To read the previous day’s (7) adventures, click here
Oh god no.
I have to get up early again, and just when I thought I was past this stage in my life. This feels akin to being a child and dad is going through his religious phase again; hungover and not in the mood to see a Church…albeit in South America.
However, I made a promise and I’m sticking to it.
I meet up with the tour bus outside the hostel and discover to my linguistic delight that I’m the only native English speaker. I’m accompanied by a group of friendly Argentinians and a pinch-faced couple from China – the Zhou’s. The tour starts in rapid Spanish before Mrs Zhou holds up a bony finger and curtly says “English”.
Seems rude, but I’m grateful since I was only pretending to nod along in understanding. She has now become my Fairy-Tiger-Mother-in-law. The tour guide reluctantly repeats his words in both languages and balance is restored.
We head off to our first stop; the glorious and iconic Christ the Redeemer statue. Hopefully a little bit less judgy than his pamphlet self, but I make sure to pack my Hail Mary beads – stiff from disuse – alongside a pocket bible in case he attempts a pop quiz.
Luckily he turned out cool, but pushy on wanting a hug. Seems there’s a friendly guy beneath that cold exterior. The views were heavenly in their own right – Weird that he insists on staying so close to his dad though.
Next, we piled onto the bus again and made our way to the Maracanã stadium – not to be confused with the Macarena stadium.
Tourist tip; don’t ask about / perform the macarena, you’ll be mocked without mercy.
As we arrived we were shown the outside area where there was also a statue of a man in weather-beaten bronze, holding up a trophy in apparent triumph. According to the tour guide, his name is Hilderaldo Luiz Bellini (weird name for a statue) and he was famous for being the first Captain of the Brazilian national soccer team to win the World Cup in 1958 (very impressive for a statue).
After winning the match he went on to hold the trophy up in the air, resulting in everyone emulating this action since that day – And this was outstanding enough to get him a statue apparently.
Brazilians are pretty easy to impress. After taking some pictures with him and carving my number on his pocket we were off to our next stop; The steps of Escadaria Selarón.
Also known as the Selaron Steps, these are world-famous levels created by the artist Jorge Selaron. He was actually Chilean-based but apparently had a raging hardon for the Brazilian people. And who could blame him?
The steps were a gorgeous vermilion and steep enough to cause my face to reach a similar state.
After this stage, the entire tour group stood together at the top steps feeling the same strong emotion as we looked over beautiful of the city; debilitating hunger.
It was lunchtime after all.
Part of the tour included a package deal to a Brazilian buffet not too far from the steps. We piled our plates high with delicious meats, crisp salads and friendly conversation. I chatted to the Argentinians about their country and procured some tips for my future travels there.
Stomachs sated and packed with perfectly seared meat, I was ready to turn in for an afternoon nap. However, this is considered rude to do in the pews of the Metropolitan Cathedral of Saint Sebastian, home of the Patron Saint of Rio De Janeiro.
But not of afternoon naps.
The exterior facade was something a mother couldn’t and wouldn’t love. Grey walls folded themselves into a half-assed TeePee shape with a destitute doorway, opening the way to a surprisingly homely interior designed with polychrome-stained glass and structures melded into warm-wood tones. This was probably intentionally done as a metaphor on appreciating the inner beauty of those around us, or some Oprah bullshit.
The man behind it all had an interesting story though; apparently, he’s the Patron Saint for quite a number of cities (Qormi in Malta, Acireale in Italy, Melilli in Sicily, Huelva in Spain and even Negombo in Sri Lanka… and that’s only naming a few). He was murdered by an attempted clubbing, and after surviving was shot with arrows until eventually, he decided that was quite enough and perished.
He is also apparently appropriated by the gay community – I am not even joking.
It does make sense I suppose – he had a history of clubbing and ending the night with some multiple penetrations.
After a decent amount of time, our little tour group gathered together, left the church and made our way back to the tour bus, whereupon my skin finally stopped burning.
At this stage, a good number of people were done with the tour and quickly dropped off at their homes, eventually leaving just me, a lone Argentinian woman…and the Zhou’s.
Linking arms, we made our way down the yellow brick road to our final stop; SugarLoaf mountain; one of Rio’s most famous mountainous landmarks and not a delicious bakery which you would be excused for mistaking.
To get to the summit, we had to make use of the cable cars which travelled from peak to slightly higher peak. The first hub began on a ridge entrenched by a military base – where I was almost shot. In my defence; prior experience with Brazilian men led me to believe that weapon handling was encouraged.
We made our way through the clouds above the city in our metal carriage, pulled along by horses of steel whips and groaning gears. The path upwards held a few rest-stops where we could enjoy cups of local tea, coffee and chocolates. We were enraptured by the sights of the jungle city below and by the antics of the furry monkeys around us. A particularly entertaining piece was featured by Mr Zhou, who gleefully chased a monkey with the decorum of a small child, in order to get a good picture of him. He was, in turn, chased by our exasperated tour guide, who yelped on and on about sharp teeth, tetanus shots and health disclaimers.
As we reached the Summit of SugarLoaf mountain, huddled together and admiring the overview of Brazilian Sunsets and Rio’s more prestigious neighbourhoods- I felt a buzzing in my pocket.
Sara: “Hello, miss you, dinner on top of SugarLoaf mountain tonight? We’re leaving soon, will you be able to make it there?”
I felt a small smile tug at the corners of my mouth as I typed my response over the retreating sunlight of the twilight-infused city.
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As we all stood together, reunited after two days, there was a deep sense of calm contentment. This was helped in part by the case of beers Cat and Sara had managed to rummage up for us.
And our little gang had grown – I was introduced to two German fellows – Moritz und David, two blond snack stacks.
We watched as lightning lazily arced over the distant figure of Christ the Redeemer.
From our vantage point, it almost seemed like he was goading the storm on – but as the son of the Lord, he would be above that. Right?
I did find out from Josh that the statue had lost a thumb as a by-product of the heavens fury once. I thought this was an extreme measure from his Dad until I remembered bible lessons from my youth and realised it was on par with his Old Testament phase.
As we gazed over the various fortresses and neighbourhoods that were only accessible by boat and VIP invitation, we found ourselves discussing where breathable air came from. Well, Flo did anyway.
He learned from a Netflix and Chill session with Manu that the predominant amount of oxygen we breathe in comes from the oceans and not the rain forests like we were lead to believe as small and stupid children.
Amazing what you learn from holiday booty calls. Sometime during this enlightening topic, Flo reached into his bag, pulled a perplexed expression, and removed his hand to find it covered in a sticky goo-like substance.
There was a moment of silence as we all stared it before he quietly gasped. “Oh damn, my lube bottle opened in my bag….”
The group’s laughter accompanied him all the way to the line for the cable car back into the city.
That’ll teach him to try to bring some sophisticated talk into this group dynamic.
We gathered onboard the craft designed to sail through the stars and made our descent, enjoying the serenity of the night sky, which was broken only by a group of South Africans chanting a rendition of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight”.
We were feeling oddly patriotic.
“In the Jungle, the mighty Jungle, the Lion sleeps tonight.
In the jungle the quiet jungle, the Lion Sleeps tonight.”
The lilac hazed sky darkened and faded into pitch-black waters flecked with shimmering stars.
“Near the village, the peaceful village, The Lion sleeps tonight.
Near the village the quiet village, the Lion sleeps tonight.”
Hushed breathing from other passengers begins to imitate the rustling of leaves as the rest of the group joins along in song and couples begin intertwining fingers.
“Hush my darling, don’t fear my darling, the lion sleeps tonight.
Hush my darling, don’t fear my darling, the lion sleeps tonight,”
The chorus line of “A-weem-ah-weh” washes over the group as the carriage of tin metal joins the burning light of Rio’s street lamps, indistinguishable from the stars above. An hour later, Flo and Josh have called it a night, and Sara and Cat have joined me at my hostel’s quarters to have an evening repast of caipirinhas and mojitos. We are joined by the British quarto of English girls and chat gaily and gayly long into the night sky.
Eventually, we feel some pangs of hunger and so we go in search of the elusive veggie burger that is apparently the best in town. I’d tell you the name, but I was saturated with alcohol at the time…
…but not quite as much as Melissa, who promptly walks into an upturned stone in the street and loses her flip flop. She also winces in pain but assures us she is alright.
Right up until the point we walk into the glowing pool of a streetlamp’s shine and see she has managed to rip off half a toenail and has left a trail of scarlet meandering its way from her toe to the sidewalk.
After some shrieking and hysteria, the girls manage to calm me down and Melissa assures me it doesn’t hurt as bad as it looks. I found it hard to believe, what with the spurting of blood staining her foot a bright crimson, contrasting with the lovely colour of nearby street piss and what we prayed was not human faeces.
An ideal area for an open wound.
Melissa declines a hospital visit, and after some medical attention from the other girls and moral support from myself, she is ready and on her way. And, supplemented by the blood loss, is hungrier than ever for some vegetarian burger.
We found the veggie burger place – which was closed. Luckily it’s less famous cousin was open next door so we settled for that. While placing my order, the cashier introduced himself to me as Victor.
Victor had a beautifully strong jawline and dark red hair flavoured with dark chestnut hues. He called me ‘beautiful’ and I instantly hoped he had an equally sexy last name that I wouldn’t be ashamed to use as my own.
When I returned to the table where the others were waiting, Melissa commented on how the cashier man upfront had called her beautiful and it made her night better after the incident.
I remember hoping she would bleed out, Victor the ging-minge-burger-slut would catch fire and that they would be very happy together with their stupid last name.
From this point onwards I have no recollection what happened, but I knew I had done something stupid when I woke up the next morning with a 5:45 AM alarm and a message from Sara giving me instructions on where to meet them for the early morning hike we were all doing.
Fuck.
