Booze Schmooze

Wednesday 13.06.07

Day after day of great weather meant going to the beach was inevitable, and we caught the bus for a 10 minute ride to one of the most famous in the world, Ipanema. On the sand, we were soon offered beers, corn on the cob and a whole lot of random stuff we didn't want, but apparently weren't allowed to pass não off as an answer. The view all around us, of sand, sky, ocean, mountains, buildings, islands and gorgeous cariocas was of the kind to bring forth in future moments of nostalgia.

There are little bars all over Copacabana that serve rice and beans and a meat of your choice. For 6 Reals (AUS$3.50), they are pretty much the cheapest places to eat. The beer doesn't come much cheaper either, served by the longneck in big yellow cosies and shared around in table glasses, with little pork scratchings to snack on. It is also here, of course, that the neighbourhood drunks gather, sometimes asking for money to buy more booze, other times spouting off incredible epiphanies in Portuguese or falling over.

It was a similar story the next day, while waiting for a friend of Kyle's from favela Cantagalo at Copacabana beach. Our white skin acted as a vendor magnet, who attacked us in waves, trying to sell us pretty much anything except beach towels. At this time of day, half the crowd was reclining, becoming ultraviolet sponges, while the other half was watching them, each other, or even themselves to comical degrees.

We all ventured to Apoador Point, between the beaches of Copacabana and Ipanema. After a big swim, I sat on the rocks amidst barnacles, limpets and sea plants, watching the water froth and boil in front of me, creating whirlpools and waterfalls as it relentlessly attacked the land. Its a comforting fact, that no matter where one is, the same fundamental forces are at work.

Friday morning we went to the huge market above Urugaiana metro station in the centre of Rio. Fed by throngs of people, the market has become so obese that it now occupies several surrounding blocks, with permanent shops transformed into bargain bins in themed areas, perhaps with suitable names as Plastic Trophy Cul-de-Sac, or 'It fell off the back of a truck' Lane. The majority of temporary stands sold either football shirts, pirated music & DVDs or mobile phone paraphernalia.

Che Lagarto Hostels boat party occupied the Friday night time slot, and when we arrived at Marina Gloria, on Guanabara Bay not far south of the centre of Rio, everyone waiting for us on the boat were already (sea)legless. Loaded with sixty tourists and local staff from three hostels, half a tonne of meat for Churrasco, and enough Rum and Cachaça to blow the whole thing out of the water, the boat spluttered loudly into the bay.

Watched perhaps by just the stars and the odd low-flying jet aircraft, we transferred said alcohol, by way of Cuba Libre (Rum and Coke) and Capirinha, into our bloodstreams and stumbled around, but only far enough to load up on more meat or a drink refill at the back of the boat. A few, whose insides must have resembled that of hot lava lamps, were vomiting over the side, but most kept it together until we docked at 1am, ready to party the rest of the night away in Lapa.