Rio de Janeiro (2 of 4)

I arrived in Rio’s busy central bus station late Thursday night. I had been travelling a long time and was feeling travel sore and extremely apprehensive. After all the reams of text I had read on Rio over the years, and the huge amount of anecdotal information that I had picked up from other travellers, I was pretty sure that within a few seconds of stepping off the bus that I would be robbed, shot, kidnapped and sold into the white slave trade – or worse, made to drink warm beer.

There is no other city to my mind that has such an anecdotal reputation as Rio and it is hard not to get sucked in sometimes and believe the stories. Perhaps this is part of the city’s allure – the better than evens chance of something terrible happening to you on which you can dine out for the rest of your days: ‘Did I tell you about the time I got attacked by a posse of mad, machete wielding maniacs in Rio?’

I took a deep breath, stepped off the bus, adjusted my sunglasses and went to look for my bag. By the time I had made my way through the crowds to the side of the bus (after having to fight past three dozen tearful families who were standing around hugging long lost offspring – I wasn’t sure if they were happy or sad that their children had returned – it was all terribly emotional in the way that only Brazilians can achieve) the wiry baggage handler already had my back-pack in his arms and was looking for its rightful owner. He lifted it onto my back with a groan and told me I was setting myself up for a very uncomfortable old age if I insisted in walking around with three tons on my back. ‘Enjoy Rio!’ he called after me as I pushed through the crowds. So far, so good.

I was feeling quite good until I realised that I hadn’t got a single real to my name and had to go to a cash point. ‘I am definitely going to be mugged now,’ I thought as I wandered around rather aimlessly looking for an ATM. Great! I found a friendly policeman (a common sight in Rio’s bus terminals) who was all gun and knobbly looking baton and I asked him where the nearest ATM was. He smiled and laughed, ‘I am bored standing here looking at all these beautiful girls, let me show you.’

On the way he gave me a potted history of Rio, a run down on the local football results and a guide to Western philosophy, which was both concise and different in its outlook. Cash safely tucked away, he led me to the taxi rank and told me it was going to be the perfect night for a cold beer. Everything in Rio eventually leads to a cold beer, and if the statistics are to be believed, woman make up the bulk of the drinking-classes. It was, after all, going to be my kind of city.

Taxis have always been a problem for me and I seem to attract deranged taxi drivers like moths to a flame. I thought: I am bound to be kidnapped now, taken on a cruise round the city to bump up the cost, taken to a favella or at least robbed and made to listen to crap cheesy Brazilian pop. It’s bound to happen, it might as well be now. Let’s get it over with.

My driver took my bags and locked them in the trunk of his battered taxi. I showed him the address and he nodded, slipped the car into gear and took off so fast I almost got whiplash (Cariocas seem unable to drive at anything less then break-neck speed – it is perhaps the most dangerous aspect of Rio). As we rushed dangerously from lane to lane the driver asked if it was my first time in Rio.

‘Yes,’ I replied nervously with one hand covering my eyes.

‘Are you in a hurry? If not we could take a cruise round the long way and see a few of the sights on the way. The price would be the same whatever,’ the driver reassured me whilst performing a turn against the rush hour traffic with only one hand on the wheel and the other making an obscene gesture to a passing girl of heart breaking loveliness.

He was good to his word, but I saw nothing of the sights he pointed out as my eyes were firmly closed in fear of an impending crash as we carved up bus after bus. The tour complete, he eased his car across four lanes of oncoming traffic, handbrake-turned into a side street and checked again the address I had given him.

‘It’s near Pao de Acucar,’ I told him, trying to sound vaguely confident as we screeched up in front of a beautifully modern, glass fronted building.

‘Here we are,’ he smiled, ‘Enjoyed the ride?’

I smiled, waited a few moments for my stomach to catch up, ‘I don’t think this is the right place, my friend told me it was in front of Pao de Acucar and I don’t see the supermarket anywhere.’

The taxi driver took a long hard look at me and burst out laughing. He lent out of the window and pointed with a chubby finger to the great craggy mountain opposite.

‘Know what that is?’ he asked almost choking with laughter.

I blushed, ‘That’s Pao de Acucar? The real one. I thought I was looking for the supermarket of the same name.’

This, the driver told me, was the funniest thing he had ever heard and he almost let me have the ride for free. Almost…

Read all four parts of Rio de Janeiro
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

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