Day 1 or Return of the Savvy Traveler!

Notes on June 19, 2009

Ok, so like the second I step off the plane onto the jetway, every single Rio airport employee is wearing a surgical mask. Everyone. In the airport, more masks, up the ramp to customs, more masks. "Am I on the set of Outbreak II starring Zach Efron and Lindsey Lohann or something?" And we are given this H1N1 symptom form to fill out what symptoms we've had in the last 10 days, because of course, we are all going to tell the truth, right? And I'm starting to get a little nervious and think: "uhhh, maybe Mom was right, maybe I should've brought a surgical mask. Am I going to die?" But later I learned that the Brazilians were wearing them to protect themselves from the Americans getting off the plane and if I'm gonna get it, I've already got it. So I'm going to live it up here in Brazil before I die.

Once you are past customs, you come down this long hallway, at the end of which are a row of booths for different taxi companies, and all 7 ladies sitting behind each of the plexi glass windows start yelling "Senora! Senora! Taxi, taxi!!!" So I pick the green booth, because I like green, and I fork over the money for the cab to the bus station, and my booth lady is kind enough to inform me that I don't have to tip the driver: "No pay more! No teep!" Ah! O'brigada nice taxi booth lady!

The taxi ride in to Rio was a bit like being in one of those gas powered race cars at the Mario Andretti speedway, zipping in and out, with motorcycles squeezing through the teensiest spaces between cars. It would have been cool if there had been a seatbelt. And then I saw my first glimpse of the favelas (slums) on either side of the highway. I am not sure there is anyway for me to write about them without sounding like a sheltered white woman, so I'll just spill my cuturally ignorant impressions. First, they were fascinating. These are not houses, or even shantys, or shacks. They are hollow clay brick ROOMS stacked on each other like duplo blocks, with corrigated metal roofs floating five feet above an open top floor, brightly colored laundry running between the stacks of houses in every crevice, half finished top stories with two walls built and the others waiting languidly and indefinitely to be finished. Kids, dogs, bicycles, futbols (soccer balls) moved around and intersected with each other in the dirt streets. And despite the debate of the cultural ethics of touring favelas, I found myself wanting to go anyway. We'll see.

It was my first opportunity to practice my Portugese, so I asked the cabbie, "Onde e O Cristo Rodentor." Everyone knows the symbol of Rio, the giant statue of Christ high on a hill above Rio, overlooking the city and the harbor and surrounding mountains. The Cabbie pointed straight ahead, but it was lost in a bank of morning fog. I'll have to wait until I get to climb it to really see it.

But now the adventure really begins: So I land at the bus station, and immediatly when I get out with my obnoxiously large luggage (I am already determined to go back to traveling light from now on), the taxi drivers start competing for your business. But I had a mission: to buy a bus ticket to Sao Joao de Rei, my first destination in the colonial mining state of Minas Gerais (General Mines). I approached the first window I saw and inquired, "Passage para Sao Joao por favor," and I caught just enough of what he was saying to know I needed a different bus company, and he pointed amorphously over his head somewhere. I looked up and saw steps, and figured I must head up. The Rio bus station is not a place you want to linger long looking like a lost white tourist. So I put on my best determined looking "I know exactly what I am doing because I am a savvy traveler face" and began hunting through the labrynth that is the Rio Bus station for the right bus company. Finally. I found it. Relief. But alas, the next bus to Sao Jaoa was at 2:30, and it was only 10:00. Anxiety.

So then I'm all, "There is no way I am spending four hours in the Rio bus station, not only because I don't want to become fresh meat for pick pocketers, but also because hey, I have four hours in Rio! I'm going to go see something! So I pay $5 for a Gatorade ($5???) and pull all my crap (did I mention I am going back to traveling light after this?) off to a bench to get my bearings and plan. I pull out my guide book, (BTW, the Lonely Planet guide book is da bomb, and when I get fired from teaching--as I am perpeturally convinced I will for some dumb thing I do, it is just a matter of time--I am going to go beg them to hire me). I scoured the pages for something close by (cheap cab ride) and interesting, and my eyes alight on the Feira Nordestina (The northern market). With a plan in hand, I now had to figure out what to do with my luggage, and I found a little black room, the front of which was covered in black cage wire, and I saw all the luggage just sitting there behind the cage. I asked the guy how much for three hours, and then reluctantly handed over my suitcase. I almost asked him how much more to make sure my suitcase would not have been opened and rummaged through when I got back (dumb ass here forgot her luggage lock), but I restrained myself.

Now I was ready to haggle with the cabbies. I asked the first one how much to the Feira: "Trente Reals" (pronounced "Hey-ice").
Me: (holding my chin and shaking my head) Trente? Hmmm. Nao, brigada.

$15 is too much for two blocks, so I go up to the next guy, and he says R25. Done. I am such the bargainer. I saved $2.50!

Now let me tell you about the Feira Nordestina. It is basically a Brazilian version of a German beer festival. I got there at 10:30, when the 600+ stalls were just opening and the market was rousing from its sleep. They sell everything here, from spices and sides of beef and pork to clothes and hammocks and shoes and CDs. I tripped when I heard a dub of Rihanna's "Umbrella" in Portugese. Apparently on weekends this place is a 24 hour party, with bands and beer and cachasa flowing freely. Feeling a tad peckish, I saw what looked like kabobs with white rectangles of grilled mystery food skewered on them. I asked the woman if it was cheese, and it was, and I can never turn down cheese, especially if it is grilled with a nice char on it and spiced with oregano. It was tangy, like a lively mozzarella, and it just goes to show that you can never go wrong with cheese on a stick no matter where you are on the planet.

After a bit more exploring of the butcher booths and exotic, never seen before fruits and veg, I needed some lunch, so I got roped into a restaurant in the food court area. I could not read a damn thing on the menu, so I just pointed to the cheapest Fruta de Mar (seafood) dish and prayed. It was called camarao ao alho. I figured I could deal with mystery seafood better than mystery meat. Imagine my immense relief when they brought me a plate of nothing more than peel and eat shrimp, heads still on, stringy antenai still flapping, looking up at me with lifeless, stone dead black eyes. But damn were they good. They swam in butter and oil and were topped with toasted garlic and parsley and some tangy flavor I couldn't place. I made a royal mess of myself, getting oil everywhere so that I had to lick my fingers and smack my lips, savoring the flavor. It was only then that I read in my guidebook that Brazilians are not lax about table manners, and the stares I got, which I assumed were because I am white, were probably because I was eating like Animal from the Muppets. Way to represent, Kristin.

And the cab back to the bus station only cost me R6, so even with all my savvy bargaining, I still got taken for a ride, and not the good kind either. But that afternoon my bus left for Sao Joao with me on it, and I had survived a few hours in Rio on my own, and I think I'm in the clear on swine flu, so I wasn't feeling too bad about my skillz.