(Original unedited image via Image: Library of Congress LC-USZ62-100442-1898)
I was chatting to a client of mine who comes from Portugal. I think we were discussing interesting aspects of Portuguese culture and the crossover (or rather difference) between the Portuguese Portuguese and the Brazilian Portuguese.
“Oh, they hate us,” she said. “The Brazilians hate the Portuguese - because of colonialism.”.
Well blow me down. I’ve done nearly 50 laps around the Sun and I didn’t know that this division existed. I mean, I should have guessed, right? Given the bad rap that colonialism has in general. But my only frame of reference regarding Brazilians is that they absolutely LOVE everything and everyone.
You see back in the very early 90’s, I went to Rio with my best friend Exotica. I was working in the travel industry at the time and in those days, when the flights weren’t full, they would put out a special offer to travel agents whereby you could fly-and-stay for a ridiculously low sum of money. If there was ever a reason to long for the 90’s again, that would be it. (OK yes, and also because of the clumpy 90’s shoes.)
For the princely price of R1000, we got a flight and a 7-night stay in Rio , in a hotel right opposite Copacabana Beach. Despite the fact that our room was the size of a postage stamp, only slightly bigger than an office cubicle, and overlooked an ugly square courtyard, we were very excited to be there.
But we were broke. AF. We’d scraped together just enough money for the trip and had allocated a very lean budget for each day. We arrived at the hotel in the evening and immediately went to find an exchange booth where we could convert our US dollar travellers cheques into Brazilian Real.
Now, as anyone from South Africa knows, our currency knocks about as much punch as a Hugh Grant vs Colin Firth fight in a Bridget Jones film. We automatically assumed that although we’d lost in the exchange between the SA Rand and US Dollar, we would become rich when we exchanged the US dollar to Brazilian Real. Because SURELY the Real wasn’t stronger than the dollar, right? Wrong.
There was a menacing mood about the streets, as we went from exchange booth to exchange booth, hoping that the bad news would change. The streets were deserted, but for thousands of swirling pieces of paper that looked like they came from a ticket-tape parade. What we didn’t know, is that Brazil had just held some kind of elections, with the uncanny result that for a brief period of time – exactly the week that Exotica and I were in Rio – their South American currency was stronger than the US dollar.
So yes, we went from poor AF to poorer than F$%K. And while it seems that this is an unusually long piece about the flailing South African Rand, the pauper state of our economic affairs was to dictate how we rolled in Rio.
We started out with stealing bread rolls. Fortunately for us, our hotel-stay included breakfast of the continental kind. This was a blessing, because instead of trying to save things like scrambled egg in our paper napkins, we made cheese rolls and slipped them into our backpacks for lunch.
But, as anyone who has ever packed a lunch knows, it never lasts until lunch time. Never. Not only did we scarf the rolls way before lunch, we were also tempted by things like churros. I’m not sure if you know this, but churros are the Food of Gods. I’m convinced the Brazilian army marches on nothing but churros and coconut water. Consequently, we not only ate our lunch early in the day, we also spent our meagre allowance on things like churros.
We had another crisis. We didn’t’ blend in. This was important because we were told to “look like locals” so that we didn’t get targeted by petty (and not so petty) thieves. I was alabaster white, but I DID have curly hair and a seriously round butt working in my favour - so small tick for looking Brazilian. Exotica had olive skin and dark hair. - so also tick for looking Brazilian. What gave us away was … our swimming costumes. Compared to the Brazilians, our swimming costumes looked like they came from the Victorian era. This had to be rectified.
Our first day’s budget was spent on the smallest pieces of lycra known to humankind. I never wore this garment again, but I did keep it for more than a decade as a token of my bravery and courage (my butt is not the kind that you generally show off.) Thank God this was before Instagram, is all I’m saying.
As a consequence, we were a) hungry b) exposed c) still hungry.
We thought that a coconut water would sustain us, but secretly we wanted to take photos of ourselves sipping on this fancy-looking fruit. It didn’t sustain us, so we went walking the streets to distract ourselves.
As any endurance window-shopper will know, this made things worse. We grew hungrier than ever. As we trawled the streets, drooling over shoes and clothes we couldn’t afford, a car with two guys drove by. Wolf whistling and beckoning us closer, they must have known enough English to say “lunch”, and we knew just enough Portuguese to say “sim.”
Before we knew it, they had parked, and we were ushered into a restaurant wearing nothing but a whisper of lycra and a sarong. (To the inventor of the sarong: Thank you - I love you.)
We ate like kings, and played a giant game of charades in order to communicate. We might have invented some Portuglish (if you hold your nose and say “fish now fish now fish now now now, it does sound a little like Portuguese.) Feeling quite heady, with serotonin once more coursing through our veins, we agreed to dinner with these two strangers. Yes. We still had no idea what they were saying, and no, we still didn’t know their names. (But we’ll call them José and Carlos, for now.)
If you are ever in doubt as to whether Guardian Angels actually exist, wonder no longer. They do exist, but they’re rather worn out from keeping Exotica and I safe throughout our teens and twenties.
At 7pm, José and Carlos arrived at our hotel. Without so much as a backwards glance, we got into their car. We drove and drove and noticed the lights of the city recede. Before long, we were driving alongside great expanses of black, which we assumed was the ocean (or mass graveyards?) There were very few lights and although we were a little on edge, truthfully, there was nowhere we could go.
We finally arrived at a restaurant and were greeted with margaritas. We’d never had one before and I have a hilarious image of Exotica running her tongue around the frosted salt emblazoned into my memory. She thought the salt was sugar, and was deeply disappointed by the lack of sweet bliss. (Exotica has a bit of a history with cocktails in general. You remember the story about Sun City?)
I have no idea what we ate, but we became firm friends with Margarita. We broke only with her company when we met her friend Caipirinha, who then became our new best friend.
After dinner, we got back in the car with what was still two absolute strangers. José, under the influence of Caipirinha, was even more animated than usual. He was a little bit like Robin Williams in Good Morning Vietnam, and a little bit Jack Nicholson in The Shining - which was both hilarious and terrifying. Despite discouragement from Carlos, José became obsessed with the idea that Exotica and I should kiss. Once more, he employed charades to explain his desire, which made the whole thing extremely comical. If I remember correctly, he pointed to the two of us, wrung the palms of his hands together and made kissing noises to get his point across. This set us off.
Anyone who knows anything about laughing will know that once you start giggling when you feel you shouldn’t, there’s no holding back the tide. Especially if you’re a little tipsy. The more José gestured, saying beijo, beijo, the more we laughed and laughed. At one point I think we mustered up a peck on the lips, but this seemed to make him even more animated, which only made the laughing matters worse.
We were dropped off at the hotel and never saw José and Carlos again. But we did get followed around by a man who wore white trousers, a panama hat and a loud. He kept turning up wherever we went. Surprisingly enough, we didn’t give these strange coincidences much thought - except to wonder where he got his outlandish shirts from.
We were also gifted with photos and promises of undying love from two Brazilian military men. Again, I have no recollection of how they tracked us down. They must have spotted us on the beach, followed us to our hotel, and then asked reception to “Call the foreign, pale girls who stick out like sore thumbs.” And wonder upon wonder, we actually went downstairs to meet them. We must have been hungry again.
One morning, Exotica had managed to get me out of bed for an early beach walk. As we strolled along, marvelling at the beautiful ocean, we came across clay bowls filled popcorn and other tasty treats. They’d been arranged like a welcoming picnic. The whole setup looked rather inviting and we chalked it down to another friendly, local custom. Exotica picked up one of the broken clay bowls – thinking it was some kind of artefact – and questioned the concierge at the hotel about its origins. Within an instant he his skin turned ashen and he said “No, no, no. You no touch. You no eat.” Once we’d removed the offensive bowl from view, he explained that the “picnic” was actually an offering set out by Macumba worshipers. I can’t tell a lie; we were a little disappointed that it wasn’t a free picnic.
The last grand display of warm Brazilian affection and friendliness that I recall from our trip to Rio, was bestowed on us by a stranger on the beach. On our last morning, Exotica and I were once more walking on the Copacabana. Deep in discussion – probably about what we were going to eat – we didn’t notice a man approaching us from the opposite direction. Just before our paths crossed, he made a noise which alerted us to his presence. Looking us straight in the eye, he pulled his little black swimming costume to one side, exposing his entire braai pack* to us. I pointed, nudged Exotica, and roared with laughter, assuming this was another friendly custom. But Exotica was firm. “Don’t laugh”, she said. “It just encourages them.”
Friendly old Brazil taught me that although the meek shall inherit the earth, the naïve shall inherit the guardian angels. So, if you arrive in Rio and the locals look happy to see you but the guardian angels don’t, just know it’s because they are utterly exhausted from looking after foolish, broke, and reckless travellers like Exotica and I.
By the Grace of God and Guardian Angels go we.
