The Brazil Experience

In honor of the late King of Pop, please take a moment to remember THE internationally adored child molester and glove wearing tenor of the century before continuing to read.

With my holiday in Spain coming to an end and my 8:00 am flight to Rio de Janiero looming over me, I decided the best option was to pull an all nighter--a late meal followed by several bottles of wine with some travelers, a quick shower, and a dance-off at a local club that lasted until 5:30 am prefaced the endless flight across the Atlantic. But I am getting ahead of myself. Though the brief flight from Barcelona to Madrid passed without incident--most likely because I feel asleep the moment my butt hit the seat and did not rouse again until the wheels struck the runway--my next flight to Rio de Janiero would be the most memorable of my life. Smelling of booze and sweat in the airport caused a few too many people to turn and stare at me, but not nearly as many people who gawked at the gang of Hell`s Angles gathering around our gate. Wearing leather jackets from countless cities across Europe, more than 75 men from the infamous motorcycle club (read: gang) congregated by my gate. I froze. I had never seen a Hell`s Angle before. Keeping my distance, I prayed that I would be seated next to a small Asian women or an old Jewish grandmother who would not only let me use both my legroom and hers, but who would also offer me her inflight meal. This was not the case. As I settled into my seat, so too did the biggest, meanest looking HA. As I looked across the row of seats for another place to sit I noticed that I was surrounded: there were 9 in my row and another 6 in both the row behind me and in front of me. I felt like a book stuck between two bookends--except the bookends were large motorcycle riders known for violence, and I was a ballet-dancing Jewish boy from NJ. I could barely muster a whimper.

I tried to close my eyes and ignore the smell of BO emanating from the HA next to me, but he turned to me and introduced himself. Speaking first in German, followed by French and finally English, my seat mate tried to find a suitable language. I guess the look of surprise on my face coupled with the fear that oozed from my pores along with last nights drinks was not something I hid well. Our HA decided to have a little fun. He played nice, at first, but when I asked to go to the bathroom, he gave me the meanest stare I had ever seen. I shrunk into my seat only to hear both he and his buddies erupt into laughter. "I am only playing," he yelled as I inched by him (dreading the moment when I would need to return to the seat). Upon my return, he turned to me and said: lets get drunk! At which point, he got up, headed to the back of the plane, and returned with close to 10 beers and enough shots of gin to throw a frat party. He and his buddies started throwing them back. I considered my two options, and the lesser of the two evils was certainly the inevitable hang over I would experience in Rio. "L´chiam!¨" I cheered. We toasted. The moral of the story is: when a gang of killers offers you a shot, you show them what 4 years in a frat taught you about drinking.

Rio de Janiero...is dirty. It smells like piss, there are homeless people everywhere, you aren`t supposed to use the buses for fear of death, and the beautiful women that the world raves about are exceptionally good at hiding. However, the beaches are beautiful, Brazilians are extremely outgoing and kind, and they party even better than the Spaniards to the most intoxicating music. Verdict: GO to RIO, but stay in a nice hotel, avoid public transport, and guard your purse. Though Brazil is still considered part of the developing world, its currency is very strong and the prices resemble NY. This "situation" meant skipping lunch and feasting on the hostel`s all you can eat breakfast complete with papaya, mellon, jamon y queso, coffee, etc. FIlling up on complimentary breakfast is how we "avoid going over budget."

We went on a favela tour on our first full day. Using the local transport (motorcycles) to climb from the street into the heart of the favela was one of the best parts. The favela was a mixture of what I expected (City of God and personal research) and things that shocked me. The smells, sewage, trash, crowds, and level of poverty didn't surprise me, but walking by houses with cable TV and video games in what is supposed to be Brazil`s poorest area does not compute. This is the same place that Rio`s police force refuses to enter because the level of corruption caused by the drug gangs and the utter lawlessness is so extreme that executing authority is futile and in most cases a death sentence. We, however, walked around with little more than a few stares from the local kids.

The view from the favela is one of the best in the city. Though the houses are stacked on top of each other like cards in a deck, the poorest people are granted the most amazing views of downtown Rio, the water, and the mountains. More than 200,000 live in poverty in the favela we visited; more than 1/6th of Rio`s total population find themselves in some of the world`s worst slums only blocks from some of the world`s best beaches. Strange.

We found the best restaurant deal in Rio, a local place, recommended by our favela tour guide, called Brasiero. For $15US each, we ate more beef than necessary, stuffed ourselves on delicious traditional sides liked fried bananas with egg, and drank 4 beers each. After dinner, the entire restaurant spilled out into the street along with the rest of the local spots for what was essentially a college party. About 200 college-aged Brazilians walked around drinking, smoking cigarettes, and greeting each other with kisses. We stared at a few attractive groups without the courage to try communicating--this would change over the next couple of days even though our unintelligible Portuguese would not.

Visited the Christo and a beautiful beach in Prainha. Met some locals who took us dancing in Lapa to a 15 piece band until close to sunrise. Met a girl from Patagonia, whom we named Patagonia because we couldn't understand her name or about 30% of everything else she said. She turned out to be insane. We avoided her. Saw a futbol game. The underdogs (the local team) won. We joined the celebration.

Goodbye Rio, hello Pantanal (after almost two days of driving). What has been aptly titled "The Journey," began as a discussion in our hostel about the merits of a single 23 hour bus ride as opposed to two shorter bus rides (6 hours/18 hours). However, what followed was a 23 hour bus ride in moderately comfortable seats, a three hour break in the bus terminal in Campo Grande where reps for various tour companies tried to convince us that "orphenage level" conditions were really quite tolerable, a 6 hour bus ride deep into the Pantanal, and finally a 45 minute trek on the back of a pickup over dirt road. 33 hours after our departure, we collapsed on our beds only to wake up six hours later for breakfast and our first day with Pantanal tour guide Paulo.

The Pantanal tour included a whole lot of bird sightings, close encounters with caiman (lame crocodiles), and water pigs (giant rodents). I rode a horse for the first time, and galloped around mosquito infested marsh lands. I wore long sleeves and long pants everyday, and I still got eaten alive by those bloodsucking monsters.

Met some French people over dinner; when we tried to talk to them, they responded by saying, "is it really necessary to speak in English (insert haughty french accent)." Later, they insulted our music tastes, and asked us to turn down the awful music blasting from our table--we were listening to Michael Jackson in honor of his passing.

We left the Pantanal and headed for Bonito, known for its waterfalls and caves--supposedly one of the best places to snorkel. This involved another long ride, this time in the back of a small van, which spent most of the time hitting potholes on dirt roads. We were fortunate enough to spend a night in town during the annual festival honoring Saint Pedro, the patron saint of the town. There was a massive gathering at the church with very inexpensive food, dancing, and BINGO! Everyone from Bonito was there, and everyone was staring at us. We would like to think they were admiring our dashing good looks, but I must conclude that Bonito does not see too many white people.

Before leaving Bonito, we paid for what Lonely Planet calls a trip to Middle Earth and the locals simply say is THE Bonito experience. After repelling down 300 feet into a cave with minimal safety gear, we found ourselves in the Abyss. Surrounded by water and interesting rock formations, Abismo claims to have the largest under water rock formations and the biggest lake in the world. We snorkeled in 1/2 inch thick wetsuits in freezing waters, and explored stalactites that have been forming over many 100,000 years. Our cab driver to and from the cave blasted American techno. Odd, but awesome.

Another overnight bus, and we were in Iguazu, a waterfall wider than Niagara and higher than Victoria. It was absolutely incredible. The most beautiful natural phenomenon that I have ever seen.

Still to come: Buenos Aires, Mendoza, Maipu and more...