The Topic was Murder

        Greetings people who still (apparently) visit this blog. It's been awhile since I wrote here but felt inclined to do as such. Most recently life has taken me to the windy city of Chicago, Illinois. It's nice here, people are polite and the city is full of energy. Definitely up my alley. However, violence here jostles a part of me that I'd rather not express. Anger, pure and unbridled anger.

        Today, in one of my writing classes, my professor gave us an assignment to write a quick 400 word opinion piece about the word "Murder." So I wrote this out and felt like it was something that should be shared, albeit just my opinion and not entirely about traveling. Anyway, enjoy and mow it over. Without further adieu...

            "If I earned a penny every time I got angry over murder in Chicago I would be a millionaire. If a star blinked out of existence every time someone was affected by violence in this city, children would have nothing to wish upon. I can’t imagine what they wish for now as they hide in bathtubs while bullets rain above them.

            Firearms killed over 500 people last year in Chicago. 2,500 were shot. Countless more are wounded without even being at the scene of the crime. Families are torn apart and 15-year-old girls are shot in the back at parks.

            We make excuses for murder. Blame it on the weather, bad parenting or poor education. We spend thousands of dollars trying to save a baby, barely a year old, her organs obliterated by a single bullet. All the while the father misleads police about “who dun it,” and worries about his street cred. It’s pathetic and an outright injustice to everyone.

            Our answers to combat the violence are worse. We flood streets with young police officers, which are helpless to actually prevent any murder. How can we expect them to prevent murder when the people who are victimized see them as the criminals? How long till the police get too tired to care?

            Our politicians don’t know what to do, and we put them in office. What a joke local politics has become; corrupt, uncaring and unashamed. We tell them that we need change and justice should be available to all. But their biggest concerns are how we can get more income into Wrigleyville. What is the best way to advertise in an airport?

            People refer to the Chicago as the murder capital of the world. Doesn’t matter that Rio de Janeiro, Brazil has gangs who run swathes of the city wholesale. People don’t talk about San Pedro Sula, Honduras or Durban, South Africa. People talk about Chicago.

            People talk about Chicago because Chicago doesn’t care. Not enough of us anyway.

            When something happens as blatantly and commonly as murder does in this city, we become immune. It’s a fact of life. It just comes with living in a city. None of that is true. But we believe it to be. Can anything change when we believe that a part of living here is that someone you may not even know one day can just kill you?

            No, nothing can change. I’ll just get angrier."

Welcome to Asia!

                Hello, nice to meet you and welcome back everyone for more stories from around the world. This time I find myself in the Far East in search of ancient relics, indigenous tribes and spectacular adventures.

                But let’s not kid ourselves. The ancient relics are national monuments that have westerners crawling all over them, the newly discovered tribes of the last century have cameras better than mine and great adventures involve staying on the top deck of leaky ferries.

                Even still, there is something magically different and backwards on this side of the world.

                This time, oddly enough, I am joined by my good friends Samantha, Tim and Melissa. Together we have begun to navigate our way south from our starting point in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia to the end of the peninsula.

                A week has passed and everything has proven to be anything but dull. This has created some problems on keeping this blog updated in a timely fashion. To make things simpler and keep this blog moving with our group, this first post will be almost like a photo journal through our first week here.

                So, without further procrastination….

               

We were not long into our journey when we hit our first snag. While cruising to JFK airport in our friend Phil’s car, singing Bette Midler’s rendition of "Boardwalk" completely out of sync with the cassette player, we heard a pop. The car shuddered a bit and five minutes later we were on the side of the interstate watching Phil lay on the hot pavement as he jacked the car up. The rear right tire of the car was shredded to bits. Ten more minutes of driving and we would have been grinding along on steel.

                Forty-five minutes, an undercover cop and some road flares later we were back on the way. Albeit, without Bette Midler.

          Eventually, we did arrive in Kuala Lumpur. One of the coolest things in KL is the fact that you can eat to your heart’s content. KL is now world renowned for its street food and hawker stands. Five star foods for a one star price are hard to beat.

Flavorful fish soup, spicy squid, delicious dumplings and anything else under the sun that you can imagine, you can get. Not to mention the shear energy from the hustle and bustle of people going about their day in the make shift cafeterias is an experience in itself.

               

            Kuala Lumpur is mammoth and unorganized as all hell. There are no maps that make any sort of navigable sense and traversing the city on foot seems suicidal at times. Motorcyclists zip in an out of traffic, only pausing momentarily to zip across three lanes and a divider. The best way to cross a street is to clump up with a large group of locals and make a go for it as a whole. Strength in numbers, I say.

        
      The monorail system is easy to use though and taxis are relatively affordable, given that you haggle a bit and don’t let the drivers take you for a sucker. The city is also home to the Petronas Towers, the largest twin towers in the world. These steel and glass structures tower over the other buildings in the city. Usually I’d say that is pretty idle as far as a land marker but due to the twisting streets, finding your way virtually anywhere can prove to be troublesome.

 In the far northern corridor of KL is the Chow Kit market. Not a place many westerners visit for its reputation of pickpockets and dodgy areas. I found the market to be no different from any of the other many outdoor food markets scattered throughout the rest of the world.

         
    Meat vendors butchered and sliced meat in cramped, hot stalls underneath the patchy sheet-metal roof. Traces of light occasionally crept through cracks to illuminate the smiling faces and waves from the locals. We must have been the first tourists in the market for a long time. In good gesture I purchased some lychees, sweet pit fruit with a spiky outer shell, from a vegetable stand.

              
    After spending a couple days in KL we began to make our push south towards Melaka. During the week the town is a sleepy place where locals hide from the oppressive sun and sip beer at bars and restaurants by the city’s canals. The city itself was founded by a runaway Sumatran Prince several hundred years ago and was once South East Asia’s largest trading port. That is all before the East Indie Company moved in during the 1800s. Much of the city’s Dutch colonial architecture is still in place and fairly well maintained.                         

We visited a sobering monument to the rebel fighters of the city against the Japanese Army during the Second World War. The city also has the oldest Chinese cemetery outside of China. Some of the tombs date back to the 13^th and 14^th century but also has tombs that date as recently as 1990. The odd contrast of the old and new is accented by new tombs placed by some that have full grown trees sprouting from the tombstones.

Much more has happened in between all of this, Hindu wedding crashing, rooftop parties and accidentally wandering into the Malaysian Parliament, but it will have to wait for another time. Look for more post to come in the following weeks as we train, plane and boat our way from one island mishap to another.

Bottom of the World, Ushuaia, Argentina

For a place called Tierra del Fuego (Land of Fire), it sure was cold.  When I disembarked the bus, my legs stiff and back tight after a 30 hour ride, I was kindly greeted by a blast of wintry air that lifted the previous storm’s white powder into my face.  The hour was late and the night’s sky glittered with the shining of the millions of stars overhead.  I was scheduled to meet my friend Carla at the bus stop but after running three hours late due to delays at border crossings (there are four in order to reach the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego), she was nowhere to be seen in the empty parking lot.  With little desire to let the wind slash at my face any longer I shouldered my bags and made for the main road in search of an internet café.  One was not difficult to find.  Even in the world’s southernmost city, roughly 1,000 kilometers from Antarctica, the modern world’s arms still manage to extend their reach. 

Close to the Port of Ushuaia

The city of Ushuaia was first discovered by Captain Robert Fitzroy of the British Navy while surveying Tierra del Fuego in 1833 on the HMS Beagle; the land originally belonged to the Yámana natives who are thought to have arrived to the land of fire roughly 10,000 years ago.  Soon after the expedition, British missionaries became to set up shop and are credited with first using the name Ushuaia in reports back to The South American Missionary Society, thus giving the city on the Beagle Channel its modern name.  More and more missionaries flooded into the small colony and by 1872 the first European birth was recorded.  Despite the British missionaries setting up the modern town though, the Chilean and Argentineans argued back and forth over the Tierra del Fuego landmass until they reached an agreement in 1881 which split the land among the two countries.  The accord, known as the “Boundary Treaty of 1881,” awarded the Argentineans with Ushuaia, which at the time was also being formed up to be a penal colony modeled after the one in Tasmania, Australia.  The prison did not receive its first inmates till 1896 though and closed soon after the end of the Second World War.  The port town continued to flourish in the late 19^th century and in 1904 the Argentineans recognized the town as the capital of the Argentinean Tierra del Fuego. 

Carla. The Fearless Gringo Guide

I touched base with Carla using the almighty power of the web and it was not long till I spotted her bounding down the street over slick patches of ice and around snow mounds that were pushed up onto street curbs; her curly brown hair whisking amongst her face in the perpetual breeze.  I first met Carla while in Argentina back in December as she led me around the Patagonian wilderness as my mountain guide with a group of other hopeless gringos.  Knowing my ability to wander aimlessly, Carla showed me to a cozy hostel not far from the town center where we dropped my bags and made off to a local Irish bar called the Dublin.  A destination much appreciated by locals and tourists alike.  Their Red Beagle Bear is delicious. 

Most travelers come to Ushuaia for just a couple of days to ski the snowcapped mountains of hike in the vast national parks.  My first visit to Ushuaia was just like that.  This time, however, I got to see the municipality in a much more intimate, local way. 

A couple days into my stay in the sleepy mountain town, Carla moved into her new apartment and allowed me to couch surf in her kitchen/guest room for the remainder of my time.  While residing with Carla and visiting with her friends I got to hear the local’s opinions on a wide range of topics from everything about Argentinean politics and pop culture to the cluelessness of foreigners who happen to find their way into the town.  It is not just Americans by the way, you brash Europeans who read this.  The town’s economy is an interesting mismatch of bustling port town and ecotourism.  I made sure to indulge in some of the ecotourism between sipping mates, the Argentineans version of hanging around sipping coffees, and hanging out with Carla down at the port.

More of the Port of Ushuaia

The Les Eclaireurs Lighthouse as dusk approaches

I booked a boat tour on the Beagle Channel with Carla’s company, Patagonia Explorer, where we did a grand loop of the channel as she announced to the other tour members some of the history about the channel.  During the ride we passed the famous brick built Les Eclaireurs lighthouse (“The Enlighteners” or “The Scouts” in French) which is sometimes called the Faro del fin del mundo (Lighthouse at the end of the world).  Not to be confused with the San Juan de Salvamento lighthouse made famous by Jules Verne which is further east on the Isla de los Estados.  We also sailed close up to a tiny island of seals and fur seals.  Our boat approaching close enough to smell their heady BO and listen in to them bark and gurgle at one another…or us.  As we sailed back to the port after a few hours on the water we watched the sun slip behind the mountains that encircle the bay, casting the town in long dark shadows.

Another afternoon Carla and I piled into the back of one of Carla’s mother’s friend’s car next to sets of skis.  To be frank, this horrified me.  I have never skied before in my life and have little desire to do so.  Something about falling on my ass onto hard packed snow for hours just does not do it for me.  I kept my mouth shut though and accepted the fact that I would not be sitting down without grimacing for the next few days.  Much to my surprise and delight, when we arrived at a group of log lodgings nestled in a valley amid fog covered mountains Carla’s acquaintances took off with the skis, as the two of us found our way into a warm cabin surrounded by dog kennels and houses. 

From inside the cabin, while huddling close to an iron wood stove on top of couches covered by animal pelts, we observed muscular huskies bound up all over their little homes and run circles around them; tangling themselves in their chains as they howled and yelped at each other.  There must have been close to 60 of the brawny beasts.

Explanation needed?

All around the wooden cabin walls there were grand trophies and blue ribbons hanging next to pictures of grizzled looking men leaning on large sleds that were tethered by dogs.  We warmed ourselves up and then walked out in the midst of the energetic animals.  It was not too difficult of a choice at this point to ride shotgun in a champion’s dogsled, as was being offered to us. 

We swaddled ourselves up in a wool blanket and sat down in the front of the sled and at the call of “Va!” the dogs bolted like a locomotive, kicking up snow and charging us into a light rain.  We raced on top of three feet of snow as the dogs seemed to pull us without problem, picking up speed down hills and slowing around turns.  At one point the young driver of 22-years-old, who had been competing in races since he was 13, stopped the sled and offered us a chance to stand in the back.  This was an experience that was truly exhilarating. 

Granted, the dogs knew the path and as far as steering the sled there was really little need but, ducking under branches as they whizzed overhead through tiny outcroppings of trees and over a frozen lake pulled by 12 dogs bred for speed is an experience hard to mount.  Carla and I switched after a bit of time and I have never seen a person revert back to a child as fast as she did that day.  Who can blame her though, those dogs were awesome.

Eventually though, my week in Ushuaia came to an abrupt end and I departed Carla’s apartment early in the morning to walk down abandoned streets as the wind whispered through alleys, avoiding black ice while admiring the white tipped mountains one last time.  The bus back north arrived promptly on time at 5 in the morning to take myself and two other passengers back north, away from the arctic winds as I mentally prepared myself for the next 30 hours of bumpy road and extensive border crossings.

A Much Needed Stop in Puerto Madryn

And you think you live in the middle of nowhere.

The road from Buenos Aries to Ushuaia is roughly 2,400 kms, almost 1,500 miles, of arid flat land specked with dusty towns.  The trip is made by most travelers by way of airlines on small jets that take around six hours to get to the world’s southernmost city in a hurry.  I am still working out in my head why opted to take the bus.  The three day ride is pretty dull.  Whenever the double-decker bus would happen upon a small town and momentarily unload its passengers whilst it filled its tanks, I half expected to see tumbleweeds blow by in gusts of wind.  After the first twenty hours of the ride, being constantly pestered by shrieking babies, poorly dubbed Hollywood comedies, stale air venting from the ceiling and a stiff chair that reshaped my spinal column, I came to the conclusion that it was a very good thing I had arranged to stop off in a port town on the Atlantic Ocean called Puerto Madryn. 

The tiny coastal town of 57,000 residents was settled by Welsh immigrants about 150 years ago, although, I could not find any remnants of Welsh culture around the town during my walks.  They did however put the town on the map after working with other European immigrants on a rail line to another city called Trelew in the state of Chubut.  Nowadays, most travelers visit the town while exploring the Patagonian wilderness or as a pit stop between the North and South of the country, as I did.  Without doubt or debate, the main attraction to this part of the country is the thriving nature that the Argentineans take extra care to preserve.  During the winter season, Southern Right whales frolic in the bay right off of the beach as onlookers with binoculars and oversized camera lenses sit in frigid temperatures to observe the creatures.

My bus arrived in the late afternoon as the sun was beginning to disappear in the west behind the plains of coastal Argentina, casting the town in a magenta hue while my taxi took me the short distance to my accommodation.  Sunset photography never gets old for me; the everyday activity of the earth seems to be anything but ordinary and no two days are ever the same.  Not trying to waste any time after arriving at an inn, I tossed my bags into my room, outfitted my camera and began to make for the beach to try and capture some of the suns closing comments.  Possibly spotting a whale was also on the agenda. 

Before I could reach the door though, the inn keeper offered me a cup of tea or coffee.  Begrudgingly I indulged him in his generosity as I impatiently watched the world outside turn shades of amethyst and ginger through the large windows in his front reception room.  I tried to do my best with friendly chit chat but, I think he could tell I was in a rush by my crude gulping of the tea and unabashed glances at the dimming world as I let his words wash over me.  I felt kind of bad but, after 20 hours on a bus I just wanted to be away from people in my immediate vicinity and outside where the air was crisp. 

We wrapped it up shortly after I had chugged my tea and when I made it out the door I damn near dashed for the beach to catch the light shimmer off the crashing surf and scarlet sand.  The bus trip the day before and the one looming before me on the morrow left all my thoughts when my bare feet sunk into the sand.  What a sinful sigh of relief escaped my lips once as I wiggled my toes deeper into the grain.  I contented myself with strolling down the vacant beach barefoot as a ceaseless storm of wind tossed invisible particles into my face, forcing me at times to turn my back and walk backwards against its will.  I skirted on sand dunes in between trapped pockets of water in the low tide towards the elongated wooden and concrete pier that reached out to the horizon line.  I figured that if I was going to see whales this late in the evening they would be out there and if not, at least I would watch the sun set over the city from afar. 

The pier of Puerto Madryn

I alternated between the lonely boardwalk and hushed beach till I arrived at the pier and made my way down its concrete walkway; scanning the water for breaching mammals or a spout of water breaking the surface of the swelling sea.  Along the way to the end of the dock I noticed a group of fishermen consistently pulling in fish that would flop and gasp on the ground as the men set down their lines and unhooked their catches.  Realizing that spotting whales was looking bleak, I stopped moving down the pier and posted up against a pole with my camera; snapping photographs of the fishermen’s backs as the sun dipped lower and lower.  The wind was still relentless and my fingers were turning shades of violet but, I inched forward in the direction of the group of silently working men.

Some of the group of fishermen on the pier

It was not long until I managed to put myself right in the midst of them as they alternated between sending their lines whizzing over the water or noisily crank them back in; creating a serene kind of blue collar tune.  I partnered up next to a father and a son who told me they had been at it for about an hour and would fish until an hour after the sun finished setting.  I struggled to understand why.   Their five gallon bucket squirmed with fish and my ears felt as if they were going to fall off and shatter from the frosty breeze that blew brackish mist into our faces.  People need to put food on the table and pay the bills wherever you go though. 

The son, who was 14 years-old, thrust his fishing pole out to me at one point, offering me a chance to join in and try my hand at catching a fish.  The last time I had even attempted fishing was when I was seven or eight-years-old with the cub scouts, and I do not even remember casting a line.  So I took it and hoped I did not look like too much of an amateur in front of the older men with unreadable wind cracked faces.  As I took the line, a bunch of the other fishermen had begun to pause in their routine and take a moment to squint against the sun to watch the gringo cast a line. 

The Father

So I stood on the railing and leaned against the fence, dipped the pole low and with a little jerk of my wrists brought it up and cast out the line over the water in an attempt to mimic the others.   The line hummed as I watched the weights pull it down to spelunk in the waves and snap tight in the tide.  I took a moment to look around right after the line had landed and everyone had gone back to what they were doing.  The boy looked at me, shrugged, smiled and made the motion of cranking back in the line.  I followed his tutelage and came up empty.  I cast out a few times more and still had no such luck with a bite.  His father laughed a little bit and I went back to taking pictures of the group.

One line, three fish

Eventually, taking photos became difficult in the low light and I rested my chin on my hands as I listened and watched the group cast and crank, cast and crank.  A surprisingly tranquil combination of noises blending in with the whistling of the wind, that if not for the wintry temperatures, may have put me straight to sleep.  The sun finished its act soon and a few fishermen began to pack up their stuff and pick up their writhing bags of fish, signaling their end for the evening.  I followed suit, shook hands with the father, bumped fists with the son and made my way back to the inn.

That night, myself and other guests of the inn ate together in the dining room.  I filled my stomach with savory red meat, snappish vegetables and drank a good fill of red wine; perfectly capable of conducting proper roaring banter with the inn owner now.  Gaston, an Argentinean of Irish descent, has clearly treated a journey weary traveler or two to an unwinding evening before.  Much to his satisfaction and my own, we carried late into the night agreeing to disagree on topics that I barely recall having argued for.  I laid down that night relaxed and completely oblivious to the fact that the soon I would be back on a bus for another 30 hours. 

A whale tail...I know, not the best of pictures.  Ya take what you can get though.

I arose the next morning feeling very well rested and made my way to the bus station after watching from the beach some whales splash and play.  Thoroughly prepared for all the screaming kids and dusty ghost towns the country was willing to throw at me.  Indeed, I may have to stop in Puerto Madryn this week as I make my way back north.

The Tango

Argentina is known to travelers for many things.  Savory meat cooked to perfection, sophisticated wine from the Andes Mountains and Mendoza, and the breathtaking countryside in southern Patagonia.  Indeed the meat is the best on the South American continent.  Of course the wine’s tastes are produced with the mastery of the craft, passed down from generations of Italian and Spanish immigrants.  And who can refute the beautiful snow peaked tops of Torres Del Paine or the jaw dropping rumbling glacier of Perito Moreno Glacier.  There is, however, another thing that seems to capture the hearts of travelers from all over the world; the Tango.

The tango, although originating in African and European cultures, truly began to claim its fame from the nurturing of the Argentinos in the late 1800s.  In the early 1900s the dance began to spread across Europe, being snatched up by the French first and moving to other capitals in the region such as Berlin and London.  Eventually the dance made its way to New York and the rest of North America but, its true home lies in Buenos Aries. 

One can witness the dance virtually anywhere in the city.  The distinctive music seems to radiate out of walls and down alleys during the Sunday crafts fair in San Telmo.  Many restaurants all around the city employ dancers to steal customers off the streets with dinner shows.  In the colorful Boca neighborhood, dancers twist their hips as circles of people form around the dancers to, “Ooooo,” and “Ahhhh.”  The real performances that demonstrate the tango for what it is though are the theater shows.  Alluring, vehement and able to convey a story of romance as well as any sappy Hollywood movie or trashy novel can.  Lucky for me I got to experience this.

Some people at the hostel I was staying at in the Palermo neighborhood caught wind of a show being performed one evening.  It turns out for people who showed up to the theater earlier in the day would be awarded with free tickets to the performance.  Many of the hostel folks ended up scoring multiple tickets and I was fortunate enough to earn one myself along with a friendly invite.  We gathered together that evening and utilizing the Buenos Aries bus system we made our way deeper into, I believe, the Palermo neighborhood.  Arriving at an old theater with large Greek stylized columns in front, our group sauntered in and grabbed some seats together among the locals.  The theater probably could seat a couple hundred and close to show time looked pretty full with chattering Argentinos old and young alike.            

As the lights dimmed in the old colonial theater, scratchy music sounding like it was being played off an old record player from the 1920s hushed the hum of the crowd.  Before the stage’s red velvet curtain could be raised fully into the rafters, a couple came sliding step-in-step together from the right side of the stage.  The woman was wearing a deep purple dress that swirled among her thighs as she stepped in rhythm to the man in a tuxedo’s elongated steps toward her. 

The Tango is truly the most passionate of all the dances I have ever witnessed.  Methodically moving with the twangs of guitar strings across the stage, the woman kicked her feet and twined her legs seductively in between the man’s as they stared, seemingly, deeply into each other’s eyes.  From time to time he would twirl her out at an arm’s length, only to whip her back towards him forcefully in a tight embrace.  I thought it could not only be me in the audience that was feeling hot under the collar by this point; I half expected them to start ripping their clothes off and putting on the real show. 

                The two paraded around the stage by themselves for a few moments but were joined by two more couples.  The music sped up and the new couples with it, moving across the stage elegantly and oblivious to the other couples doing the same.  Lost in their own trance, eyes locked, feet blurring.   And then the music stopped as they all struck a pose.  The crowd went nuts.

                Quickly though the music changed, picked back up and as it did the dance changed as well.  Among the stage there were eight chairs where two of the couples sat while the other began to move slowly across the dance floor, annunciating each step clearly, their footsteps reverberating among the theater walls.  The couple moved around the stage and as they approached some of the chairs, another couple rose and did the same.  The couples changed with each other, each dancing a different version of the tango’s steps. 

                As the night went on, the audience was treated to different sets of theatrics and dances, telling different romantic stories of couples in the night.  Some dances told stories of “boy chases after girl,” as two couples danced in circles while one man chased after a lonely dancer while spinning with arms wide, comically pleading.  When he gave up the chase and sulked to the chairs she moved to offer her hand.  Women.  One dance had two women fighting over a single man, constantly and skillfully cutting in if the other woman would part from his arms for but a brief inhale.  Couples interchanged partners in a blur of an eye at all times, whilst all along the women’s dresses, colorful and vibrant in the radiance of stage lighting, twirled high among thighs.  The men would lift their partners above their heads, spin and place them gently back down.

                For an hour the stage panted seductiveness, lust and romance.  When it was over the crowd stood and cheered, whistled and clapped as the dancers took deep bows under spotlights.  The curtain came down, the applause slowly died and people began to filter out of the building as I attempted to raise my jaw off the floor.  I do not think I will ever have the grace for such a dance but, the performance sure makes me want to try.

ORIGINALLY, THIS POST WAS MEANT FOR THE "LET'S GO" WEBSITE.  AFTER TWO WEEKS OF THEM NOT PUBLISHING IT I HAVE DECIDED TO POST IT HERE.  IT SHOULD FILL THE SPACE WHILE I FINISH UP SOME OTHER POSTS FOR THIS BLOG.  ENJOY  

    An atypical mix of subtropical climate and a bustling metropolis of over four million people, Rio has something to keep everyone entertained for their stay in the city.  If you are like me, strolling the wealthy white beaches in Copacobana, dodging the traffic in the hectic hustle in the centro or treading lightly through the sad slums of the favelas will only feed your curiosity on how they city is put together from a bird’s eye view.  Luckily for people like us, the city offers two great summits to inspect the sprawl from up high while the wind whips and swirls around you; Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf) and Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer.)

Pão de Açúcar (Sugar Loaf)

    The lesser known of these two look outs, Sugar Loaf Mountain, gives great views of the city from the shore inward.  The peak, which is made of granite and quartz, earned the name Sugar Loaf from its shape that resembles how sugar was packaged tightly together from South American sugar producing countries until the 19^th Century.

    The summit of the steep jutting rock is reached by utilizing two cable cars.  The first takes three minutes and travels approximately 500 meters into the air to the mountain Morro da Urca.  There people disembark and can wander the peak of the lesser mountain, survey the city at lookout points, grab some food or stop in at the information center before boarding the next cable car. 

    The second cable car takes you to the peak of Sugar Loaf, 735 meters above the sea.  The ride takes about another three minutes in the cable car which departs every 20 minutes.  Here viewers can see far and wide across the city that weaves around other protruding land masses and check out some great views of Copacobana beach.  Depending on your camera’s zoom, pictures of Cristo Redentor in the distance are viable on a clear day.  The harbor beneath your feet presents views of sail ships raising and lowering their sails as they cycle in and out from the docks whilst the breeze brings the salts of the sea to your lips.

    The Cable Cars Operate between 8 AM and 8 PM, ticket prices are a bit steep for some backpackers’ budgets at R$53 for adults. http://www.bondinho.com.br/   

View from the Sugar Loaf summit

Cristo Redentor (Christ the Redeemer)

    The ever so popular Christ the Redeemer has been shown in movies worldwide as the symbol for Rio de Janeiro since its completion in 1931.  Standing on top of the Corcovado mountain and facing towards the Atlantic coast, the statue was voted in as one of the new Seven Wonders of the World in 2007 by a global vote of over 100 million people.  The list excludes other great structures like the Eiffel Tower in Paris, the Acropolis of Athens in Greece and Ankor in Cambodia.

    Christ the Redeemer can be reached one of two ways.  One way is to take a taxi to a train that steadily plods up the mountain every half hour.  The ride itself takes a little over 20 minutes and allows for views of the city below looking out to the sea.  The other way is to ask a taxi driver to take you to the base of the  Corcovado mountain where shuttle busses take people up and down.

    Which ever way you take, once you reach the big guy his views are spectacular.  The multi teared platforms gives outlooks in all the directions of the city towards the sea in a wide arcing panorama.  Screeching cars and busses spewing smog in the distance are inaudible from on the tiers, giving the impression that the city is truly far off and away from the isolated peak.  Also viewable is Rio’s large centralized lake, Lagoa Rodrigo de Freitas, with looming highrises casting the edges of the pool in long shadows.  Not to mention the nearly 40 meter tall, 700 ton big guy towering over you himself, as you huddle among other guests in the crisp mountain atmosphere.

    The train operates between 8:30 AM and 7 PM Mon-Sun and costs R$36, park is entrance included http://www.corcovado.com.br/index.html

    The busses are not as predictable.  You will need to get a taxi to the base and the bus drivers may charge differently depending on the day and time.  Also, entrance to the park is R$18 which they will not include in their transport fees.

The view from the Christ at night

Which is Better?

    The decision between seeing either is up to you.  Sugar Loaf offers views of the beaches and the city clashing together which are not as viewable from Christ the Redeemer but, it is a bit more expensive and large viewpoints of the city are marred by the natural landmasses.  Christ the Redeemer on the other hand gives you outlooks of the grand centralized Lagoa de Rodrigo de Freitas and a thoroughly unobstructed panorama of the entire city.   However, some city details like the beach and harbor are far away and underwhelming. 

If you are on a timely visit (which is sad to do to yourself in Rio) hostels and hotels can book you a city tour.  One part walking and another part riding a bus, these tours can take anywhere from 3-5 hours of the day and often visit both of these sites where the entrance fee is either waived or discounted.  If you do not mind being shuffled around for an afternoon with a group of other travelers check these out.  I have heard good things from other travelers who opted to take the risk and join a group.

   If you are like me and too proud to be led around in a pack or just need to lose yourself in the city for either the good or the bad of it, throw budget to the wind and check out both on your own time. Find some people to go with and split cab fares to lessen the budget burden as well.  Enjoy the views whichever you choose!

Read more: http://www.letsgo.com/articles/toddfreimuth#ixzz1VWMqLDeo