we do, I suppose we don't talk about it.  (Do you even get psychologists in British schools?  You certainly didn't in my day).  Of course I think that some people have some serious issues to figure out, but it seems like some people go to their therapist to indulge their precious egos for an hour, talking about how they feel about their broken nail or the boyfriend that just wasn't that into them.  The Brits on the other hand like to figure things out by themselves.  We're just not that dramatic or touchy-feely.  Stiff upper lip, Dunkirk spirit and all that.

Whether or not I take Little Bear to the therapist remains to be seen.  As for me, why would I pay to speak about myself for an hour when I can just spend an hour writing a blog post for free?  Thanks for listening.

5 Things We Love To Hate About Brazilian Birthday Parties - And How To Get Over It

Brigadeiros: Late Night, Anyone?

1) The Time of The Party: 
You may as well just get used to the fact that ninety percent of the invitations you receive will be for parties that start when your kids are normally in the their pyjamas and end when you are normally in yours, and on a school night to boot.  No use tut-tut-tutting.  Brazilian kids go to bed late and there isn't any amount of head shaking and finger wagging that is going to change that.  I get over it by simply not going to those parties.  Believe me, going to a mere one in ten of them is more than an adult can handle without medication anyway. 

2) The Sweeties:

As if trays of Briga-deiros, and the promise of cake aren't enough, a table full of sweets is in order.   I take one look and hear that scary horror music from Psycho.  It's a  multi-coloured minefield of hysteria-inducing, teeth-rotting, choking hazards.  The truth is that Brazilian sweets haven't undergone the same do-goody makeover as in the UK, with their enlightened natural colours and flavours.  Here it's old school, like when we were four, but probably worse.  Get over it by feeding your kids a truly self-righteously healthy meal before you arrive. Something with quinoa and spinach and salmon will do. Then, when they do go to the table, steer them towards a really big, hard lollipop that will keep them licking for the rest of the party while other kids scoff the rest.  When you get home, scrub those milk teeth like Tinkerbell's life depended on it.

3) Health and Safety

This one's for Mr Becoming, who spent most of a party this weekend doing a safety assessment of the "Biggie Play" (those multi-tiered play areas invented by Ronald MacDonald) and the climbing wall (no helmets and lackadaisical monitoring).  He was worried about falls and accidents.  My concern didn't amount to more than a passing curiosity about how often the ball-pit balls were cleaned.  I got over it by looking the other way and thinking pretty thoughts.  There's nothing so bad in life that can't be made better by alcohol hand gel and a positive outlook.

4) Inappropriate Games

Killing Machines By Day.  Bed Wetters By Night.

These party venues cater for a wide age range so it is inevitable that there are some things that are not for the smaller children.  It is also inevitable that the father of the small child will allow said child to participate in these activities even though they know it will make the mother of said child apoplectic.   Take, for example, the shooting of zombies in a violent and graphic video game.  I'm still getting over this one actually and would just bury the memory if it weren't for the fact it was, in Little Bear's opinion, the best bit of the whole party and he won't stop talking about it.  If total denial doesn't do the trick, the advice would be not to take Dads to birthday parties in the first place.

5) The Birthday Cake Ritual
The cake at a Brazilian Birthday Party is presented on a long table decorated with figurines that reflect the party's theme, in front of a decorated thematic banner.  The theme is usually a Disney Princess or a Super Hero.  These tables are an all-singing, all-dancing symbol of so much that is wrong with today's society; bad role models, commercialisation, yawn, yawn.  Get over it by only going to Hello Kitty themed parties because it is impossible to feel angry at Hello Kitty.  She's just too blooming cute. 

British Queen's Birthday Celebration In Rio

Went to one of those peculiar ex-pat events today that I love to hate but secretly adore for their weird comedy value.  It was a tea-time celebration of the Queen's birthday hosted by the British Commonwealth Society of Rio de Janeiro, held in the hall at The British School.

Flat fluorescent lighting; Lots of old folks; The palest looking group of people I've ever seen in Rio; Patriotic balloons and union jacks; A vicar; A pianist;  Cups of tea; Scones with jam and cream;  Children in fancy dress (Little Dove won the prize in her Queen's Guard pyjamas); A faulty public address system; A raffle; Warm pro-seco; The National Anthem.  You get the picture.  It was like walking onto the set of a wartime sitcom. 

It was the first time the BSC had held this event for families, in an attempt to attract a 'younger' membership.  Here's a picture of the cake.  Love the unintentionally cool 'you majesty'.  They put the cake on the stage, where two seconds later a toddler dressed as Batman trod on it. 

Four Year Old Prodigies - Better Believe It

Aelita Andre - Four Year Old Prodigy (not mine!)

Did you see that video of the child prodigy abstract impressionist whose first solo exhibition is opening this week in New York? She is no more of an artist than the next kid, but what a lucky ducky to have such a cool studio space, an apparently limitless budget for acrylics and a collection of punky princess clothes that mommy lets her trash.  Makes me feel a bit square for insisting my kids put on their plastic aprons, sit at the table and not spill their thimble-fulls of finger paint.

"Do not spill your thimble-full of finger paint!".  Say that ten times, I dare you.  With tongue-twisting skills like these, little wonder I birthed a prodigy of my own, of the existential philosopher variety.

Tonight's dinner time question was "What does it feel like to be dead?", but Little Bear's most common question is "Does that exist?".  He's trying to figure out where the line is drawn between reality and fantasy, and asks this in relation to anything from monsters, angels, knights in armour, the Easter story, jellyfish and fairies to ghosts.  These things have pretty straightforward answers - they either definitively do, definitively don't or nobody knows so you can just decide (and I'll let you decide which falls into which category).  But things start to get complicated when he points to representations (or misrepresentations) of things in photographs, magazines, billboard ads, films, TV programs and illustrations.  I find myself embarking on lengthy attempts to demystify the film industry ("That's an actor darling, pretending to be someone else, telling an imaginary story that was written by a writer, filmed by a cameraman" etc) or the advertising industry ("That's a photo of something real, photo-shopped by a graphic designer and made into something pretty unreal" etc), but my responses always fall short of his complete satisfaction.

We went to the Instituto Moreira Salles recently (our default rainy day in Rio routine) to see an exhibition of video portraits by Robert Wilson.  We're talking high-res flat screens with what appear to be stills of celebrities, until you notice that parts of the picture change.  Little Bear was completely entranced (so was I by the way, especially by the work featuring Brad Pitt in his underpants ) and of course he asked 'Do they really exist?".  My explanation was that yes, it was a real person who really exists, and this was a video of them.  When little bear wondered 'How do they eat?' I realised that he thought the people were actually stuck in a box up on the wall, behind a glass screen.  And why not?

That's what is so genius about all four year old kids; their total ignorance.  They haven't got a clue about what is likely to be real, what is clearly not, or any of the practical reasons why Brad Pitt wouldn't really be stuck in a box in the gallery.  They don't know how things should or shouldn't be done, and no concept of any of the boundaries that separate their imaginations from the world around them.  It must be magical living in a world where everything seems possible - including four year olds having their own gallery shows.  Prodigies or not, they have a lot to teach us...not least that it's okay to for them to get paint all over their pretty clothes.

Things To Love About Cold Rainy Weather In Rio

Break out the Cosby Knitwear..it's COLD!

16 degrees might be the temperature of a pleasant spring day in Aberdeen but here it is considered freeeeeeeezing.  Coupled with the incessant rain, the cold front is enough to bring out a tropical variant of SAD in most people, but here I am to give you six reasons to enjoy the climate:

1) YOU HAVE AN EXCUSE NOT TO DO ANYTHING:  In Brazil the rain is a perfectly valid excuse not to do anything or go anywhere.  Apparently this extends to your place of work, especially if that happens to be my house.  The first time I heard a maid play the rain card to explain an absence I was dumbfounded.  Since, I have come to expect it.  Sure enough on Friday morning as it rained cats, dogs and the full gamut of domestic pets, I got the no-show call from The Help.  I've adapted pretty well to the rain excuse myself, and have used it this week to ditch yoga and spinning classes (pretty pathetic since the gym is about 20 metres from my front door) in favour of watching Barbie mermaid films.

2) IF YOU DO ANYTHING AT ALL, IT WILL BE AN ENHANCED EXPERIENCE: Given that most people will NOT be venturing far from home, anything you do decide to undertake will be all the more pleasant.  When it rains, the illegal vendors who clog up the pavement with their pirate DVD and remote control stands stay away so you can actually navigate your pushchair from A to B without going mental.  I took my kids to swimming class this week and they had semi-private classes since most other children had been kept at home lest they get wet and cold, and shopping at the Hortifruti in Catete was actually bearable because the fogeys who usually shuffle around the shop were all shivering under polyester blankets somewhere.

3) IT'S EASY TO MAKE FRIENDS: If you are new to Brazil and you want to meet other expats, put wellie boots on your kids and take them to the park to jump in the puddles.  Without a shadow of a doubt, the only other children you meet will be other foreigners. 

4) YOU GET TO COVER UP: All that chocolate left over from Easter and in the last few weeks I've acquired enough spare tyres to set up my own roadside borracharia.  It's wonderful to be able to hide it all under sleeves and long layers, without the pressure of having a bikini body ready to break out at any moment.  Liberate the body hair and revel in items of clothing salvaged from the 'cold clothes' box at the back of the wardrobe; garments that contain wool yes WOOL (mental note: remember to remind The Help how to hand wash and dry cashmere) and pashminas and socks wonderful socks.

5) YOU GET TO SEE SOME PRICELESS KNITWEAR:  If the average Brit possesses one baggy-bottomed bikini and twenty jumpers, the Carioca has the inverse.  The knitwear you see when it gets 'cold' here defies belief.  Snuggly clothing, because it is rarely used, apparently lasts for generations,  and is therefore excused the whims of fashion.  You see people wearing patterns and colour combos that would make Bill Cosby proud.

6) IT MAKES YOU FEEL AT HOME: Don't we all love that chilled to the bone feeling that is rewarded by a nice toasted crumpet and a face-burning sit beside the open fire?  This cold, wet streak makes me feel right at home.  Most of all it reminds me why I'm glad I don't live there...

Facebook Saves Lives: In Defense of A Social Media Habit

I have this dear friend.  I was her bridesmaid and she was mine.  Back at school she was an 'influencer'.  She was intelligent, worldly wise and clued-up about music and pop culture.  She introduced me to Paul Simon (see how cool?) and together we laid eyes on a CD player for the first time.  At eleven she stated she would be a lawyer, and sure enough she became a total hot shot.  Then she added being a super-mum of three under-threes to her CV.  With all her achieving and reproducing, she let being plugged-in slide down her list of priorities.  She simply didn't 'Facebook'.

I almost choked on my chocolate egg (is there no end to the Easter chocolate?) a few days ago when I saw her name pop up as a recommended Facebook friend.  I quickly fired off an invite and rejoiced that I'd finally be able to keep in touch with her better.  I got her (email) response today:

"I do NOT understand why people like Facebook. I just hooked up again to see someone’s photos and I just cannot believe the information people put on it.  It is the end of privacy as we know it. AND surely no-one with a job has time for it.  If you didn’t have full-time help, I’m sure you wouldn’t bother!!"

OUCH! I felt like I'd been punched by the angry, chocolate-egg-laying Easter hen looking for its stolen babies.  Sad and Hurt.  It wasn't the insinuation that Facebook was my distraction from filing my nails while a maid took care of my children and a husband polished his nose on the corporate grindstone that got me.  I take her opinion personally because it is a total dismissal of one of the things I prize most.  Being an expat mother raising young children in a country where I have no family members, in a city where I haven't known anyone longer than 18 months can be a lonely undertaking.  It is difficult to keep friendships alive when you have been away for many years, but impossible to operate in life without them.  I need my old friends so I need Facebook, and I need her to be one of my Facebook friends.

Of course I am making wonderful new friends, but I crave being with people who really know me and care about me, opportunities for which are few and far between.  Every year more people have babies and fewer people visit. (The same friend only half jokingly promised she would come to visit when her children were at boarding school, in about 12 years time!) I hate that I don't know my friends' husbands better, that I have to think twice to remember their kids names, that I don't know what they thought of that TV program last night, what music they are listening to or what they are cooking for dinner.  Facebook helps fill in these spaces, with an insight into the trivial day-to-day treasures of life that get overlooked when you meet friends or cousins for one afternoon a year, and the events of the past 12 months are reduced to significant events like job changes, new houses, new children.

To set the record straight I do work.  Maybe not as much as I could, but I'm not totally idle.  I also know plenty of successfully employed people that are very active on Facebook.   As for the full-time help thing, I'll just say that time is like money - you use every penny that you have.  If I have paid 'help', it is so I can get more done, and do it better, not to free up time for Facebook.  Anyway, I think that Facebook saves me time in the long run.  It allows me to know what's going on with the people I love all over the world, quickly and easily.  All the hassle of attaching image files to cookie-cutter family emails is removed.  I also belong to an amazing Facebook group of about 100 expat women who live in Rio.  I can post anything related to living Brazil, especially concerning raising children, and get an answer within seconds from a handful of women that have gone through the same experience.  In the absence of family and old friends, that type of virtual support network is precious indeed. 

And just because Facebook friendships are so easy and convenient doesn't make them any less meaningful.  Of course it's not as great as actally seeing people, but surely it's better than nothing.  If anything I think Facebook has extended the love....renewing old friendships, nurturing new ones.  But maybe for this friendship I might just have to go old school and pick up the telephone.  Thank God for Skype...that's a whole other addiction.

Happy Mummy Day in Brazil

Passion Every Which Way: Good For Your Health

I'm talking about passion of the fruit variety.  Brazil's large maracujá are glossy yellow with a juicy orange pulp and are my current addiction.  They have become a regular feature in my kitchen, taking up prime fruit-bowl real estate previously reserved for disappointing apples and pears, which I have finally given up on.

When buying passion fruits you want the ones with wrinkled skin which  are ripe and sweet (in the sweetest way a very sour thing can be).  They should also feel relatively heavy if they are juicy.  I whizz them in the blender with water and pass through a sieve for a righteous-tasting drink.  Add sugar if you want but I prefer it without.  (If you add cachaça and ice you get a caiprinha de maracujá). But my absolute favourite way to eat them is in one of Brazil's finest and the World's easiest to make desserts - the classic Mousse de Maracujá.  Whizz them in the blender again, this time with equal measure of cream and condensed milk and pass through a sieve before leaving in the fridge to set. Eat and die happy.

There is a conviction here in Brazil that the fruit has calming properties, and is therefore a great thing to give hyperactive kids in the evening.  Mine adore the mousse but I'm sure all the sugar in the condenses milk negates the effect.  I'm ok with that, since they're getting an alphabet load of vitamins, anti-oxidants and fibre.  A bonus is that the seeds work naturally to combat intestinal parasites, which is great for my kids who play in dirty sandy playgrounds!

Apparently even consuming the skins of passion fruits can be beneficial as it limits the effects of glucose absorption, helps combat bad cholesterol and improves digestive function.  You can cook it until it's soft and add it chopped to salads but that doesn't appeal to me much.  I bought it today in a powdered format to add to smoothies and baked goods and will report back on how that tastes!

However good they may be, I read that you shouldn't exceed four maracujá fruits per day!  Evidently too much of anything, especially passion, can be a bad thing.

What You Didn't Learn in Portuguese Class - Narco Slang

Stumbled across this list yesterday, when I researched Rio's illicit crack trade, of drug related portuguese slang.  It will come in handy for my undercover assignment reporting from behind the lines of the Comando Vermelho (one of Rio's infamous criminal organisations).   Oh would that I were so genuinely journalistic... 

Avião — (lit. plane) middleman  
Baba — good money 
Badaga — shoemaker's glue  
Badagueiro — glue sniffer 
Bagulho — joint 
Banhista — (bather) someone who steals from a friend  
Barato — high 
Baseado, bagulho, bomba — pot  
Bater pavão — steal  
Bater um — (to beat one) to prepare the cocaine for snorting it  
Bocada — (mouthful) — place to buy drugs  
Bob Marley — marijuana  
Boca-de-fumo — (mouth) point of sale of drugs 
Bode — (goat) urge to sleep  
Bodinha, bodinho — (little goat) girl, boy 
Branco — (white) cocaine, faintness  
Brecar — to dress well 
Cagoete — snitch  
Canaleta — (gutter) — vein  
Caô — craziness or boaster  
Chocolate — hashish  
Crackeiro, craqueiro — a crack user  
Dar o confere — to frisk someone while stealing  
Dar o gogó — (give the Adam's apple) to catch by the throat 
Dar uma luz — (give a light) transitory high  
Derramar — (to pour) steal from the 
boca-de-fumo Descuido — (carelessness) little theft  
Docinho — (little candy) lysergic acid  
Erva do diabo — (devil's weed) pot  
Fazer um ganho — (to make a profit) to steal  
Fino — (the thin one) pot cigarette 
Fralda — (diaper) pot paper  
Fritar pedra — (to fry stone) to smoke crack  
Imbalista — passerby who nabs a mugger 
Ir para Londres — (to go to London) to have sex  
Lombra — high 
Mardita — pot  
Marica — (pansy) any object used to hold the grass  
Matutos — (hillbillies) drug go-betweens in Rio  
Malhada — cocaine mixed with talc or corn starch 
Mela, merla — cocaine paste smoked in a pipe  
Mesclado — crack and pot mix  
Meter — to steal  
Metranca — gun or machine gun  
Mincha — metal bar to open cars  
Mocó — place to sleep  
Mula — (mule) person who carries drug in a bus or plane  
Nóia — (from paranoia) drug high  
Noiado — in a high 
Palha — (straw) bad quality pot  
Pedra — (stone) crack 
Pico — (prick) injection in the vein  
Pipar — to smoke a drug in a pipe 
Poeira — (dust) cocaine 
Plizzzzzz — mugging 
Preto — (black) pot 
Tuim — the almost instantaneous sensation provoked by crack  
Tyson — (as in Mike Tyson) strong, knocking-down pot  
Vapor — (steamboat) favela dweller who takes the drug to the consumer  
Viajar — (to travel) to be intoxicated by a drug 
Zoeira — high 

Thanks Brazzil for the info.

Just Another Murder In Rio

It's common to hear about people being murdered nearby.  Last month a homeless guy was stabbed in the neck in Largo do Machado, a busy square I walk across with the kids at least twice a day.  Last year during carnival a young girl who lived in a squat in Lapa was murdered on the Gloria end of the Aterro do Flamengo, her body dumped near modern art museum.  That's where I jog.

Thankfully I didn't personally see either scene.  Until now I have soothed myself with the conviction that as a middle class woman whose reality is far removed from that of a homeless addict or street kid, I'm not a likely murder candidate.  I'm also neither a fraudster not exciting enough to inspire a crime of passion, so I feel pretty safe.  These murders seem completely abstract.  It doesn't mean I don't feel compassion for the victims -I think about that young girl every time I go for a run - but it's just that those sorts of things don't happen to people like me.

But then I hear about a 30 year old French guy who was murdered this weekend on rua Silveira Martins, just outside the clinic where I vaccinate my kids right here in Catete.  Apparently a 56 year old deranged crack addict randomly stabbed the victim, who was taking an ironic fag break during a Narcotics Anonymous meeting.  Now that makes me freak.  Crazies totally losing it just around the corner from my home killing Europeans in their thirties. Yikes.  How am I supposed to protect myself and my children from that?

Researching Rio's crack problem makes for scary reading.  The drug arrived here relatively late compared to Sao Paulo, allegedly because the city's drug lords decided it was so destructive that it would be bad for business in the long run.  But it's here now.  It's claimed that as many as 90% of Rio's homeless are crack addicts but that it's also an increasing vice of the 'respectable' classes.  More than half of crack users who ask for help through the public health system are middle class youngster.

It seems that it's naive of me, then, to think in terms of us and them.  The risks of living in Rio are not limited to the 'marginais'. The middle classes are just as much a part of this complicated equation. Whether they are crack addicts or, more likely, just enjoy a spliff once in a while, they are greasing the machine that destroys the lives of many people here in this city...it's just a shame that it takes a murder of 'someone like us' to make us realise that we all have blood on our hands.

Sunday Snap - Holy Guarana

Spotted at the Feira de São Cristóvão, Jesus' own brand of Guaraná - so that was his secret!  Guaraná is a perfumed, sweet fizzy drink made from the Guaraná plant, a natural stimulant which is indigenous to Brazil.  The drink is hugely popular here, normally under the Antartica brand, but the Jesus brand is owned by soda Gods Coca Cola.  Have a happy Sunday!

What No Beach? Phew for Playgrounds in Rio

Little Bear Scoots the 'real roads' in Peter Pan Park

So, it's not beach season anymore here.  Not because it isn't still hot and sunny here in Rio, but because my patience for sand in every nook and cranny of the house has been exasperated.  We're back to weekend plan B - the parks and playgrounds routine.  I thought I'd share our top three (or so).

Playgrounds in Rio are pretty underwhelming.  Antiquated designs for metal, finger-chopping slides and roundabouts, the likes of which I haven't seen since my own childhood, are still the norm.  There are no fences around the playgrounds or swings so you have to be aware at all times about where your kids are.  That bouncy ground covering I've seen elsewhere also hasn't been adopted here so usually you have sand under the toys.  It's a soft but grubby landing, and probably the reason we have to 'de-worm' our kids on a regular basis.  Despite this, there are a few gems.

Our default stomping ground, because it's so close to home, is the leafy park behind the Palacio de Catete.  It's a gorgeous, tranquil park with sculptures, fountains, lakes, a grotto and a playground in the shade of the tall, knotted-trunk figueira trees.  We throw broken biscuits at the ducks and geese, watch the elegant white egrets catch fish, laugh at the little mico monkeys and play on the swings and climbing frames.  Fenced on two sides by the park wall, the playground feels relatively 'safe'.  There's a cafe by the art-house cinema that sells great pao de queijo and ice lollies.  The only drawback is that you can't play with balls or ride bikes or go on the grass anywhere in the park.

If we are in the mood for bikes and scooters, we usually go to the Aterro de Flamengo, the most amazing park that runs the length of the beach from the domestic airport, past the Marina in Gloria to the beginning of the Botafogo bay.  It deserves a post of its own so I won't dwell here, but we have another option for bikes which is also really fun:  Parque Peter Pan is a tiny park that takes up a block of space in Copacabana where Rua Francisco Sá meets Raul Pompéia.  It's been around since Mr Becoming was a lad and has real roads with road signs and traffic lights which makes little cyclists feel very grown up.  It also has big stone castles and toadstool-shaped kiddie loos.  Love it.

Finally there's the obvious one - the children's playground in the Jardim Botanico.  It's to be avoided on sunny weekends when it is over-run with birthday parties, but during the week or on cloudy days it is magic.  Surrounded by rain forest, you can sometimes see quite big monkeys playing in the trees outside the playground while the kids monkey around on their own toys in a safe, walled-off area.  The snack bar is right beside the playground and there are, in typically hygienic Brazilian style, bathroom facilities that extend to a shower where you can clean your kids before you leave the park.

I should think that in a couple of weeks I'll be exasperated with pushing my kids on the swings and by then it really will be too cool for the beach...plan C is the indoor activities in Rio itinerary.  Coming to a blog post near you soon.

The Joke That Wasn't: My Royal Wedding

My Princess Bling

About six weeks ago, before I knew what time the ceremony would start, I started planning a Royal Wedding party.  With my mother dispatched to the tourist shop at Windsor castle to pick up some commemorative memorabilia and union jack bunting, the wheels of the metaphorical horse-drawn carriage were put in motion.  When it dawned on me (pun intented) that my party would have to start at 6am - due to the time-difference between London and Rio - I remained resolute.  There was no turning back.

I realised pretty quickly that I was going to have to do some serious cramming to get my kids up to speed on the British monarchy, since it seemed likely that they would be the sole attendees.  For the last week we have been cutting out pictures of royalty and weddings to make a huge wall-frieze, and dressing up in our crowns and tiaras.  The realisation that queens, princes and princesses actually do definitively 'exist' (as opposed to superheroes, sea monsters, mermaids and God) was hugely exciting for Little Bear, who is now a staunch royalist with a cute crush on Princess Diana.

By Monday I accepted that my package of wedding kitsch was lost in the post and would never going to arrive, so I had to source my own.  In downtown's Saara district I found heart-shaped balloons in red, white and blue as well as crowns and tiaras, and in Largo de Machado I found rip-off royal sapphire engagement rings for a bargain R$7.   I even had a Blue Peter moment and hand-crafted a Union Jack cushion cover to lend the TV room a patriotic tone.  The final seams were finished at midnight last night.

As I was setting up my 'party', I thought I was being ironic.  It was all just a good laugh.  An excuse for a cup of Earl Grey in the bone china set, a bacon sandwich and some bucks fizz, wearing my blue sapphire engagement ring and a tiara.  Just me and the kids.  But then just before heading to bed I blew up the heart shaped balloons, and they started systematically bursting in my face at point blank range.  My eyes started watering copiously from the shock of the balloon-shrapnel whacking into them and wouldn't stop.  After a while I began to wonder if I wasn't actually weeping for real, from the heart.  How terribly un-British. 

This morning, 6am, the doorbell.  Hurrah!  A British girlfriend actually came to my party! The kids were still in bed so we snuck into the decked-out TV room and completely lost ourselves in the proceedings.  I was completely surprised at how moved I was at the whole thing and how hard it was to keep it together.   There was no chance of a singalong to the hymns without a breakdown.  I couldn't really put my finger on what I was feeling, but it appears that somewhere buried deep inside me there is something approaching patriotic sentiment!  It is the first time I remember being genuinely proud and excited to be British, and sincerely sad not to be there.

In the end the only joke was that of the lost package, which was of course delivered at 6pm this evening!  Seriously.

President Obama I Know How You Feel

I am not Chinese.  Neither genetically nor culturally the teeniest weeniest bit.  I've been sewing a Union Jack tea-cosy today for goodness sake!  And yet my Brazilian ID card insists that I'm from the People's Republic In China.  It's for the same reason that Americans are getting their knickers in a twist about exactly where President Obama was born.  The concept that place of birth dictates nationality is shared by Brazilians too.  For me, who happened to be born in Hong Kong (which at the time was a British Territory) it's a totally bizarre concept.

For Brits, it's all about where your parents and your grandparents were born.  With my father and paternal grandfather born outside of the UK (but still in British colonies), I get citizenship by the skin of my teeth.  My own children got Brazilian passports automatically (since they were born here) and their British ones by descent, mostly due to the fact that my  "Brazilian" husband was born to a British mum, in London.  If my kids in turn have their children outside of the UK,  I believe that my grand children might not get British passports, at least not down our 'line', since British citizenship by descent only stretches to one generation born abroad.

It makes me wonder what would happen to a baby if it were born in another country that does not grant automatic citizenship based on birth (Germany for instance) to British parents who, due to a random set of birth circumstances, can't pass on British nationality.  Anyone know? 

Turns out that understanding citizenship and nationality is so complex that speaking Chinese might have helped after all...

"They Say That..."

I Say We All Lighten Up A Bit

If I had a Real for every time an expat in Brazil started a sentence with "They say that..." I’d be living in a penthouse in Alto Leblon.

Usually the words precede some health or safety recommendation and “They” refers to the experts from ‘developed’ nations on whatever topic is being discussed.  For example: “They say that cot-bed bars should be so many centimeters apart” or “They say that you should wear SPF 60 at all times” or  “They say you shouldn’t co-sleep with your child in case you smother it”. 

Knowing what “They” have to say about everything is the curse of being an English speaker.  More often than not the health and safety advice is completely at odds with reality in Brazil and only serves to turn you into a neurotic worrier and total bore who sees fault in everything.  

“They” sent me a childcare newsletter the other day, recommending that the under-fives should not take swimming lessons. It makes both the children and their parents complacent around water, lulled into a false sense of security because the child can (or thinks it can) swim.  If a young child does do a swimming class, they must have one-on-one adult supervision, wear a floaty, and never ever be submerged, even for a second.  (The last point was laid on thick; something about death but I can't remember what exactly.)  

Needless to say, my two and four year olds take swimming lessons here in Rio.  Neither wears a floaty and both spend most of the forty minutes underwater.   Today there was one teacher for four toddlers and the lifeguard only had to jump in once!  “They” would not have been impressed. 

You would think that there would be global consensus on what is considered ‘safe’, but I’ve come to realize that health and safety concerns are completely cultural.  Behaviour considered irresponsible or high-risk in one country is totally socially acceptable in another.  

Take smoking while pregnant;  I thought this was a universal no-no…until I made French girlfriends.  Almost all of them smoke and most continue to do so while pregnant, and it seems to be perfectly accepted.  (Accuse me of making sweeping generalizations if you dare, but take it from someone who has lunched with three pregnant French friends who asked the waiter if they could move to an outdoor table so they could light up.) 

Here in Brazil you see many other things, in addition to the swimming lessons, that “They” would condemn:  The habit of entire families in the countryside lounging on the roadside, not at the roadside, but on the tarmac itself, usually around blind corners, so cars have to swerve quickly to avoid them; the practice of undressing newborn babies so they can enjoy naked sunbathing sessions in the direct sunlight; the norm of putting young children in cars without car seats (this has only just become illegal but the law is still widely ignored).

And Brazil has its very own 'They' with a whole different set of things to opine about:  “They say you will catch pneumonia if you walk on tiles barefoot” or “They say that fresh cows milk is too strong for children to drink” or “They say that you can’t birth a 4kg baby without a c-section”...

They also say that at some point you have to stop obsessing about what others decree we should and shouldn't do, trust in our own good sense and live a little.

Expats Living In Brazil: Some More Equal Than Others

Yeah, but can they speak Portuguese?

There's a much larger international expatriate circle here in Rio than I ever expected, and it ever-increases along with the region's oil and gas industry, and upcoming events like The World Cup and Olympic Games.

Beyond the obvious (and many) different nationalities, foreign families in Rio fall into one of two sub-tribes depending on whether they have been sent here by their employer or chosen to live here off their own backs.  The former (corporate expats) spend a few years in the city, and their entire existence is bankrolled by the company.  The latter (local expats) are usually in a relationship with a native, live on the local economy, and may stick around for the rest of their lives.  (That's me.)

Both tribes co-exist peacefully, but not completely without envy.  The locals covet the fancy free perks of the corporate expats, who in turn wish they had the family network and Portuguese speaking abilities of friends married to Brazilians.  The truth is that between the corporate and local expat, the experience of life in Rio can be different in many ways, from where they live to how they educate their children to name just two.

Education
The corporate expat will most likely send their child to an International school, let's say The British School, at huge expense to their company.  In return for this investment their children will unlearn their English grammar, acquire an American accent (oh horror) and make friends with the spawn of Rio's A-listers (double horror).  In contrast, locals will claim they would NEVER send their child to such a school, even if they could afford the R$17,000 per child enrollment fee.  Dismayed that bonafide Brits that can actually speak, like, proper, don't get a discount, they will make do with a local Brazilian school where their children will reportedly not pay sufficient attention in English class, duh.

Living
The newly-arrived corporate expat will spend months and months in a service hotel while they search in vain for a flat.  They won't be able to find ANYTHING that meets their requirements on their enormous allowance.  When they do finally find the place, it will fall through a million times, and they will write facebook-status-update-essays bitching about Brazil's bureaucratic quirks.  They will eventually install themselves in Leblon, probably with a sea view, in a to-die-for pad.  In contrast, the local will live at the wrong end of town, in Flamengo or Laranjeiras (or, God Forbid, Niteroi) in diminutive flats with views of...other flats. 

The list could go on, but I think you get the point.  In the end though, there are probably more things that bind the international community than divide it.  For instance, it is unanimously agreed that Brazil is overpriced, the service in Rio slow and the bras badly fitting, and nothing brings foreigners together more than a conversation about how many passports their children have, how many languages they can speak, and how many wonderfully interesting countries they have resided prior to Brazil.

Got it Maid

Not entirely true; I like to cook...if someone else preps and clears up

This month I got my life back.   It's been in a state of suspended animation for ages, while I attend to visiting in-laws, end of year festivities, carnival, sick children and school holidays.  The last in the line of things to stand between me and my ‘me time’ was my maid.  She was hospitalized for a week and almost died.  If it was painful for her, it was for me too, stuck at home doing chores instead of indulging my yoga, ballet and lunch habits.  Thank God she came back.

I’ve come to rely heavily on this woman who is neither family nor friend, who I pay to be nice to my children, cook my food and sort my dirty laundry.  The relationship between dona (me) and empregada (maid) is a tricky one, and by far the most difficult thing I’ve had to adapt to since I arrived in Brazil.  For many Brazilians it’s taken for granted that you will have at least a cleaning lady, if not a full-time maid, nanny, cook and/or driver.   It’s not just the super rich either; I finally decided it was socially acceptable when my hairdresser told me my husband must be very mean if we don't have one.

Having another adult in your household who knows all your business takes some getting used to.  You can’t hide anything from them. I found out about a friend's adulterous affair via a maid we shared.  Another friend of mine was mortally embarrassed when her maid salvaged a pair of trousers that had been binned after an impatient bowel incident during stomach flu.  The maid just scrubbed the crap off them and put them back in her closet without saying a thing.  Just today, my maid asked me 'Dona Natasha, do you pick the skin on your feet?'.  Bad habits have no hiding place.

In return, it's difficult not to get involved in the life of a woman who spends more time in my home than her own.  Like most foreigners, I haven’t mastered the Brazilian art of distancing them from their staff that enables them to regard them as domestic appliances, to have no qualms about what they ask of them, how much they pay them or how happy they might be.   I was once warned by a friend never to engage a maid in a personal conversation, but I have a hard time with boundaries.  And that’s how I end up knowing a lot, too much, about Lu.

She has absolutely no concept that there might be some things I don't want to know and I don’t know how to tell her to stop.  Showing me photos of the house she’s building and her cute baby nephew is fine, but photos of her large body in a tiny bikini doing sexy poses is quite another.  Then there’s the whole reason that she nearly died in hospital.   She already has a teenage son, but she doesn’t use contraception (again, did she really need to share that info?) so no surprises what happened.  She had  told me she thought she might be pregnant, but I was slightly taken aback when she informed me that she was going to see a woman after work to ‘resolve the problem’, hence the near death thing, of an infection, because it all went badly.

When she told me what she planned to do (and how), my first instinct was to slip her the extra R$300 it was going to cost to go to a clinic and have a real doctor perform the procedure on the sly.   A quick call to Mr B, who is a natural when it comes to  boundaries, brought me to my senses.  Paying for your maid to have an abortion doesn’t look too great if you end up in a court.  And so I just wished her luck, gave her money for the 2 hour bus journey home and wished she would learn how to lie to me.

And so our life as intimate strangers goes on...

Spread The News Sunday: You Can Get Dengue Fever Too

Aesdes aegypti Mosquito

Since it's Sunday I thought I'd spread some news, or at least some information that you should share with others because everyone should know.  Today's sermon is about Dengue Fever since it seems that its season has arrived, with many reports in the news recently about high incidence of the disease in some areas of Rio state.

Dengue is a tropical disease mostly carried by one type of mosquito, the black and white striped Aedes aegypti mosquito. The symptoms are mostly flu-like, with high fevers, joint ache and rashes.  Most people have relatively mild symptoms but it can get really nasty and be fatal, especially for children.  Every individual - that means you too - has to take responsibility for ensuring they are doing their bit to combat the spread of the disease.

The mosquitoes breed in stagnant pools of water.  If you live in a flat this might be around your potted plants or in empty containers on your terrace.  In a garden there are a million different potential breeding pools.   In my place I found two larvae in the tadpole tank this week.  I used to cover it with a net to stop the mozzies getting in, but then one of the newly morphed frogs got tangled up in in and died.  Anyway, I thought the remaining tadpole would enjoy some insect larvae for breakfast but in fact they got bigger by the day without being eaten so I eventually fished them out and killed them.`They look like little wiggly worms.

What you need to do is simple; get rid of those stagnant pools and puddles.  The plates under potted plants should be scrubbed clean once a week, or you can put sand in them.  Containers outside should be placed face down.  If you see an obvious dengue threat on a neighbour's property, an abandoned pool or an uncovered water tank, you should report it to the authorities.  You can find the number and other dengue information  (in Portuguese) on the Rio Contra Dengue site. 

Finally, protect yourself from bites.  I don't think you need to tell you how, but let's just say a big Amen to Off Spray.
 
(Image Sanofi Pasteur 2006)

You know you have Brazilian kids when...

Kids at Museu da Republica, Catete

1. They know their way around dead cow: At four years old, Little Bear has hung out so much at traditional Brazilian barbecued meat restaurants (churrascarias) that he already knows the names for different cuts of beef.  Yesterday he was requesting fraldinha (flank steak) while snubbing the noble picanha (rump) or fatty cupim  (hump). Along the same lines, he also eats whole chicken hearts like only Brazilian children can.
2. They don't have vocabulary for winter garments: My children have pretty much no idea what gloves, scarves or woolly hats are, let alone winter jackets.  As summer draws to an end here it's actually become cool enough to wear clothes again, and the other day Little Bear asked excitedly if he could put on some 'long shorts''.   A year in Rio has robbed him of the words 'trousers' and 'jeans'
3. They actually ask to brush their teeth and wash their hands: You can't get a cleaner child than a Brazilian one.  Kids in the playground barely get a chance to play between nose-wipes, hand washes and getting dirt dusted off them.  This is a country where you commonly have four bathrooms in a two bedroom flat,  everyone takes their toothbrush to work so they can brush after lunch, and many people shower at least twice a day. Well, my kids have picked up the clean bug from their dad. We have to brush their teeth approximately every five minutes and they are meticulous about hand washing after going to the loo.  I shouldn't complain but it's just so very foreign.
4. They drink coffee and tea:  I was shocked to hear about friends' children being offered milky coffee as a drink at their nursery.  My kids aren't exposed to that, but they are offered mate, a caffeinated ice-tea drink, on a regular basis.  I didn't think they liked it, but according to Little Dove's teacher, on Friday she drank litres of the stuff.  As for Little Bear, this weekend he has decided that milky coffee is delicious and has been drinking all the dregs of Mr B's lattes.
5. They play at valet parking:  If my children are playing at driving in a toy car, one drives up to the other, gets out, gives them the key and goes into an imaginary restaurant, allowing the other sibling to park the car.  Spoilt brats I know, but it's just a reflection of the fact that here in Brazil - and especially in Sao Paulo - you get valet parking everywhere.  When I was a kid, I would dress myself and my brother in rags and we would play 'paupers' by sitting in the corridor begging money from passing parents.  Clearly my children have bigger aspirations.

I survived Rio's Carnaval Parade

Just can't stop moving my feet..

Been there.  Done that.  Bought the feathers.

It was completely and utterly insane and I loved it.  After two consecutive nights at the Sambodrome, I can't get the sound of drums and singing out of my head, and I do believe my feet keep breaking into something approaching samba steps.  I think I've been brainwashed.

For those that don't know, the most famous of parades, held on the Sunday and Monday nights before Mardi Gras, sees the top twelve Rio samba schools compete to be crowned champions.  The samba schools here are like football teams, with team colours, flags and passionate supporters.  Every year they pick a theme for their parade, write a new song and create an hour long spectacle of floats and dancing girls (and guys and everything in-between) in crazy costumes doing choreography to the beats of the incredible bateria.  The whole show lasts all night, from 9pm until around the 5am next day, so you can cut me some slack on the typos and spelling mistakes today - I'm totally dead, even though I only lasted four schools on Saturday and three last night.

On Sunday night I sat in an arquibancada, a large terrace of steep concrete steps, where you hustle for a space, and sit amongst thousands of other people.  From up there you have a great view of the parade as a whole, although you don't see the details unless you take binoculars, and don't get great pictures unless you have a super zoom lens.  (By 'details', by the way, I don't mean bare boobs.  It used to be popular for bare breasted ladies to dance at carnival, but it has fallen out of fashion.  I only counted two topless girls, and some nipple outfits.) 

Salgueiro's un-topless girls

I sat next to a guy who hadn't missed a carnival parade in forty years, so he helped me understand how it all works.  He pointed out the judging boxes, in front of which the schools do extra show-off stuff (so it's good to be near one of those).  They are judged for their song, band, dancing, costumes, story-telling and a couple of other things that escape my foggy brain.  He also showed me where to find the words to each of the songs so I could singalong.  I had actually bought the Sambas de Enredo CD a few weeks ago, with the intention of learning the songs before the night, but forgot about it.  By the end of the processions I pretty much had the chorus down anyway - after all, you hear the same song again and again for over an hour.

King Kong's Banana Girl

Last night was a different experience, in the camarote - private box - for one of the samba schools, Grande Rio, which was great because it allowed us to get closer to the action. As is standard for these areas, invitees are issued with a hideous, extra-large nylon t-shirt that features the school's theme illustration and sponsor logos.  It is mandatory to wear these, so the big thing is to customize them to make them wearable.  I seriously misjudged the effort most girls would put into this, and simply cut a hole out of one shoulder and cinched the waist at the back with a kilt pin.  When I got there I was surrounded by silicone breasted sambistas in strapless dresses (which they call here tomara que caia - hope it falls!) and strappy halterneck numbers covered in sequins, gold brocade, jewels, rosettes and chains.   Next time I'll know better...or will just stick to the "cheap" seats, which had a better vibe anyway, even if they didn't have a free bar and catering!

Some images of the event will never leave me:  The opening choreography of Unidos da Tijuca was incredible; a group of ghastly characters dancing around taking off their heads, holding them under their arms and then putting them back on again.  The school seemed to excel in the crowd-pleasing stunt, with incredible floats depicting the movies Avatar, Transformers and Jaws, the latter of which featured a swimming pool with a guy swimming that was then eaten alive by a mechanical shark.

Mocidade's Show Stoppers

Another school, Salgueiro, also chose a cinematographic scene and had a huge float of King Kong holding a nearly naked woman painted yellow like a banana.  Well, she has to be seen to be believed.  If I thought there was a lot of silicone implants around, well she won the prize hands down...or should I say bottom out.  I can't get her rather grotesque image out of my head.

However, my absolutely favorite moment of the whole thing was the Mocidade float that featured only big chubby but very sexy dancers gyrating in their plain white undies.  The irony brought tears to my eyes - in a parade all about out-doing the next with a killer body, fancy footwork, crazy costumes and high-tech gadgets,  the most innovative, attention grabbing thing you can do is to show a bunch or normal looking people having a great time.  I'm signing up for that float next year!

Favela. Chic?

Rafael, our guide in the favela

I learned the word favela when I lived in Paris.  One of our local haunts was Favela Chic, a Brazilian restaurant-come-night-club where we would get drunk on caipirinhas and then get up on the table and go crazy to Brazilian soul, funk, rock and samba.  It would get so hot they would spray us all with soda water from the bar.  A Brazilian friend of my husband's came to stay with us once and went there every single night.  Sod the snooty Parisian bars and bistrots - he wanted some good Brazilian fun the likes of which, ironically, he didn't find in Brazil.  Oh, those were the days....

Anyway, for those that don't know, Favela means 'slum' and there are a lot of them here in Rio.  Since my Favela Chic days I have always felt that I was missing something living in my middle class appartment blocks with high ceilings and (almost) sea-views.  I've always been desperate to experience 'real' Brazil.  People just don't seem to dance on tables in Flamengo, so I've always just assumed that all the fun must be going on in the jumbled red brick ghettos into which Mr Becoming has always forbidden me to venture, for good reasons.

In general, favelas are dangerous places.  Many of them are run by drug gangs and the normal rules of the city do not apply there.   They are the cauldron in which horror stories brew.  I watch the news.  I've seen Cidade de Deus and Tropa de Elite.  These media images - whether fictional or true - helped turn the "favela" into a big scary monster in my mind; but the truth is that they are where a huge percentage (I've seen estimates from 19% - 35%) of the city's population call home. 

Anyway, after five years of living in Brazil, I visited a favela for the first time this week.  I took the free, ten minute ride on the funicular railway to the top of Dona Marta (also confusingly called Santa Marta) in Botafogo.  The favela was the first in the city to be 'pacified' and is home to the headquarters of the UPP, Rio's pacifying police force.  As such, it's considered a safe place to visit and they have even erected a little tourist information booth at the bottom of the hill where you can pick up a map and arrange for a local guide to show you around.

Just Another Boringly Splendid View in Rio

There are a few points of interest in the community.  Foremost is the incredible view that is just a short walk from the top station, of the entire Enseada de Botafogo.  I know, yawn, yet another great view in Rio, but believe me, it's classic postcard stuff.  The main reason I wanted to go up there, however, was to see the Michael Jackson area.  The pop god filmed the video for 'They Don't Really Care About Us' there and in his honour they erected a pretty nasty bronze statue of him, and a mosaic wall that depicts him as he must have appeared on a Brazilian postage stamp.  I'm such a fan.  It rocked.

I can't deny, though, that the most fascinating part of the visit was walking down the warren of staircases and narrow alleys that lead back to the bottom of the hill.  We were guided by Rafael, a kid who just appeared and, without comment or acknowledgment, appointed himself our guide.  We passed hundreds of red brick and wooden homes piled on top of one another, from which sounds of daily novelas and chores emanated.  Some homes seemed quite substantial. Others, balanced precariously on rotten wood stilts, defied belief.  Doors left ajar offered split-second snapshots of normal life inside tiny but meticulously-kept homes, but the space between them and the concrete steps  was deep with rubbish.

I also can't deny that I was absolutely terrified.  Alley ways narrowed and darkened.  We passed a group of male youths just hanging.  My legs were shaking - mostly from staircase fatigue  but also from fear.  I was definitely struggling against the scary monster in my head and having doubts about our little guide...was he leading us to trouble?  Of course it was just in my head.  The 'threatening' youths were just having a drink at a little tiny bar hidden under a house, and acknowledged us with friendly grins as we went passed.  Finally, the quality of light changed, and we emerged from the claustrophobic human warren into a square whose surrounding buildings have been painted in rainbow colours that make the place glow.  I relaxed when I saw some UPP guys and we even sat and had a beer and watched life go by for a while.

It's hopefull to think how the quality of life for people in Dona Marta has improved since the favela was pacified and the community has been integrated into 'normal' city life, but going there opened my eyes to the poor conditions in which some people here live.  I can't imagine what it must be like to live in a non pacified community.  Certainly, there is nothing 'chic' about it, and probably not that much dancing on tables either.  I shall make do with shaking my booty on the table at home - I'm suddenly more appreciative of my high ceilings; at least I won't bump my head.  Let's dance, MJ!

 

 

Love You Michael!