To read the previous day’s (8) adventures, click here
Holidays are times of relaxation and rejuvenation.
Holidays are times of relaxation and rejuvenation.
Holidays are times of relaxation and rejuvenation.
So clearly I got my flights mixed up and have arrived in Sister Rios Summer Bootcamp for Fat Children. Because it is yet another early morning and with no time for breakfast.
I’ve agreed to meet with the fierce foursome for a Hike up the coveted Two Brothers Hiking range. Normally the idea of climbing two brothers would have me excited, but this pair is known for being a hard taskmaster.
I tumble out of my bunk bed, make sure that Melissa hasn’t died in her sleep from blood loss or septic toes or from stealing someone else’s true love (See day before for details), and change into hiking clothes.
As I head to the rendezvous point to meet the ferocious four plus the two German fellows from yesterday, I don’t find myself too worried about the impending journey. I’m a relatively fit young lad who had gone on hikes numerous times. Most of them after a night out when I was just brave/intoxicated enough to agree to a sunrise hike. I haven’t thrown up / thrown myself off a precipice yet so the odds were that I would survive this one.
I hadn’t counted on trying to survive the trek to the base of the mountain range.
After meeting up and exchanging pleasantries over a breakfast of Acai smoothies (delicious super berries) and much-needed coffee (a risky venture before trekking up an area with no public bathrooms, but a necessary one) we walked to the entrance of one of Rio’s most iconic features; a favela.
Dictionary term: (n) a Brazilian shack or shanty town; a slum.
Not one of Rio’s most beautiful areas, but full of character. These neighbourhoods are based further up the mountains than the rest of the city and were all that currently stood between us and where we needed to be. We had to arrange with a random group of men to ride up through the favela on motorbikes up to the base of the Two Brothers hiking range.
I have never watched a full Too Fast and So Furious Movie but I now know what Vin Diesel’s girlfriend feels like after twisting through the narrow streets, holding onto a stranger’s back tightly (against his protests), and narrowly avoiding deadly crashes with several cars, motorbikes and gangs of children. With the background track of police sirens and what we all will swear on our dying day was gunfire.
Sara, in particular, seemed quite shaken and also stirred when we finished paying the men and went on our way.
“I lost sight of you guys early on when we drove through the favela and I honestly thought I was getting kidnapped. I said my prayers to God and goodbyes to my family.”
Such drama… I think. At least now we were all wide awake and ready for the journey.
As we walked up the increasingly steep path through lush vegetation and overhanging branches, I heard Cat call from the rear end of the line, “Flo! Hit us with a Jungle Fact!”
Flo, who had assumed the position of fearless leader in the forefront, called out without missing a beat, “These overhanging leaves that look like fans, were in fact used as cooling fans back in the day for Brazilian royalty. They provided comfort on hot days. However, toilet paper had not been invented yet, so they also served that function, but obviously not on repeat. Once they were tainted – so to speak – they were passed along to anyone who had fallen out of favour with the King of the land, as a harsh punishment. And that is why fresh and green leaves of this kind seen in a household are seen as signs of wealth and being-in-favour.”
We all laughed and eagerly got into the game; whoever would take over the front of the pack (a change of leadership happened usually after every water break) had to come up with a perplexing “Jungle Fact” about the surrounding flora.
“These were harvested for their dildo like appearance, to humiliate prisoners when they were slapped across the face with them. People would chant, ‘You like that huh? Huh, bitch?’ during these public events.”
“This flower is known to be a powerful stimulant for the male genitalia, making it very popular for performance struggling couples. However, it is so powerful that after a single dose the phallic tool of the male partner would keep engorging until it popped with a whistling sound. The use of these became banned after the 25th documented incident of pop-whistle-goes-the-dick.”
The forest floor rang with the sounds of juvenile laughter that day and probably contributed more to the red faces and huffing breath than the physical exertion that was required to climb the steep pathway.
We finally ascended to the pinnacle of the hike, to be greeted by a cluster of butterflies fluttering around a signal stone. Of course, I had to get a picture in with my royal fan and contingent of winged companions, and thus solidify myself with the title of Butter(fly)FaceQueen (The Winged Writer also works though right?)
The view from the top was spectacular, offering us a comely view as well as a soothing breeze to cool our hike-fevered, red and sweating faces.
The only person who looked fine was Josh, although perhaps more pale than usual. I asked him if he was alright and I received a tight smile along with an “I’m pretty sure I had three heart attacks on the way up” as a response. I can’t remember for the life of me if I even saw him huff or look disgruntled in any way; he seemed to have the facial control of an advanced android and I was pretty sure if he keeled over and passed from a heart attack it would not even register on his features. An equally terrifying and hilarious thought.
We enjoyed a light repast of snacks, peanut butter and smuggled beer with the overhead view of Rio as our backdrop. And then we packed up and struggled on jelly-like legs (and still blank faces in Josh’s case) to the bottom of the mountain range where the biker gang was waiting for our return. After seeing Cat and Sara make silent prayers to not become a statistic on this beautiful day, we climbed on board and made our way back down. Luckily it was a more calm journey than the way up, otherwise, Josh might have had an actual heart attack and I may have dirtied myself from excitement and that morning’s coffee. Below is actual footage on the way down, supplied by Morris, one of the stalwart Germans.
Back in the safe confines of the city, Sara, Cat and I decided to head to Ipanema Beach for some sun and lunch. The men decided they would head back to their apartment and relax and freshen up before meeting us later. Girls day out it is!
As the three of us strolled along the beachside, I decided I was in desperate need of a tonga, the Brazilian equivalent of a speedo. I was gay, I was young, slightly tipsy and I wanted to showcase this to all other tourists and locals, despite their dismay.
We tried a few shops on the beachfront, but with no luck on finding the style I was looking for; non-subtle chic. Cat and Sara told me there were usually vendors wandering the beach with the merchandise I was looking for, and yet on that day, they were eerily absent. “What kind of republican gay beach is this…” I mumbled under my breath.
Cat had some luck, finding a bikini vendor where she purchased sultry items of clothing for herself and her sister before declaring it time for lunch. I looked longingly at the bikini vendor, wondering if I wrapped the materials to cover all the essential bits whether it would suffice in the eyes of the law in terms of public decency. I decided it wasn’t worth the jail time and walked on to find a suitable spot for brunch.
Luckily for me, on the way to the aforementioned spot was a beachwear shop with the most darling floral tonga and within affordable pricing. Maybe a bit on the smaller side, but the only people complaining were families who were here for a devout Christian trip. And they chose poorly if they wanted to come to Rio during Carnival.
After lunch, with tongas in tow and bellies sticking out, we headed back to the beach to find a suitable spot. Flo intercepted us halfway there, sporting Cat’s sunhat and a tonga of his own. Despite this fey setup, we all agreed to head to the more heterosexual side of the beach. It seemed only fair, due to how many over-the-top gay parties we had attended thus far.
And at first, we didn’t really mind. There was beach eye-candy galore, and all the fit bodies you could lust after as a group of hags and fags. Even if there were more board shorts than tongas, it was made up to us by the stunning bodies that filled them. Add the never-ending supply of beers and cocktails from the roving beverage vendors meant we were all in high spirits and gushing forth decadent amounts of laughter.
A few hours later when Flo and I decided to take a stroll along to the gay side of the beach. A veritable fireman’s calendar of men was parading around with infinitely more energy and considerably less clothing and personal space. We were ready to kick sand in the girl’s faces when we got back.
As we were turning about to rejoin the womenfolk, I happened to hear my name called. At first, I didn’t register that it was directed towards myself, but then it occurred to me that “Bradley you old queen!” isn’t a very common Brazilian family name.
Flo and I turned to see a man named Reno who I knew from back home in Cape Town, relaxing with his partner in the warm sand. Tonga-tied from the small odds of seeing him, all I could do was giggle and smile before greeting him with a cocktail doused hug.
We all laughed a bit about the pure luck that made the four of us run into each other and got to chatting about holiday plans. I gave a quick recount of what I (and in some cases Flo) had been up to in Rio.
When I asked what he had been up to, Reno told us about a Men’s Spa he had visited and enjoyed. A “men only” club. A sauna. A gay steam room.
Flo and I were intrigued and listened with attentive ears. We spent a few more minutes chatting and catching up before breaking off the conversation and heading back.
As we walked among the warm evening sand, Flo turned to ask me if I wanted to go exploring in the aforementioned local men’s Sauna with him tonight. “I feel like getting out and seeing a different side of the city, being here on a holiday adventure and all. Josh has dinner plans with a cute guy tonight and the girls obviously won’t be let through the front door. Care to come along?”
Slightly tipsy and enjoying the idea of keeping the day’s adventures going I agreed to the night-time mission.
We rejoined the ladies amid yet another round of beers being ordered for them and fruity cocktails for the men. I noticed that in our absence Sara had made friends with a group of Congolese travellers who were enjoying the spot on the beach adjacent to ours. They had bonded over their mutual ability to speak french and were happily chatting away to the sounds of a language that loves its abundance of vowels in writing, but not speaking.
The afternoon progressed into a fun evening as the sun rolled overhead and began free-falling behind the horizon. As the sun shifted from clementine to blooming violet, we played like children in the sand, trying cartwheels and posing with the mountain range we had climbed that morning.
And like children who had been given alcohol, we were quite careless. And thus easy targets.
It was Sara who saved us. Her and her new friends who managed to yell out the warning in time (in french) to her.
Flo, Cat and I were mindlessly chatting away about some inane subject or other when we suddenly saw Sara taking off at a sprint towards a hastily retreating figure. The object of her pursuit dropped something from their hands and took off without turning to look back. As we ran to meet up with Sara we saw the dropped subject was one of the camping chairs we had rented along with the beach umbrellas from a vendor on the beach. The chair was full of our items. Clothes and bags and fanny pack galore.
Turns out, thanks to the fading light and the alcohol simmering pleasantly in our blood, we had failed to notice a man casually walk by and pick up the chair that was literally right next to our giggling trio. We would have said goodbye to our phones, wallets and clothes if Sara hadn’t made mates that were looking out for us. The helpless idiots.
After various huffings of relief along with raining down blessings upon our erstwhile watchers, we decided the beach day was done and that we should head back to the Fierce Fours apartment to get ready for the evening.
Flo had informed the girls about our plans for the Sauna, and they decided to visit the night market and catch up with Josh when his dinner date was over and if he wasn’t “indisposed” afterwards. We parted ways as we exited the beach, with Flo and I heading off to try new adventures’ in Rio’s sultry night air.
We arrived at the infamous men’s Spar, known simply as “Rio G SPA Men’s Club”.
The interior seemed clean enough, and the attendant at the front desk appropriately friendly. As we were given our towels and locker room keys we were informed that we would not pay for entrance right now, but would be timed for the duration of our stay and pay at the end. This method seemed strange to me, but I was here to ogle naked men’s bodi- I mean learn about different cultures. Strange was the name of the game.
As Flo and I found the locker room and disrobed to change into our more regionally accurate outfits – a white towel wrapped around the waist and nothing else – I got a first proper look at myself in a mirror since that morning when I woke up.
I was bloody red. Jesus The Redeemer Christ I looked like a tomato who was being tickled by his crush. Like a strawberry being told a filthy joke. Like a man who had gone on a hike this morning and spent the day drinking at the beach and had only applied sunscreen once. Like a flaming idiot.
I doubted I would be allowed into the darkrooms with my face lighting up the area like a Christmas concert.
“Forget about it, it’s not that bad,” Flo lied.
If he was the liar then why was my face on fire?
We noticed another problem then; we had been given sachets of lube and condoms as we arrived…but these towels were distinctly lacking in pockets. To counter this Flo decided to keep on his slimming fanny pack and store these essential items in there until their required time of use.
We made our way up to the bathroom region where we made the decision to “self-clean” before heading out and exploring the area. Gay men who normally assume the bottom role will understand what I mean by this. And let me tell you, there’s nothing quite like two grown men giggling to themselves in side by side cubicles as they commit the act of purging from the downstairs mouth. It was a bonding moment and made me feel less silly about the whole red-face debacle. After that, it was off to the showers.
Towels wrapped more securely around the waists, we explored the newest and darkest areas of a facet of Rio we hadn’t seen.
There were areas like the shadowland-ruled with mazes and saunas, and then the light-drenched regions such as the Bar area and gym section. Seeing as we were still reeling from a day’s worth of drinking we decided to skip the gym and enjoy some sauna and steam room time – we were on holiday after all.
We didn’t quite have the etiquette of the area down pat, as we proceeded to gossip in the South African language of Afrikaans like a pair of schoolgirls about the other occupants in the area. After ignoring some of the public “displays of affection” taking place around us, we decided to head back into the land of the light and add to the already-brimming dam of liquor our livers were still processing.
Tequila. Tequila for everybody!
As we unhinged our jaws and swallowed down shots – along with several other men copying the same movement in other parts of the Spa – we managed to make some friends. An Irish couple saw us as the only other native English speakers in the region and struck up a conversation. A tall dark-haired man called Connor and his shorter and fairer complexioned boyfriend, Seamus.
After another round of beers, our group split in half intending to do the same behind closed doors.
St. Paddy must have been smiling on me that day as I was lucky enough to get the taller and (in my opinion) better looking of the two to grant me looks of affection over the rimmed glass of tequila shots and Brazilian beer bottles.
Seamus and Flo entered the cabin parallel to Conners and mine, with both doors locking simultaneously. It was only after a few minutes later, after handling my Irish man’s lucky charms that I realised a small problem.
The solution to this problem was to stand on the cabin’s bed and look over the wall dividing the cabins and grab Flo’s attention.
Flo and Seamus had been…speedier in their methods of affection and as such my call to attention had both of them stop facing the same direction and direct their gaze upward. While still connected.
“Uhm Flo…could you pass me a condom and some lube please?”
Flo – without missing a beat or removing himself – reached over into his discarded fanny pack and removed an unwrapped condom and a little silver packet and tossed both up to me. I would definitely write him a recommendation letter advocating his multi-task and focus abilities for any future employers. If he ever thought to ask.
Safe and responsible, the gentle Irish giant and I could get to work.
A short time later (but not too short – it was a perfectly reasonable and normal short amount of time) later, we exited the cubicle, congratulating each other for a stellar performance. We exchanged numbers and made plans to meet up again for brunch.
Some stereotypes exist for a reason.
Manoeuvring my way through a brigade of American daddies who showed visible disappointment that I wasn’t Brazilian and could speak perfectly intelligible English (albeit through a slightly drunk accent), I found Flo chilling out on one of the workout machines in the home gym. We joked animately about our separate experiences. And after some tipsy chats and elbowing comments, we decided there had been a decent amount of fun and thus the night at the Spa was ready to come to a close.
We changed and went to the reception to pay our bill. We raised our eyebrows at the price but realised we hadn’t kept track of the time or how many drinks we had consumed from our bar tab and decided not to argue. We knew we would be subjected to the Tourist Tax Trap more than once on this trip anyway.
As we walked I noticed Flo was stumbling more than usual and got a good look at him.
The man was sloshed. The combination of sun, beach, all-day drinking and the day’s physical exertions (as well as the nights) meant that we were two messy drunks wandering the streets of Rio way past a respectable bedtime.
We messaged the girls (and Josh) that perhaps we would try to meet them out afterwards. It was currently around 11 PM so we came to the conclusion that we needed some food and perhaps a little nap before we would join them clubbing anywhere. Luckily nearby was a 24-hour cafe area that sold cuisines that by day would be considered average, but during the nighttime were transfigured into the tastiest toasties and burgers I’ve ever had the pleasure of devouring.
Satiated with full stomachs and a day of adventures, we headed back to the Fierce Fours apartment.
I swear we intended to just nap for a little bit and join the others out on the town again. It was truly and honestly on the agenda.
A wake-up call blared at around 2AM in the form of loud banging on the front door. Flo and I had solidly passed out in his bed, and I was the only one roused awake by the cacophony of the remaining three members of the household.
I got up to let in a giggling mess of drunk laughter and rambunctious gestures. We stayed up chatting for a short bit before everyone retired to their rooms. I considered heading back to my hostel but the door to Flo’s room was still open, along with a warm space in the bed.
I chose to have the first cuddle session of my entire trip instead. And fell into a deep and comfortable sleep.
What a lovely experience. If lockdown has taught us anything, it’s that we need experiences like these to draw on in times of boredom and routine.