Rio de Janeiro and reasons for not writing
February 27th 2009 23:07
There are times when life gets in the way of writing and for me this is one of them. It isn't some life crisis or world weariness or even the dreaded "block" that is the scurge of the wirter's life. It's life here in Rio.
First of all there's the beach. For the Carioca or people of Rio, life is the beach or at least a large part of it. It's a playground, a meeting place and a marketplace. On holidays, weekends and after work it's a peoples' republic of umbrellas and beach towels where bikinis and speedos are the national costume and where the deck-chair side economy is booming.
Barra is "our" beach Follow the coast round from Copacabana, past Ipanema, Leblon and Conrado, past the conical peak of Pedra de Gavea and you'll arrive at its 17 kilometres of rolling surf and golden sand. I've closed the door for now on the crash and sigh of its waves and on the sound of the Prefeitura's graders raking the sand for tomorrow. But I'll be down there first thing in the morning to watch the beach come to life. First to arrive is the truck with the deck chairs, the tent, the eskies full of drinks, the supermarket trolley full of coconuts and the kids who'll run all day through the crowds taking and delivering orders. The pink and white community bus drops off single vendors with boxes, bags and more eskies. The sarong seller sails up in his smart fiat. The boys from the Sheraton line up their chairs and umbrellas. Families from the high rise set up camp. The tourists from the hotels settle in. The volleyball begins. As the topless bikini is to the South France, so is the bottomless (or almost) bikini to Brazil. By mid-morning, the beach is bursting with buttocks great and small, old and young, good and bad. And then there are the speedos. Among the umbrellas, families, tourists, volleyball, bikinis and speedos run the kids from the tent cafes, the Sheraton boys re-assigning deck chairs, bikini salesmen bobbing along like giant multi-coloured sea-anemones, the kite men trailing rainbows, planes and bubbles, the corn seller pulling a cart with a steaming boiler, the hat man wearing a tower of caps and visors, the Sorvete ice-cream man with his esky on his head, the matte merchant with his two heavy drums of tea and lemon, Wellington, the grilled cheese guy, swinging a burning brazier, Mr Sunglasses with his signature song "When a man loves a woman he buys her sunglasses", the Amerindian from Peru with the jewellery, the skinny grand-dads with the dreadful prawn flavoured polystyrene textured Globo biscoiti and lastly the desperadowith the prawn kebabs which are certain death. You can buy anything at the beach.
Another wonderful and completely absorbing thing about the beach aside from the spectacle and the obvious delights of swimming and basking in the sun, is the beach friends. They're there every day, they know one another's names, tastes in bikinis, sorvete and preferences for quejo coalho (grilled cheese) or boiled corn. They advise on beach dress, sunglasses and bikini purchases. They offer advice on relationships, career and travel. Yet, they don't exchange phone numbers, emails or addresses. They're never meet anywhere else but the beach. They remain beach friends. Friendships forged on the beach stay on the beach.
So the beach, is just one of Rio's, (or is it life's?) conspiracies to keep me from writing. Next post, one more reason - the Bloca.
Barra Beach
First of all there's the beach. For the Carioca or people of Rio, life is the beach or at least a large part of it. It's a playground, a meeting place and a marketplace. On holidays, weekends and after work it's a peoples' republic of umbrellas and beach towels where bikinis and speedos are the national costume and where the deck-chair side economy is booming.
Cooking quejo coalho (grilled cheese)
Barra is "our" beach Follow the coast round from Copacabana, past Ipanema, Leblon and Conrado, past the conical peak of Pedra de Gavea and you'll arrive at its 17 kilometres of rolling surf and golden sand. I've closed the door for now on the crash and sigh of its waves and on the sound of the Prefeitura's graders raking the sand for tomorrow. But I'll be down there first thing in the morning to watch the beach come to life. First to arrive is the truck with the deck chairs, the tent, the eskies full of drinks, the supermarket trolley full of coconuts and the kids who'll run all day through the crowds taking and delivering orders. The pink and white community bus drops off single vendors with boxes, bags and more eskies. The sarong seller sails up in his smart fiat. The boys from the Sheraton line up their chairs and umbrellas. Families from the high rise set up camp. The tourists from the hotels settle in. The volleyball begins. As the topless bikini is to the South France, so is the bottomless (or almost) bikini to Brazil. By mid-morning, the beach is bursting with buttocks great and small, old and young, good and bad. And then there are the speedos. Among the umbrellas, families, tourists, volleyball, bikinis and speedos run the kids from the tent cafes, the Sheraton boys re-assigning deck chairs, bikini salesmen bobbing along like giant multi-coloured sea-anemones, the kite men trailing rainbows, planes and bubbles, the corn seller pulling a cart with a steaming boiler, the hat man wearing a tower of caps and visors, the Sorvete ice-cream man with his esky on his head, the matte merchant with his two heavy drums of tea and lemon, Wellington, the grilled cheese guy, swinging a burning brazier, Mr Sunglasses with his signature song "When a man loves a woman he buys her sunglasses", the Amerindian from Peru with the jewellery, the skinny grand-dads with the dreadful prawn flavoured polystyrene textured Globo biscoiti and lastly the desperadowith the prawn kebabs which are certain death. You can buy anything at the beach.
Another wonderful and completely absorbing thing about the beach aside from the spectacle and the obvious delights of swimming and basking in the sun, is the beach friends. They're there every day, they know one another's names, tastes in bikinis, sorvete and preferences for quejo coalho (grilled cheese) or boiled corn. They advise on beach dress, sunglasses and bikini purchases. They offer advice on relationships, career and travel. Yet, they don't exchange phone numbers, emails or addresses. They're never meet anywhere else but the beach. They remain beach friends. Friendships forged on the beach stay on the beach.
So the beach, is just one of Rio's, (or is it life's?) conspiracies to keep me from writing. Next post, one more reason - the Bloca.
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Comment by Postmodern Critic
Postmodern Critic
Relativity Watch
Padsoc
I loved
and
not to mention
I laughed at the idea of Mr Sunglasses, and although my butt is not in good shape, I would love to take it down to Barra (or a beach like it) to show it a good time, when I finally make it to Rio!
Thanks for the entertaining read.
Comment by Patricia
Travel Stripe